Jo And Jo

1Jo

and Jo

Part One: As I gazed at the dark sky, my sister Joanne popped out of the house bounding towards me. Her wispy brown hair was bouncing to the tempo of her feet, which added some spring to her step. I’m not a fan of my sister usually, but it was hard not to let her curl up on me. She was wearing my outgrown Superman pyjamas and was clutching her stuffed zebra. I shifted positions to let my six year old sister sit with me on our dirt stained hammock. It was slung way too close to the ground and was situated between the two old maple trees that were in the back yard. “Hey Jo,” I whispered as I softly touched her curly hair. “What are you doing up so early?” At the sound of my voice, she put her gray eyes upon me and blinked a couple times. Her hair was shining in the starlight and her skin was pale white. Reburrowing her face in my chest, she mumbled with her high soprano voice. “I couldn’t sleep.” I sat in silence as I listened to her soft breathing. It was slowing. “Would you like to sleep in my bed?” I asked, knowing she preferred my big -1-

bed to her little cot. Looking up at me once more, more tired than before, her grasping gaze caught me again. “Really?” she asked, knowing my answer before she asked the question. I nodded and started to sit up. That hammock was not made for two. “Why are you up so early, Joseph?” Joanne questioned with sincerity. A little bit of her six year old curiousity leaked into the question, but I ignored it. “I’m not sure, actually.” I mumbled, trying to avoid the question. I wouldn’t tell my sister the truth, she’d tell the whole world. I looked up at the sky again. I really just go outside every morning at four o’clock to clear my mind. It gives me an opportunity to let me be me and not have people judging and watching. It gives me a break from life. For a moment, I almost forgot that Jo was there. Before I spaced out again, I scooped up my sister and headed for the one-story house. She mumbled as I picked her up and shifted her fragile body to the side. I could feel her radiate heat as I moved toward the house. I arrived inside the bungalow and softly shut the front door so mom wouldn’t wake up. She needed all the sleep she could get. 17 hours a day was too much stress for one person. She had to take two more jobs to pay for our over-charged rent.

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It’s been like that since dad left. Everything fell apart. Mom needed dad like a person needed air. The harsh burn of life gave her dad - her ice pack. Unfortunately, life also gave dad legs, which he used to get up, and walk away, leaving mom with her burn. He only left because he found out that my mom was pregnant with Joanne. He left, thinking that two children were too much. I stopped. I had reached my bedroom and was now laying Joanne on my burgundy bed. I pulled the covers over her and kissed her forehead. It wasn’t just for someone so young like her to have to suffer without a second parent. I turned around and headed for the back yard to sit and gaze at the stars once more. After a few hours of stargazing, I decided it was time to get dressed. I don’t think my teacher would be as forgiving as my mother about walking around with knee-cut jeans. Then again, mom doesn’t really have the time to worry about my dressing habits. My teacher, on the other hand, does. I headed to my room to get my clothes. As I ran my fingers along the walls of the narrow hallway, memories flooded into my head. When I was a kid, my mom used to chase me down the hallway of the house we had before my parents split up. Do all hallways look the same? I had reached my room. It was fair sized but only contained a double bed. My pale brown carpet was stained and my baby-blue walls were in need of another

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coat of paint. Basically, it was in need of a renovation. I got a red T-shirt and a pair of un-cut jeans and headed out of my room to the bathroom. I walked as quietly as I could so I wouldn’t wake my sister or my mom. As I entered the bathroom, I turned on the fluorescent light which lit the room. Our almost destroyed bathroom was a mess. Nothing was on the floor but the sink was rusting and losing its shine and there was some gray mold growing between the off-white window sill and the wall. I looked in the mirror. Somehow, it kept clean. My ash-blonde hair, bleached from last summer’s biking trip, was sticking up in every possible direction. My golden brown eyes stared back at me as I looked in the mirror and my clear complexion pleased me. I haven’t had a blemish in my entire life and I always worry that someday, I’ll break out all over my face. I shuddered. I took out our dollar store brush and started attacking my matted hair. I haven’t had a haircut in a while, so my hair was long, about three inches, and was starting to go wavy, like the sea, Joanne would say. When I finished taming the knots in my hair, I decided to wash my face. I turned on the faucet and ran my hands in the cool water. I splashed it on my face and woke up instantly, feeling my face wake up too. I dried off with a towel worn velvety soft and headed to the kitchen.

