2000: This is the year Jenna is supposed to graduate college, become independent, and find true happinessâwhatever that looks like. But she is a people pleaser, and when her stepfatherâs health deteriorates, she leaves school to help take care of him. This also means taking care of everyone else: her emotionally fragile best friend, Liam, her twin sister, Julie, who was born second and takes her role as the youngest of the family quite seriously, and their mother, Barbaraâwho might actually be the baby. Jenna has always felt like the only grown-up around.
While she struggles to say goodbye to the only father figure sheâs ever had, a family secret drops like a grenade into Jennaâs already complicated life. Amidst the fallout and at the worst possible time, she starts falling for a man who turns out to be the first person in her life who doesnât want anything from herâonly to be with her.
As grief and betrayal threaten to tear her family apart, Jenna must decide how to put her own needs first and allow good things into her life when they show up.
2000: This is the year Jenna is supposed to graduate college, become independent, and find true happinessâwhatever that looks like. But she is a people pleaser, and when her stepfatherâs health deteriorates, she leaves school to help take care of him. This also means taking care of everyone else: her emotionally fragile best friend, Liam, her twin sister, Julie, who was born second and takes her role as the youngest of the family quite seriously, and their mother, Barbaraâwho might actually be the baby. Jenna has always felt like the only grown-up around.
While she struggles to say goodbye to the only father figure sheâs ever had, a family secret drops like a grenade into Jennaâs already complicated life. Amidst the fallout and at the worst possible time, she starts falling for a man who turns out to be the first person in her life who doesnât want anything from herâonly to be with her.
As grief and betrayal threaten to tear her family apart, Jenna must decide how to put her own needs first and allow good things into her life when they show up.
âYou awake?â
âMm-hmm.â Surfacing, Jenna tries to remind herself of her surroundings. Sheâs in bed with a man. A man, though not a heterosexual one. It has been years since that happened. She was still a kid then, sneaking out the basement window of her parentsâ house, fumbling with buttons, rushing to get home before anyone knew she was gone. Had she ever slept with a man the whole night through?
Beside her, Liam is sobbing, his curly black chest hair poking out the collar of his white T-shirt. Heâs certainly a man, but itâs not the same. Jenna has never understood women who are attracted to gay men. Lying next to her, he could be her father, her brother, her son. Sexually speaking, theyâre two positively charged magnets naturally pushing away from one another. For altogether different reasons, they havenât been sleeping through the night together either.
âIâm here,â Jenna says. She glances at the clock. 4:02. She slept for about an hour. Thereâs still no light piercing through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Jenna wants to paint the walls, but theyâre renting. She thinks she may be able to charm the landlord, but she hasnât worked up the nerve yet. For now, she settles for the bland off-white and considers covering them with posters. Theyâre still getting settled.
Liam sits up. Jenna puts her hand on his back and feels the quiet sobs shaking his body. âIâm sorry,â he says.
âItâs okay, itâs fine.â Jenna yawns. She already forgot what she was dreaming about. Something about trying on shoes. Or maybe ice skates. âWhat are you thinking about now?â
âThat I havenât slept at all, and I have to get ready for work in two hours.â He gulps. âAnd Iâm scared.â He begins to sob again.
It has been like this for weeks now. Since Liam started his new job. It was his idea for them to move in together. Jenna was starting her senior year of college. Liam, a year ahead, was beginning his life as a grown-up. They toasted to his first day of work on a Sunday night two weeks ago. And Liam hasnât slept more than two hours a night since. Jennaâs getting there.
âHow many pills have you taken?â Jenna asks.
âTwo.â
After the first week, Jenna went with him to Urgent Care, where they prescribed him Xanax and gave him free samples of Zoloft. The Zoloft sits untouched in the medicine cabinet as he weighs the pros and cons of antidepressants. The Xanex seems to have less and less effect.
âAlphabet game?â Jenna asks.
