Within/Without

chapter ten.

Val

My living room, which has been temporarily converted into Jo's hair salon, smells like olive and coconut oil and whatever's in the leave-in conditioner Jo keeps spraying everywhere. I'm sitting in the dining room chair we dragged in front of the TV, while she stands over me, working my curls into wooly locs, the way she used to do when we were younger.

I know nothing about hair, but my sister has always been a natural at it. Braids, braid-outs, twists, twist-outs, cornrows, bantu knots, silk presses—she's got everything. More than once I've tried to tell her to make a business out of it, to stop giving it all away for free, but she won't. God knows why.

I've been sitting for more than a few hours, so I'm getting sort of restless. I tap my foot against the floor, trying to wake it up.

"Stop moving," hisses Jo, pulling my head towards her. "I'm almost done, but if you get fidgety now then they'll be all crooked."

I roll my eyes, though she can't see. "They're not gonna be crooked, Jo. You're too good for that."

Jo doesn't speak for a moment, the warble of the drama show on the television the only thing keeping the room from drifting off into silence. Then, I hear a ragged sigh. "What do you want?"

"Hm?"

"Charlie does the same thing when she wants something: paying in compliments," Jo says. She tugs my hair again, hard enough for me to wince a bit. "So? Cough it up."

I squirm a little in my chair. There's absolutely no way she's going to agree to this; as much as Jo needs it, she never wants to accept myself. Something about showing her daughter that her mom's independent, that she can work hard, that the best person to support you is yourself. I'm not sure how much I agree with that, but Jo's stubborn. Too stubborn, sometimes.

I reach for the remote, clicking the TV off. "I was just thinking...if you're going to be sticking around here for a while, maybe I could take you to an unemployment office nearby. We could find you a job, maybe, so you'd have a steady source of income—"

"Val," Jo says, quietly. "You know how I feel about those offices; I've seen enough of them."

"I know," I tell her, because I do. Jo's been to countless offices like those, replied to random CraigsList requests, done odd jobs for people all around town. Whatever she could do to get some extra money in her pocket for herself and Charlie, she's done. And I know she's just tired, now—but just because she's tired doesn't mean she has to give up. "I know. All it takes is one, though, to change your life, and Charlie's. Don't you want that?"

There's a final tug and twist on my hair, and then Jo comes around, sitting on the edge of the couch, a few feet from me. She just looks at me, cheek leaned into her palm, plum-colored bags beneath her brown eyes and her face finely wrinkled from all the smiles she must have faked over the years. I tell her, I know, I know. But there must be things that I don't know.

"Yes," Jo says. "I want that more than anything, but that will all come in due time. Right now, I just want to enjoy life. I mean, I hadn't seen you for three years, and now we're back together, living under the same roof just like when we were kids."

"Yeah, but Jo, I just—"

"I missed this," she goes on, as if I didn't speak. "I missed you. That's all I want to focus on right now: you and Charlotte."

I let out a breath, and the room falls into near silence again, save for the barely audible ding of Charlie's toy oven that I set up for her in the next room. It's the one toy Jo let her keep when Jo left her husband a few years back, so Charlie drags the thing around like other kids drag around dollies or stuffed animals. "I think it'll grow into something one day," Jo told me once. "Like maybe she'll be a chef or a baker when she's older and it'll be because I let her keep that stupid oven."

I decide I've had enough of just sitting here and staring at Jo and wishing she'd just trust me. I get up, running a few careful hands through my new locs, wary of my still-tender scalp. "Are you hungry?" I call on my way to the kitchen. I sift through the fridge and the freezer, but the only thing appetizing I come up with is a bag of frozen tater tots. "I've got...tater tots."

Jo laughs, coming around the corner and settling her ample body on one of the barstools at my makeshift breakfast bar. "I'd kill for some tater tots."

"Lucky you," I say, waving the bag at her. I slice it open with a pair of scissors and pour the tots out on a baking sheet. "You don't have to."

As I turn to switch on the oven, Jo says from behind me, "Since we're on the subject of you, Val—why don't you tell me what's been going on, lately?"

I pause. There's a strange hint of something in her voice, like there's something she's not saying directly. I'm not sure I like it. The oven beeps as I hit the bake button. "What do you mean?"

"Like...that Simon guy you mentioned," Jo says, and I jolt a little, remembering the awkwardness that ensued the last time Simon and I spoke. "You guys dating yet?"

I face her again, leaning back against the counter. "Not even. We were supposed to go out this weekend, but he had to run out of town to celebrate his great grandma's birthday."

"Aw," Jo mocks, which I stick out my tongue at her for. "At least we know he's a family man. That's important to you, isn't it?"

It is. A little. So I nod.

"Well, you just be careful," Jo warns, and when I look up at her, something in her expression has gone suddenly grave. "Men...are complicated. A lot of them are still trying to figure out who the hell they are, and they leave so many broken hearts behind in their wake."

I walk over to the breakfast bar, leaning my elbows onto the counter. The countless unsuccessful, awkward, painful dates I've gone on over the years flash in my mind; if anyone knows just how complicated men can be, it's me. "Trust me," I tell her. "I know."

Jo scoffs a little, frowning.

"Jo?"

She looks up, and I'm about to ask it—the one question I probably should have asked a long time ago—but then the oven shrills behind me, signifying that it's done preheating. I sigh in frustration and whip around, shoving the tater tots in and slamming the oven door closed again.

"Jo," I say again, rubbing my temples. "What...what happened?"

Jo's eyebrow raises, just slightly. "What happened when?"

"What happened to...to get you here? You never said," I say. Charlie's toy oven is playing a song now, a jarring contrast to the heavy air that's settled between my sister and me. In front of me, Jo drops her head into her hands. I knew I should've just kept my mouth shut.

"It's what you probably thought it was," exhales Jo. She looks up again, rubbing her eyes. "I was in Brooklyn for a while, living in a shelter. I'd scraped some money up from doing some odd jobs around the city, so I was taking Charlie out to buy her some new clothes. There was this man working at the store, and he was so kind to us, both of us—oh, you would have liked him, Val, you would have.

"One thing led to another, and soon we were going out a few times a week. I was always so excited to meet him, and Charlie was, too. I really thought that maybe he would be the one. That he'd help us figure it out. I really thought that."

For a story I know isn't going to end well, Jo's doing pretty well telling it. Her words are soft-spoken, her eyes moist, and though I can hear the disappointment kissing each one of her words, I look at her and all I can see is hope. Hope that, one day, maybe soon, maybe not, none of this will even matter anymore.

"But he wanted to see my place, for once. Wanted to know me better. I tried to hide it, but once he found out Charlie and I were living in a homeless shelter," Jo tells me, "it was over. He told me that maybe it was best if we didn't see each other for a while, and next time I called him, it said the number was no longer available."

"Jesus," I say. "What an asshat."

"My thoughts exactly," agrees my sister, raking her hair behind her ears. "Look. It's not important anymore. I've got you and Charlie. Who cares about anyone else?"

Who cares about anyone else?

I grin at her.

"Yeah," I say, brushing her hand. "Who cares?"