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It was January, frigid and dark, and I was aware of the cold floor beneath my feet. It was always cold in the kitchen, even in the spring. This house has no heating system whatsoever. I shivered. It was not quite seven o’clock but the light coming in the kitchen window hinted that it was close. I got out a glass bowl and a spoon for my cereal but I just wasn’t hungry. I sighed, put my dishes away, and got a plastic cup. I filled it with water from the fridge and headed to my room to check on my sister. My school, St. Peter’s Secondary School, started in about an hour. Jo usually liked to keep me company when I got ready for school, so I decided to get her up. My sister, I decided, wasn’t all that bad for a sister if I looked deep down . . . DEEP, deep down. I peeked in the crack of the door which had scratch marks and dents from the previous people who lived here. “Jo?” I called out. “Jo? Come on, Jo. I know you can hear me.” I opened the door all the way only to find my bed empty. A wave of nausea swept through my body as I stood in the doorway of my bedroom. Immediately, I began searching around. It wasn’t that messy, but I was hoping to find little Joanne asleep, curled up with her stuffed zebra. I searched through the nest of sheets on my bed only to find Joanne’s zebra, but no Joanne. By then, I was ready to call the police. Suddenly, something tackled me to the ground. I cried in protest,

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but fell anyway. The fall was deafening but all I was concentrating on was getting my attacker off of me. I started threatening my assailant but then I stopped when I noticed it was laughing . . . like a girl . . . like Joanne. “Ugh,” I groaned. I started to sit up. Now I remembered why I disliked my sister. She was sitting on my plush carpet laughing her high pitched laugh. “I got you, Joseph,” she squealed. “I got you good!” She started laughing again so I tickled her ribs, which made her laugh even harder. That led to the hiccups, which made ME laugh. Then, as if purposefully timed, my mom groggily opened my door and saw both me and Jo laughing on the floor. My mom’s curly hair matched my sister’s though the colour did not. Her ash-blonde hair was a shade darker than mine, which was the only physical trait we shared. For some reason, her tired expression gave my sister and I the urge to laugh harder. Soon, my mom was laughing too. It was the first time in months that I had heard my mother laugh. Though I’ll never admit it, I had tears of joy in the corners of my eyes. My mom was happy. Part Two: After finally being able to get up off the floor, my mom realized that she

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had to start work. I looked at the clock and saw that I had to be at school in ten minutes and I had to walk. Leaving the house, I knew I wouldn’t get to school on time by foot. “Hope mom doesn’t mind.” I murmured to myself as I hopped on her bike. My bike fell down the ravine near our house last year and ever since I’ve been telling mom that I was lending it to someone. As I headed down our one lane driveway, I was forced to get off the bike. Our mailbox had fallen over and was bent backwards. The plank my mom had hammered on saying Hastings, our last name, was a meter away. As I kicked the mailbox upwards to its demanded position, I noticed that there was something in it. Forgetting about the plank, I reached inside the mailbox and pulled out the contents. As I filed through the mail, I searched for anything important. After 5 ads for Avon, 2 ads for Zellers and 1 ad for Walmart, I came across a bill. In big, red, bold letters, it said: FINAL NOTICE. I threw the mail contents on the ground with frustration and hopped on the bike. My ride to school was quite unpleasant. My head was filled with thoughts of my mother. If she couldn’t keep track of the bills, we’d have to move again. Move. That word sent internal shivers through my spine. It usually meant going to an older, smaller house, getting used to a new school and trying to cope with the peer pressure that came with it. I got off the bike. I had reached my school and

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was now rushing to class. My first subject was art and I really enjoyed it. It was my favorite subject since last year’s grade 10 music class. We had mostly just fiddled with guitars, not really learning anything but it was fun. The bell rang as I entered the class and most of the kids snickered. I noticed I had forgotten my binder. As I slouched into my seat the substitute art teacher gave me a look. I stared back at her mimicking her look. Finally giving up, she started passing out papers. Once received, I turned over my paper . . . Only to reveal horror. The words Pop Quiz was written on the front and a multitude of questions was written on both sides of the paper. I sighed. Using my new found pencil which was luckily placed in my desk, I started answering the questions. The rest of the day passed by in a similar way. When I went outside to head back home, I realized that my mom’s bike was missing. Running to the bike rack, I noticed the chains I attached to the bike were tampered with. Bits and pieces of the metal were scattered across the area of the bike rack. I sighed and started to make my way to the house. Telling my mom this would be bad on many levels and I didn’t really feel like telling her. My day had been much too stressing for that to be accomplished. Halfway to my destination, it started to pour. When I finally arrived and went inside, I found my knapsack and papers drenched. I spread