âOkay.â Liam leans back against the pillows and forces his eyes shut. âWhat topic?â
âStates.â Jenna settles into her pillow, closing her eyes with relief. She has never been able to function on fewer than eight hours of sleep. She prefers ten. Sheâs already trying to think if she has time to fit a nap in between classes.
Liam rattles off Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, and Arkansas. He doesnât get stuck until the Oâs, pausing for several minutes. Long enough for Jenna to drift off.
âOregon,â he says at last, and Jenna jumps, reminding herself all over again where she is, and that this is her life.
***
Currently, about an inch stands between Jenna and true happiness.
The week before, in preparation for the start of the fall semester, Jenna got a haircut andâdue to a slight miscommunicationâended up with bangs. The last time she had bangs she was in the third grade. She remembers trying to stick it out past the awkward stage when they fell into her eyes, weeks of using bobby pins and hair spray before finally giving up and getting them trimmed. She had them feathered in fifth grade, in time for class pictures, preserving the evidence for all time. By her sixth-grade picture, her hair finally returned to normal: Flat and brown, parted in the middle. Since then, she has always been keenly aware her level of happiness depends on her ability to tuck her hair behind her ears.
Jenna explained all this to the hairdresser as she always did. She sat in the chair with her feet on the metal bar, wrapped in a black plastic cape. Her hair slid down the cape and onto the floor around her. Inches. Sheâd said she wanted a change.
The hairdresser talked to Jenna with a comb between her lips. Asked where she worked. Does she go to school or have a boyfriend? Jenna likes it better when they donât talk. The best hairdresser she ever had didnât speak English well and had long, blood-red fingernails. With her, Jenna kept her eyes closed, soothed by the quiet and the sensation of those nails on her scalp.
Last week, there was a moment when Jenna knew she could have stopped it. She saw the scissors were too high. She held her breath and reminded herself hair grows back. She said nothing. She didnât want to be difficult.
But it is my hair, she thinks now, uselessly, as she searches for a headband.
On that day, Jenna smiled. Nodded. Paid. Went to work.
Jenna could have stopped her, but she didnât. The truth of the matter is, she was complicit.
***
Jennaâs cell phone rings on her walk to class. Itâs a bright, still warm September day. The grass has been recently cut and maintains its color. Jenna shifts her bag to the front of her body and continues walking as she pulls the silver flip phone from a zippered pocket. The number flashing belongs to her sister.
âItâs Bill,â Julie says in a rush, skipping the hello.
âBill?â Jenna shifts her bag higher on her shoulder.
âDad,â she says, meaning their stepfatherâthe only man they refer to this way.
Having several Bills in her life is confusing. Jennaâs father, the one her mother refers to as, âthe biological,â lives in Pennsylvania with his mutually born-again wife and their two sons. Jenna isnât sure if the boys have had time to be born a second time yet. She only sees them once a year, in the summer when she and her sister make their obligatory bus visit. Then thereâs her older brother Bill, sometimes called Billy to make things easier, in medical school in Chicago. Her stepfather, the man who had raised her since she was six, is also Bill. As is his son from his previous marriageâher stepbrotherâwho lives in some sort of Buddhist commune in Vermont. Talking about the men in her life could be like the old âWhoâs on First?â routine.
âWhat about him?â Jenna asks this casually, but her heart is thumping loudly in her ears.
âHeâs in the hospital again.â
âWhat happened?â Jenna sits on a bench, wondering if this will be a crisis worthy of missing her three afternoon classes or whether it will make her late for the next one. She hates being late, hates the way everyoneâs head turns to acknowledge her sneaking in. The apologetic, sheepish shrug she will give as she takes a seat in the back row.
