Letting Go (Chapter-18)

Jilliana

Jilliana could feel Patrick’s eyes on her as the news unfolded on the television. A picture of Serena kept popping up -- not a current, updated picture, but the same one from her sister’s abduction 16 years ago. Jilliana closed her eyes when Serena first appeared on the screen, revisiting memories of her sister printed on magazines, newspapers, milk cartons, and paper flyers. For a moment Jilliana felt as though she was eight years old again, coming to terms with the fact that Serena wouldn’t be home to eat dinner at the empty place setting that their mother never stopped putting out.

Then, a picture of a thin, pale, blonde woman appeared on the right side of the screen while the reporter, wearing a burgundy v-neck blouse, appeared on the left.

“At 6:40 this morning Michelle Wilkes, 39, was found dead in her home. The police arrived only minutes after a neighbour reportedly saw smoke coming from her bedroom window, and called 911. We believe the cause of death to be carbon monoxide poisoning, but are still waiting for a final answer on this. Though the origin of the house fire is not yet known, arson has not been eliminated as a possibility.”

The picture of Michelle Wilkes disappeared and Serena’s picture took its place as the reporter continued.

“We know from an anonymous source of a possible connection between Ms Wilkes’ death and the Moore abduction case of 1991, when eleven-year-old Serena Moore mysteriously disappeared and was found nine months later wandering alone in Northridge, California. The Federal Bureau of Investigation gave no comment on this matter.”

Serena’s picture faded away, and one of a man popped up larger than the pictures before it. It wasn’t a mug shot, but a photo that belonged on a license, or an ID. It took a moment before Jilliana recognized him as the man who Serena had identified the day before in the interrogation room. Jilliana hadn’t gotten a real look at him until this moment, and the longer she studied his features - his subtle grin, blue eyes, mole on his right cheek, the way his brown hair was pristinely cut and styled - the more hatred and rage she felt.

“If you have any information regarding this man, please call the number below immediately. He has been identified as Edmond Rowen - Caucasian, muscular build, approximately 6’4”. Rowen is a newfound suspect in the Moore Abduction Case, which was officially reopened by the FBI at 10 pm last night.”

“Turn it off,” Jilliana stood up, “now.”

She walked to the kitchen and listened to Patrick click off the television. She could hear him inhale to speak, then exhale without saying a word.

She picked up the burnt coffee pot she had left to soak the day before. She poured out the soapy water that filled it, watching as the burnt granules spread along the sink, then rinsed it two more times with clean water. She reached for the red checkered dish towel that hung on the oven door and dried it thoroughly while staring absentmindedly at the digital clock above the stove. She stopped drying when the clock changed from 9:58 to 9:59.

Jilliana scooped the coffee grounds haphazardly, losing track of how many spoons she had piled into the filter.

“You sure you’ve got enough coffee in there?”

Jilliana jumped at the sound of Patrick’s voice and dropped the spoonful of coffee grounds onto the floor.

“Damn it, Pat!” she turned to glare at him, then kicked the spoon across the tiled floor, “You’re the one who’s gonna clean this up, asshole,” Jilliana turned back to the coffee maker, picked up the filter, and tossed it into the trash below the sink, “and why don’t you make the coffee while you’re at it.”

Jilliana nudged Patrick’s shoulder as she brushed past him and stomped across the living room to the couch. She sat down, reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table, and took several deep puffs of one. After a few minutes of staring at the blank television, the cigarette had calmed Jilliana down enough to feel a wave of guilt when she turned and watched Patrick move quietly, keeping his back to her as he wiped the last few coffee grounds from the floor and stood to make the coffee. Jilliana turned back around and stared once again at the blank television. Her friendship with Patrick had grown into a familiar pattern of Jilliana breaking down, and him doing everything he could to fix her. She knew, deep down, why he tolerated her the way he did - and the reason made Jilliana sick to her stomach.

Within minutes, Patrick was walking toward her holding two white mugs of coffee. He silently handed her the cup, sat down on the opposite end of the couch, and glanced out the window as he took a sip. Jilliana put out the cigarette and held the warm mug in her hands, watching him intently, and hoping he’d be the first to speak. She took a small sip, leaned back, and crossed her legs on the couch in an attempt to appear relaxed.

“Thanks, Pat, for everything.”

Patrick took another sip of his coffee and stared silently out of the window.

“And I’m sorry. You’re not an asshole. I just...I didn’t mean it.”

Silence lingered between them for a long minute.

“You know, Jills,” Patrick turned to face her, “the problem is that I care about you. Too much. Do you know what I did the second I heard the news this morning? I called off work - they’re pissed at me, by the way - and sped over here because you didn’t answer my calls. Because I’m petrified that you’re gonna crack and do something stupid.”

Jilliana watched him glance down at the faded scars on her right wrist, then wrapped her arm behind her back.

“Pat, you know that I’m done with that—the cutting.”

“Jills, I never know anything with you,” the volume of his voice raised significantly, “that’s what scares me. You’re unpredictable and reckless, and stupid, and--” Patrick turned his eyes to the mug gripped between his hands, “I’m just…God,” he lifted his eyes to the ceiling then turned to face her, “I’m in love with you. And it’s fucking killing me.”

Jilliana sat breathlessly still. She had been waiting for Patrick to say this, and hearing it brought upon the nauseating feeling that had lingered inside of her since the day, two years ago, when she realized that she, too, was in love with him.

Yes, Jilliana loved him. She always had. Which was why her response was, “I think you should go.”

She watched Patrick walk out of the door to the top of the stairs. He disappeared quickly down the staircase without turning back to look at her, the way he usually did when he left. She closed the door and locked it.

Jilliana paused, turned to rest her body against the wall, then bent her knees and lowered herself down to the floor. When her eyes filled with tears, she had no urge to wipe them away; she let them stream without interruption, down her cheeks, off the tip of her chin, and onto her shirt.

The coffee machine beeped. Her phone buzzed in the living room. Jilliana didn’t move or veer her gaze away from the blank wall in front of her. There were too many reasons to cry, so after struggling to focus on only one thought at a time, she stopped trying to determine what had caused her tears to begin. She just sat still and waited, in the same way, she had on the carpet of her bedroom floor 16 years ago, filled with a similar hope that if she let them fall long and hard enough, she would reach a point when there were no more tears left to shed.