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out my papers and notebooks so that they would dry out and be ready for the next day. I headed to the bathroom to take a shower and to feel more refreshed. After a long, warm shower, I got into my K Mart uniform. Ugh. Work. Well, it was OK for a part-time job, but the pay was terrible for the amount of work that was demanded. I didn’t like the monotony of sweeping floors and unpacking boxes every night, but it was the only source of income I had. After two hours of broom and box detail, I went home and changed into my normal clothes. I didn’t feel like doing my homework, so I decided to take a rest. After all, I thought, I had to get up early. Part Three: The next morning, I had a startling wake up call. The usual four AM alarm happens naturally, by my own will. That morning, however, I was awakened by Joanne’s crying from her bedroom shortly after midnight. “Joanne?” I cried. My mom wasn’t home yet, so I didn’t care about waking anyone up. ”Joanne, are you alright?” I found Joanne curled up in a ball on her bed, shaking and shivering. As I approached her, I noticed that her skin was shockingly white and her eyes were distant, as if she was seeing something only she could see.

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“Joanne?” I repeated, now kneeling beside her bed, shaking her. “Joanne, are you OK?” Tears were forming in my eyes as I violently shook my sister. It took a couple of minutes, but finally my sister regained consciousness. “What happened?” Joanne looked disoriented. “Why are you in my room, Joseph?” For a moment I just lay there on the floor, not answering any of her questions, happy that she was OK. Finally, I spoke. “Are you OK Joanne?” I looked her in the eyes. Joanne was about to say yes, but changed her mind. “My . . . My head hurts and . . . I don’t really feel good.” I touched her arm . . . And retracted almost immediately. “Joanne! You’re burning up!” I exclaimed “You must have a fever!” She looked at me, startled. Joanne has never been sick in her entire 6 years of living and that day it seemed like all of those missed terms were coming down on her. “Stay there” I shouted to her as I ran to get the family medical book. I returned two minutes later with the book and sat on the edge of her bed. I looked up the symptoms fever, malaise, headaches. Finally, I came across two options. I really hoped it was the flu. I looked at her fragile body, was she always that thin? She

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studied my face, recognizing horror on my face. “No, no. Its OK. Really.” I took her warm face in my hands. “Really.” She started crying. “What’s happening Joseph?” I looked at her, ready to start crying again too. “I’m not sure.” I said letting go of her face. “I’m trying to figure that out.” I reached for the handbook. My hands were sweating. “OK, do you feel pretty tired all the time?” I asked, resuming my position of asking the questions. “Yes.” she said, a little uneven from the crying. I squeezed her shoulder and saw bruises on her neck and arms. Where I had held her shoulder to comfort her, was reddening quickly. As I looked at her, the sharp angles of her collar bone and shoulder blades seemed more pronounced than they had in the summer when we played in the wading pool in the back yard. I scanned the page with alarm. “Jo, have you been throwing up? Getting sick?” She looked up at me. “Will you be mad at me?” she questioned looking at me with her big grey eyes. “Of course not.” I responded, I tried to sound firm but my voice broke. “But I need to know.” She looked up at me again.

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“Yes.” The moment she spoke the word, I dropped the book confused by what I was reading. My sister picked it up a little hesitantly. “Joseph,” she asked with uncertainty in her voice, “What’s wrong?” “I think we need to go to the doctor’s.” I looked at the clock. “Come on. It’s only 3:30. I want to get you checked.” Pulling our coats and shoes on, my sister and I left the house. We arrived at the Children’s Clinic, I quickly ran to the front desk. “I would like to see a doctor for Joanne Hastings, please,” I stated. The lady searched through her file cabinet and extracted a thin piece of yellow paper. “Fill this out please and, oh,” she looked at me. “Give back the pen.” I sat down in the waiting room and started filling out the paper. Once it was completed, I handed the paper and the pen back to the lady. “Take a number” she said, pointing her finger to the cards. I took a one and sat down again, next to Joanne. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, looking at her fragile body as if she’d collapse any moment. “Mmm” was the only response I got from my sister as she watched the Lion King play out on the television.