âHe was dizzy and talking crazy again. I could barely get him to the car by myself. Thought I was going to have to call an ambulance.â
âWhat are the doctors saying?â
âTheyâre running tests. He probably needs another transfusion. He was asleep when I left.â
âWhereâs Mom?â
âCincinnati, I think. Business.â
âShouldnât someone be with him?â
âDuh. Thatâs why Iâm calling you.â
âJulie!â
âWhat? You know I hate hospitals.â
âYou hate everything.â Julieâs hospital phobia has been especially unhelpful these last two years while Billâs been sick. Jenna sighs, hitching her bag to her shoulder again and changing course, walking toward the parking lot. âOn my way,â she says, snapping the phone shut.
When Jenna and Julie were small, theyâd been fluent in their own language, their own world of understanding that shut everyone else out. Their mother would hesitate in doorways as they chattered with each other. When she walked in, often the girls fell silent, as if their twin-speak was the subject of a top-secret government mission.
They were the embodiment of the word symbiosis. Theyâd slept in the same womb for nine months, spooning in a fleshy sack. Theyâd whispered into each otherâs ears as they formed.
And yet, twenty-one years later, it seems unimaginable to Jenna that they ever had a common language, or they had understood each other at all, never mind best.
Driving fast, Jenna can get from her school in Massachusetts to the hospital in New Hampshire in under an hour and a half. When she gets there, Billâs asleep, making her question the point of rushing. He sleeps most of the day. Every time he wakes up, he acts pleasantly surprised to find Jenna there, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic and metal chair by his bedside. He talks to her for a few minutes and falls back to sleep. She leaves him for half an hour to eat dinner in the cafeteria. She speaks to his doctor, nodding in all the right places, trying to take it all in.
While he sleeps, she considers taking his hand but decides not to wake him. It isnât that he looks peaceful; he has a deep groove between his eyebrows, scowling at his dreams. She doesnât know whether heâll be making sense, and when he loses grasp of reality, itâs scary. Thereâs no telling what he might say, who heâll be. Once, he said something racist to a nurseâsomething he would never say if he were himself. Something, Jennaâs certain, he would never even think.
Bill was sixty-five when he was diagnosed with heart valve failure. He was fourteen years older than her mother, but no one believed it. His age caught up to him after the first heart surgery, though. He lost all his color, turning a cadaver-like gray that never went away. If Jenna caught him napping, which started happening more and more often, she had to check his chest was rising in the labored way that was frightening and reassuring all at once.
âJenna.â The nurse comes in and smiles. âHowâs it going?â
Jenna sits up in her chair. âYou tell me.â
The nurse checks his IV. Looks at his chart. âHanginâ in, Iâd say. Heâs a tough guy.â
Jenna nods and the nurse leaves. After the second surgery, the doctors said his body couldnât take another. They gave him a few months. That was almost a year ago.
Bill stirs. He must have heard the voices. Jenna leans forward and takes his hand as he blinks at her and tries to orient himself among the stiff, white sheets and pastel, patterned draperies.
âJenna,â he says and his face lights up with recognition.
âHey,â she says softly. âHow are you feeling?â
He looks around the room. A dated floral border runs along the top edge of the walls, nothing like home. Jennaâs mother has always found them tacky. âTired.â He sighs.
âWhy donât you go back to sleep then?â Jenna smiles, encouragingly.
The smell is the clearest indication of where they are, so clean it nearly burns your lungs.
âWhereâs Julie?â he asks, and Jenna feels an old stab of jealousy. When their mother had started dating Bill, the twins were five and already veering off in their own directions, but united in their refusal to give him a chance. Julie had been the first to give in to his persistent offer of friendship. Back then, Jenna thought she would never forgive her sister. But after Bill won Jenna over as well, she found herself resenting that Julie had been the first to let him love her.
âShe stepped out,â Jenna answers. âSheâll be back later.â
âIs it late?â
Jenna looks at her watch. âNine-fifteen.â
âYou should get back to school. You have a long drive.â
âItâs okay, Bill.â She loves the feeling of him worrying about her, being paternal. These moments have become so rare.
