Page 5 of The Missing Half

“So, you’ll talk?”

I give her a look. “You just told me you know something new about my sister’s case. Of course I’m gonna fucking talk.”

—

We make awkward small talk on the drive and walk into my apartment fifteen minutes later. I try to refuse to be embarrassed by it, but it doesn’t work. My rent is necessarily cheap and my place depressing, one of those prefabricated apartments with a soulless interior—low ceilings, beige paint, wooden cabinets made in the nineties that swing unevenly on loose hinges. And right now, it’s a disaster.

Dishes fill the kitchen sink, smears of food hardened on their surfaces. In one of the corners of the living room, the leaves of an old houseplant have withered on the stalk. Next to it is a litter box that hasn’t been used for over six months now. Last year during a fit of optimism, I adopted an underfed tuxedo cat, bought a handful of toys from Goodwill, and told myself I was “turning my life around.” I named him Slink, and soon I’d fallen deeply in love. But a month in, I realized he deserved someone better. Someone who’d feed him properly, not just leftovers, someone who could afford to take him to the vet, someone who didn’t use wine to fall asleep. I took him backto the shelter and tried to forget he was ever mine. The litter box catches my eye and I seethe with embarrassment. The proof of my inability to see things through.

“So,” I say to Jenna. “What d’you want to know?”

She glances around. We’re standing across from each other in the middle of the small living room. “I was sort of thinking we could have a conversation. You know, sit down, maybe have a glass of water?”

I’m not an inherently inhospitable person, but I want to know what her sister wrote in that diary. Still. We made a deal. “Fine,” I say. “You sit. I’ll get the waters.”

I fill two glasses from the tap in the kitchen and bring one to Jenna, who’s now sitting on the couch. I take the other with me to the small table where I eat my meals and make a show of taking a sip. “What do you want to know?”

“I thought you could just start by telling me what Kasey was like. I mean, I know what was on the news, but it’s not the same.”

My stomach lurches, a knee-jerk horse’s hoof in the gut. Her question sounds like a softball, I know, but it isn’t. When someone dies, most people’s reaction is to slap some reductive, feel-good label on their legacy.Her smile could light up a room. He was the life of the party.The claims are so blanketed, they leave no room for nuance, for reality. Even I, who’ve spent years learning better, still do it. Hadn’t I, just a few minutes earlier, searched for some superlative to stick in front of Jules’s name? As ifprettiest,smartest,orfunniestwas the only thing that could give her life meaning.Hypocrite,I think acidly.

“Kasey and I were kind of opposites,” I say. “She was…steady, I guess? Responsible. That summer was her first summer back from college, and even though she was going out and seeing friends and working, she was also taking summer classes online.”

“What college was she at again?” Jenna has gotten out a little notebook and a pen.

“Arizona State. She was basically the only one in her high school graduating class to leave Indiana.”

“What was she studying?”

“Nursing. She wanted to be a nurse.” A hook tugs in my chest. She would’ve been a good one.

“So she liked medicine.”

“Not really. I mean, yeah, she liked it fine, but I think it was more about helping people.” And there I go, making Kasey sound like some kind of angel. Which she was and wasn’t. “Our parents weren’t around often, so Kasey sort of took care of me. You know, fixing me dinner and making sure I did my homework.”

“Where were your parents?” Jenna says.

“Dad worked a lot. Mom drank a lot.”

“So, Kasey was older than you?”

I nod. “Two years.”

A memory fills my mind from over a decade earlier. I was probably eleven or twelve, Kasey thirteen or fourteen. It was the peak of summer and our AC had broken, our house turned sweltering. Dad said he’d called the repair company, but they were in high demand and the earliest they’d be able to come out was in three days. That first night, Kasey and I made a pallet in the enclosed front porch to sleep. We flung the windows wide and turned the fan on full tilt. But even so, the temperature was oppressive, and my long hair stuck to my sweaty back. I flipped around on top of the blankets until finally I couldn’t take it anymore. The house was quiet as I tiptoed into the bathroom Kasey and I shared, grabbed a pair of scissors with one hand, a hank of my hair with the other, and cut.

It wasn’t until the next morning when I looked in the mirror that I realized the damage I’d done. My hair hung in uneven chunks around my ears, a few uncut strands whispering against my collarbone. Kasey woke to the sound of me crying, and when she saw me her eyes widened, but only for a second. “It’s okay,” she said. “We’ll fix it.” She dragged one of our kitchen chairs out onto the back lawn and wrapped a towel around my shoulders, pretending like we were in some high-end salon. I remember she took such care wetting my hair and combing through it, her fingertips confident and gentle on my scalp. Eventually my hiccupping sobs faded.

“It must’ve been hard for her,” Jenna says. “Being a kid and being responsible for a sibling.”

I don’t respond. I’ve guilt-tripped myself enough for this over the years. I don’t need a reminder.

“I didn’t mean it like—” Jenna cuts herself off. “She was your big sister. That’s what they do.”

I can tell by the way she says it that Jules was younger than her. So, she lost her little sister, I lost my big one. Suddenly, I want a glass of red wine so badly it hums inside my limbs. This is why I didn’t want to talk about the past. My emotions get too heavy to hold. I stand up and walk to the kitchen. Cutting back on alcohol feels like something someone in my position is supposed to do, so I’ve been trying. But I think there may be a bottle of wine somewhere. I bang through my kitchen cabinets, look in the fridge, rearrange the items beneath my sink, and still I can’t find it. I was doing better before tonight. I grab a bag of peanut M&M’s instead. Some woman named Ilana from AA recommended candy as a booze replacement, and even though I’m not trying to quit drinking altogether, I tried it once and then again, and realized somewhere along the way that I was hooked.

I offer some to Jenna, but she shakes her head. She’s flipped to a new page in her notebook, her pen poised above it, like it’s a scalpel and she a surgeon.

“Can you tell me about that day?” she says. “The day Kasey went missing.”

---