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I watched it with her for a moment until the clerk called out our number. I got up, grabbed Joanne’s hand and headed to the room. Just a few seconds after we got comfortable in the new room, the doctor appeared holding a clipboard. “So,” he said, adjusting his glasses to the brim of his nose. ‘What can I do for you today?” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair not sure what to say. “I don’t feel good,” Joanne finally whispered, breaking the silence. Did she always look so . . . sick? “Well,” the doctor said, kneeling down to get to her level. He had a friendly expression on his face. “What seems to be the problem?” After we explained her symptoms to the doctor, his once warm smile turned into a stern, concerned look. “We’re going to have to do a blood test.” He said, his eyes scanning our reactions. I looked at Joanne to see her expression. She looked determined, but a little frightened. The doctor and I sat in silence until we saw Joanne nod, and reach for my hand. Joanne and I waited for the lab technician to come and take her blood. Part Four: I would never relive those last couple minutes if my life depended on it. I don’t think I could stand watching Joanne in so much fear and pain ever again. I

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was glad it was over. Joanne was given a glass of orange juice and a lollipop after her ordeal. We rushed home and got in the door just in time. “Get to your bedroom, quick!” I hissed, afraid to get caught. I heard my mom coming to the kitchen so I got a bowl and a spoon out. As I was filling my bowl with cereal, my mom entered the room. “Joseph, what are you doing up so early?” She questioned me wearily. “It’s 5:30 in the morning! What’s wrong?” By then she was standing beside me, so my boots from outside were revealed. “Why are you wearing your boots? You’re indoors!” “Shhh . . .” I quietly whispered. “You’ll wake up Joanne.” She relaxed a little. “Why are you wearing your boots?” she repeated, a little quieter. Fumbling for an answer, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Uh, it was cold in here.” She looked at me. “Very cold.” She looked at me again. I shrugged. She imitated my gesture. “You should really get more sleep” she accused. I nodded. Anything to get her off the subject and go back to bed. “Will you ever forgive me?” I teased, trying to sound comfortable. She looked up at me for I was taller than her. A smile grew on her face.

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“Only if you take out the trash.” She said, motioning to the garbage pail. I laughed. It hurt. I’m not sure how my body could take any more laughing. After everything that was happening with Joanne, laughing was . . . wrong. My mom saw my discomfort but decided to leave it. She half-waved as she headed off to her room. After she left, I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and started crying. That day after school I rushed home to check the messages. So far, the only people who called us were 1-800 numbers. I really hoped the clinic would call when I was home and not my mother. The following days were torture. The clinic didn’t call about any results yet and my mother kept asking me if anything was wrong. Having to lie to her, to smile for her was drenching my heart with dread. One night, I was crying in my room and Joanne came up to me and hugged me. At first I couldn’t believe it. SHE was comforting ME. She didn’t understand that SHE needed to be comforted, not me. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be sad,” I explained. “And I’m the one who’s supposed to be sitting on the edge of your bed, hugging YOU.” She squeezed me tighter. “When you’re sad, I’m sad.” She said, sounding more grown up than I had been.

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She turned to me and smiled, regaining the position of the child. “You be happy and I’ll be happy!” In my dreams that night, I was aware of a slight ringing noise, like a phone. It was in the background of my dream, but it was still noticeable. I rolled over. It couldn’t be that important. Part Five: The next morning I woke up at around 5:30 but didn’t actually get out of bed until around 6. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw that my mom was sitting down at a chair, crying. I put an arm around her shoulders, trying to get her to rest her head on me. She shrugged it off. “What’s wrong, mom?” I asked, feeling worry for her. My mom usually likes to be comforted. It was awkward. She was usually very open. “What’s wrong?” I repeated, trying to get an answer out of her. The look that my mother gave me would wound me for years after. “Joanne,” was all she said and she didn’t have to say anything else. My head swerved as I tried to catch my breath. “Joanne,” I mouthed.

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I turned to my mother. “What’s wrong with her?” My mother just muttered to herself. I grabbed her shoulders. “What happened?” I demanded. My mother looked up at me with her blue eyes and quickly looked down again. “You looked so much like your father there.” She whispered quietly. “Oh mom.” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My mom and I sat there crying there for a moment before we realized that Joanne was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “Oh!” We both uttered a cry of surprise and sat up to a more comfortable position. “What’s wrong mom?” Joanne said, trying to sound firm but her soprano voice broke the whole scene apart. My mom, still teary, looked at Joanne. She took her hand. “Now,” my mother began, “You know how you and Joseph snuck out of the house to go to the clinic and you had a blood test?” Her eyes flickered to me and back, but she continued. “Well, the results came in and . . .” My mom trailed off. She started crying again. I rubbed her shoulder. She started again. “Joanne, you have leukemia.” After the last word came out of my mom’s mouth, I was already headed