Bill closes his eyes. âIâm going to sleep now. You go.â
***
Itâs after eleven when Jenna gets back to the apartment. All the lights are out, but thereâs a soft glow coming down the hall from the back bedroom. Her bedroom. She knows Liamâs waiting for her there, and she wishes she could go to sleep without having to talk to him. Itâs been such a long day and all she wants is quiet.
Which is selfish, she thinks to herself. Liam is her friend, and he needs her. She pours herself a glass of water, standing in front of the short slab of mustard-colored Formica passing for a kitchen counter, delaying the inevitable.
âWhere have you been?â
She turns to find him standing behind her, barefoot, hugging a pillow like an eight-year-old with a teddy bear.
âIâm sorry,â she says. âI forgot to call. I was at the hospital.â
âThe hospital?â
Jenna sighs. âCome on. Letâs go to bed.â
He follows her down the hall. She sets her water glass on the night table and goes into the bathroom to pee. âMy dadâs sick again,â she says from the toilet. âNothing new. Heâll probably go home tomorrow.â
âAre you going home again?â
Jenna isnât sure. âHopefully, my sister can handle it. But you know her.â Julie was born second and takes her place as the baby in the family very seriously.
Jenna kicks off her shoes and her pants. She flushes the toilet and thinks about brushing her teeth, but sheâs too tired. She walks back into the bedroom wearing her T-shirt.
âYour sisterâs a bitch,â Liam says.
âHey. Donât say that. Just.â She shakes her head. âDonât.â
âSorry.â
Jenna gets under the covers. How can she explain the way it assaults her to hear someone speak badly of her sister? Even if theyâre right. Even if she thinks the same thing. Jenna taught Julie how to tie her shoelaces. She held her hand everywhere they went for years, did the talking for them both. Julie was always a little smaller, shy. Jenna took care of her. Jenna always felt like Julie was hers.
âMy day,â Liam says, sitting up with his head in his hand, âwas awful.â
âWhat happened?â Jenna reaches for the light switch, but she stops, letting her hand fall into her lap.
âI stand up there in front of them all day, and I know they can tell Iâm a fraud!â
âLiam, theyâre five-year-olds.â
Liam is teaching kindergarten.
âI know, I know.â He squeezes his eyes shut. âThereâs this canyon of space between what I know and how I feel. You know what I mean?â
She does know what he means. Itâs like worrying about Bill doesnât change anything. And knowing that doesnât make her worry any less.
âUh-huh. Can I shut the light out? You can still talk, but my eyes are tired.â
Liam sighs. âOkay.â
The first night, he shook her awake and begged to lie down beside her. He said he felt so alone. He needed to feel someone near him, even asleep. She was a heavy sleeper. She wouldnât even notice him. It was something that would help him and cost her nothing. How could she refuse?
Then, night after night, he appeared at her door with his pillow. Earlier and earlier, until finally he was going to bed before herâin her room.
âJenna?â
âMm-hmm.â
âIâm scared.â
âI know. Itâll be okay.â
âIt will?â
âYeah.â
***
Jenna helps Bill up the front steps of the house. He grips the railing with one hand and her arm with the other. She has an arm around his waist, and she can feel how small he has become, how fragile.
He sits in his favorite chair in the den and asks for the remote. Norman, their cocker spaniel, wags excitedly at his feet. Norman loves Bill the best, to the near exclusion of anyone else, and hates it when Bill has to go away for a night. He doesnât understand.
Bill rubs Normanâs ears as Jenna switches the television on and hands him the remote. He likes to watch The View, she knows, and itâs almost over.
âNorman, donât be a pest,â she says, but he ignores her, basking in the glow of Billâs attention.
âHeâs okay,â Bill says in a lilting sing-song Jenna has grown to think of as doggy-talk. Heâs missed Norman just as much.
Jenna walks down the hall to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. âWhat do you want to drink?â
Thereâs a pause and Jenna can hear the changing of channels. âA ginger ale?â
âOkay.â Jenna opens a can and pours the soda over ice. She counts out his meds. Through the window, she sees her motherâs car pulling into the driveway.
âMomâs home.â Jenna sets his drink on the table beside him and transfers his pills carefully into his palm.
âIs she home early?â Bill takes the pills in one gulp and chases them with the ginger ale.
âIâm not sure.â Jenna hasnât spoken to her mother in days. This morning, when Julie bailed on bringing Bill home, she tried calling her motherâs cell phone but got her voicemail. Jenna had been so angry she didnât leave a message. Now she realizes the phone was probably off because her mother was on a flight home. She feels guilty for not assuming as much.
The screen door bangs. âWhereâs my little turtle?â
They had started calling him that because of the gray-green pallor of his skin the way he disappears into his clothes. It was funnier when they thought it was temporary. Now, it feels like part of the optimism charade.
âIn here!â Bill calls, brightly. He smooths the hair on top of his head.
Barbara comes to the door wearing a long black skirt and a dark magenta wrap. Sheâs wearing full makeup, and when she kisses Billâs forehead, she follows by rubbing the lipstick off with her thumb.
Barbaraâs makeup gets heavier as she ages. She never wore makeup when the girls were small. Jenna remembers the novelty on the nights when she first started going out with Bill. She set her hair in rollers and sprayed herself with perfume. She painted her lips a shade that probably wasnât quite right for her. The only tube of lipstick she owned then, it still had the new, little slant after years. It was always at the back of the bathroom drawer, behind the Q-tips and Band Aids and other, generally useful things. She left the house looking like a movie star, leaving a fancy smell behind her as proof sheâd been there.
She unwinds herself from her wrap and lounges on the couch with her elbows on the arm and her chin on top of her hands. She looks Bill over. âWell, honey, you look fine.â
Jenna thinks this is a stretch.
âI am, I am,â Bill insists, puffing out his chest. âJust had a spell yesterday. Nothing to worry about.â
Barbara tosses her head back and laughs. âYou hear that?â she says to Jenna. âNothing to worry about. What a relief.â She pats Billâs hand, beaming at him.
As Jenna walks back to the kitchen, she can hear them bickering about whether she should have cut her trip short. Bill insists it wasnât necessary. Jenna hears her mother say she would have been no use to anyone while she was worried for him. She wouldnât have felt better until she saw for herself that he was fine.
Jenna opens the refrigerator and looks for a snack. Affixed to the freezer is a picture of the twins from first grade. This was the last year the girls were in the same class, the year before Julie was held back. The picture shows Julie with her white-blond hair, wearing a pink parka with faux-fur trim, smiling sweetly, in a dress of pastel flowers and white tights, clean at the knees. Jenna is wearing gray corduroy pants and heavy black winter boots, a navy-blue jacket, unzipped. She appears to be sneering at the camera, but Jenna would say itâs more of a wariness, confusion at being photographed without warning. Her brown hair is frizzy in a misguided attempt at a perm. It was the eighties.
âYou must be fraternal.â
Thatâs the first thing anyone ever says when theyâre introduced as twins. They look less alike now than in the picture. Julie is blonderâalthough she gets her hair colored at the salon, and for all Jenna knows, it might be the same mousy brown as her own. If you look closely, they have the same lake-blue eyes, the full mouth too dramatic for lipstick. But this isnât what people tend to see. Julieâs eyebrows are tweezed higher and smaller. Julie wears kitten heels with peep toes while Jenna wears flip flops. A 36C, Julie loves trying on lingerie. They donât carry Jennaâs size in Victoriaâs Secret. Or, at least, they didnât the day Julie dragged her along, assuring her sheâd have fun. She didnât.
Jenna closes the refrigerator and rummages through the cabinets. Thereâs nothing to eat in the house. She finds half a bag of potato chips in the back of the pantry. She gets herself a soda and sits at the kitchen table.