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for the bathroom. On our way to the hospital, my mother, Joanne, and I hurried along the road, not caring about the pedestrians that surrounded us. Watching us. I sighed. If only they understood our situation. Life was weird like that. It twists your perception and makes it seem like you’re the only person that actually matters when really, you only contribute to a small part to the world. You can pass someone on the street without giving them a second glance or thinking about them. In reality, they’re late for a funeral, running away from someone, sad, deep down inside. You see no crying nowadays. Tears. We don’t use those as often as we used to, as we should. But . . . where’s the rainbow if there’s no shower? We reached the hospital and signed Joanne in. The wait was long, but finally Joanne got a room. “You’ll get a T. V. and everything in your room!” the nurse exclaimed! Unimpressed, Joanne sighed tiredly. A little while after Joanne got set up in her room, my mom and I came to visit. All the wiring attached to my sister startled me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a computer with that much wiring before,” I teased Joanne. She smiled a weak smile. “Just don’t go bionic on me, OK?” My mom said, attempting at humor. The doctor snorted. I actually didn’t notice him in the room until he laughed.

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“Oh, you’re going to have to leave now,” he said. Pain crossed my mother’s face. The doctor didn’t seem to notice. “Visiting hours are over. Please leave.” He practically shoved us out the door. “Come back tomorrow,” he said unenthusiastically. I doubt he meant it. Part Six: The next few days continued in the same manner though the only thing changing was Joanne looked more frail each time we visited her. One day, I decided to ask if she was OK. “Joe,” she said. “I’ll be brave. I’ll be strong” She said, imitating the lyrics of a song. “Even if it kills me.” That was not part of the song. I turned away from her. “Not funny.” I mumbled. I felt a nudge on my left shoulder. “Here, take Jack.” As I turned around, I was offered her stuffed zebra. “Jack?” I laughed. “You called it Jack?” She looked at me. “Don’t look at me! I didn’t call a stuffed zebra Jack! After four years of contemplating over a name, you choose Jack?” She examined her zebra. “Doesn’t he look like a Jack?” Actually, the more I thought about it, the more it fit. “Hmm . . . Jack . . . alright, alright, I give in. Jack it is.” My sister smiled.

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“Are you sure you want me to have it? It- I mean- Jack is your favorite stuffed animal, isn’t he?” Joanne looked at it. She grabbed it from my hands, kissed it, and then gave it back to me. “He’ll stay with you forever,” I looked away. “Yeah, but will you?” I thought. As my mom and I entered the house, the phone rang. My mom rushed to the phone on the final ring. “Hello?” my mom said. I left the room to give my mom privacy. As I entered my room I lay on my bed. I started drifting off to sleep when I heard my mom scream. As I ran to the kitchen, my mom ran into me. “Joseph, get ready. We have to get to the hospital.” She looked at me. “Now.” When we arrived to the hospital, the nurses looked at us with pity, which was not a good sign. Some of them were crying, some shaking theirs heads. Almost every nurse we passed to get to Joanne’s room was like that. I would never forget these hallways. When we arrived at her room, we saw Joanne, gasping for air. We tried to get to the edge of her bed but the nurses and doctor were swarming around her like bees

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attracted to honey. They wouldn’t budge. The monitor was going all over and my mother and I exchanged worried glances. My heart was racing. “Joanne,” I voicelessly whispered, trying to take in air. Her pale face turned to me then. It was twisted with agony and pain. I didn’t want to see my sister like this. I had to leave the room. When I was sitting in the hallway, some nurses left the room and some entered. Somehow, through all this, Joanne’s breath was still audible. I couldn’t stand it. When I got back in her room, I could tell this was ending because Joanne’s breathing was at a dangerously slow pace. When the doctors finally let us see her, my mom and I knelt besides her each holding one of Joanne’s little hands. Finally, the breathing stopped, leaving the monitor with an unpleasant beeping sound. She was dead. My mom and I lay there, refusing to leave, holding Joanne’s hands, and then the crying began. I have never cried so much in my life, I thought I would never stop. All this happened two years ago but I will never forget it. When my sister passed away, time stopped for my family. We finally took in that the world is a nasty place and for a while after that, it was all my mom and I believed. As time passed though, we realized that it was good, and bad. My sister meant the world to me, and I will never forget her for that. Well, how can I forget her when I still have Jack? I can’t help but smile each

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time I look at him. His nubby zebra coat reminds me of the countless times Joanne hugged him tightly in her arms. Me in her arms. My smile always becomes a little wistful as I remember the life, and the sad, unexpected death, of my little sister Jo.

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