Jennaâs shaped like her mother, whoâs shaped like her mother. Grammy calls their physique âupside-down-pear-shaped.â Julie seems to have escaped this legacy. There was a brief period in high school when Jenna thought she might as well. She got an inch taller over summer vacation and suddenly the only thing the boys noticed was her generous amount of cleavage. By the next year, however, she had filled out, and that was that.
Barbara tiptoes down the hall. âFell asleep,â she says quietly. She sits at the table across from her daughter and sighs heavily.
âTired?â Jenna pushes the bag of chips across the table.
Barbara nods and pops a chip into her mouth. âI donât know how much longer I can keep this up.â
âMom?â Jennaâs startled by this admission, the lack of sugar-coating.
âThings are gearing up at work. I keep having to leave. And heâs doing worse and worse.â
Barbara has always worked in sales. When Bill retired, he helped her start her own business, promoting a certain brand of air filtration system. She sells on a broad scale to hospitals, schools, and museums. Itâs the kind of job Jenna has trouble explaining to other people. Her mother doesnât create anything or provide a tangible service; itâs her job to convince people of an idea. Sheâs still in sales, but now sheâs the president, traveling around the country to see her sales reps. As far as Jenna can tell, Barbara is the middleman.
Jenna sits with her shoulders hunched, not sure what to say. She wants to argue the point but canât.
âThings were much easier when you were home this summer.â Barbara leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands.
âIs Julie helping at all?â Jenna asks.
âOf course. She keeps him company when she can. But she has a new boyfriend, you know.â
Jenna shakes her head. She has a difficult time keeping up with Julieâs ever-changing line of suitors. âIs she still working at the clothing store in the mall?â
Barbara cringes. âIâm not sure what happened. She didnât want to talk about it.â
âSheâs not working? What does she do all day?â
âSheâs looking, I guess. Donât be so hard on her. Sheâs having a tough time with all this.â
âArenât we all?â Jenna leans back in her chair, furious. âIâve missed two days of classes so I could be here with Bill.â
âThatâs what families do, Jenna Marie.â
Jenna feels stung. Her face flushes with shame. âIâm not complaining,â she says, quickly. âI donât see why Julie isnât helping more.â
âJulieâs not as tough as you are honey. And I think sheâs been a little lost lately. You should talk to her.â
Jenna nods. âYou have no food,â she says after a minute.
âI keep meaning to go to the store. Thereâs a list on the fridge. Could you go?â
âMe?â
âWell, Iâd go myself, but I donât want to leave your dad.â
âI have a class at two o âclock.â
âI thought you said you were missing your classes today.â
âWell, I thought.â Jenna pauses to consider. âSince youâre home now.â
Jennaâs mother looks at her, blankly.
âOkay. Iâll go.â
âThanks, honey.â Barbara gets up and kisses Jennaâs forehead. She rolls up the potato chip bag. âPick up something easy for dinner. Maybe one of those pre-cooked chickens?â She pulls some cash from her purse. âItâll be nice to have both my girls home for dinner.â
âI have to get back to school eventually.â
Barbara frowns. âWe may not have many more nights to eat dinner as a family.â
***
âI donât know how much longer I can keep this up.â Liam is pacing through the apartment, wailing hysterically.
Jenna looks up from the computer, unsure her attention is helping him. It seems to feed the fire. She reads the line sheâs written a second time and a third, unable to follow her own logic. Liam retches loudly in the bathroom. She closes the document, and when Microsoft asks if sheâd like to save her work, she hesitates.
âWhat does it matter?â she says.
She walks to the bathroom and knocks on the door. âYou okay in there?â
Liam opens the door and falls into her arms. She manages to lead him to the couch. Heâs having trouble catching his breath.
âCome on. Deep breath.â Jenna rubs his back. She can feel every notch of his spine.
âI think.â Liam gasps, rubbing his palms along the top of his thighs. âI have to.â Another gasp. âQuit.â
âQuit?â
Liam nods.
âHave you talked to your therapist about this?â
Jenna went with Liam to his first appointment with Dr. Mackie. She brought a notebook, and a list of questions Liam was too frantic to remember. When Liam faltered as he described his symptoms, Jenna pitched in. At some point, Liam blew his nose into a Kleenex while she and the doctor discussed him as if he were Jennaâs child.
âNot yet,â Liam says now.
At first, Jenna thought the therapist was a bit kooky himself. He was in his late thirties, bearded and wore socks with his Birkenstock sandals. Liam and Jenna entered the office feeling exhausted and desperate. They sat together on a low couch with their knees level to their chests, a stick of incense burning on a table. Perhaps it was only in comparison to their fatigue that Dr. Mackie came across as overly caffeinated. He went through a checklist of questions on a worksheet and said, âCongratulations! Youâre clinically depressed!â But as the appointment went on, he talked about the causes and possible treatments for anxiety disorders. He seemed to know what he was talking about. Besides, the idea of going through everything all over again with another therapist felt impossible.
âAre you still thinking about taking the Zoloft?â Jenna asks.
Liam shrugs.
Dr. Mackie was against using medication as a quick fix. He wanted to try other treatments first. Diet and exercise. Breathing techniques. Journaling. Liam had put Post-its around the apartment to challenge his destructive thought patterns. The one on the bathroom mirror reads: You are good enough just the way you are.
âMaybe you could take a medical leave.â
âMaybe.â
âBut it seems like the job isnât the only thing causing the anxiety. Itâs the change. So quitting the job wonât really solve the problem.â
Liam nods. âI talked to my mother today. She thinks I should move home.â
âTo Connecticut?â
âItâs where I feel safest. No offense.â
Jenna smiles. âItâs okay. I wish I felt safest at home.â
âIâm sure you could find another roommate if you post an ad on campus.â
âOh.â Jenna feels the conversation shift out of the hypothetical. She nods her head slowly.
âIâm sorry to do this to you Jenna.â
âItâs okay. You need to take care of yourself right now.â Jenna leans back into the soft cushions of the couch, her hands limp at her sides. âDonât worry about me.â
Jenna is the type of person who would rather allow all her coworkers to mistakenly think sheâs pregnant than correct a stranger who asks her when sheâs due. She allows her anxious, depressed (gay) best friend to sleep in her bed for weeks because she doesnât want to cause him emotional distress. Even though her sister, Julie, is unemployed and lives at home (never mind that her mother is a perfectly able-bodied adult), she reluctantly leaves college and moves home to care for her dying stepfather.
As the book progresses, we see Jennaâs sense of self and boundaries develop. She meets Sam, who doesnât use her to meet his own needs. He loves her without asking her to change and allows the relationship to move at her own pace, emotionally and physically. Above all, he allows her to be fully herselfâmessy family and all.
As sheâs navigating all these dynamics, Jenna learns a family secret that makes these complicated relationships downright opaque and must figure out how this unexpected revelation fits into everything else sheâs trying to hold together.
Unclaimed Baggage is highly character-driven, which I loved. Reading the novel felt like taking a journey with Jenna as she learns to recognize her needs and begin carving out space for herself. I would have liked a little more character development for Sam and Julie, but their impact on Jennaâs growth still felt believable. There were four characters named Bill, which I think caused unnecessary confusion once or twice.
I enjoyed many things about this book, but two in particular stood out to me as especially well done. First, its depiction of grief is really impressive given the bookâs length. OâRourke adeptly captures both the ache of anticipatory grief and the fog that accompanies the stab of acute grief following loss. Second, I really appreciate the thoughtful representation of a secondary characterâs OCD. I was pleasantly surprised with the sensitivity OâRourke has shown in representing OCD as something lived with rather than performed for dramatic effect. The characterâs compulsions are handled in a grounded, compassionate wayânot sensationalized or reduced to a clichĂ©.
I would absolutely recommend this book to anyone looking for an emotionally sensitive, character-driven novel with strong themes of complex family relationships, loss, mental health, and learning to choose oneself.
TW: grief, illness, death, infidelity