Jenny’s Wishing Well

LINDA STARTED FILLING THE POOL WITH PENNIES THE DAY AFTER JENNY’S FUNERAL. Jenny had been fascinated with the idea of wishes, birthday wishes, wishes on a star, wishes from genies, from fairy Godmothers, from wishing wells, she loved the idea of magic and she loved to make wishes, took them very seriously, had been known to let birthday candles burn to the quick as she contemplated her wishes, weighing the pros and cons, trying to be fair (not greedy like Dad), practical and pragmatic (like Mom), not just to please herself but maybe set an example for her baby brother (like Nana said she should), maybe even make a wish for him instead of herself, because that’s the kind of big sister she was, the kind that gave away her wishes. Now that Jenny would never be able to make another wish for herself,  and because the only wish that ever mattered to Linda could not be granted,  every morning after the sad Sunday they buried her beautiful, interrupted girl, Linda (usually in days-old pajamas ) sat on the blue striped chaise, tossed pennies into the pool, and made wishes for Jenny.

She wished for all of the things Jenny would never have asked for (a pony, a trip to DisneyWorld), would never be able to do (go to prom, drive a car), never see (Paris, the ocean), never feel (the butterflies that come with a first kiss), all the things Linda was supposed to provide for her, teach her, share with her, protect her from, all the things she would never get to say to Jenny she said to those pennies before tossing them in. Closing her eyes tight she’d toss a penny toward the deep end and listen for the plop, then imagine the penny swirling down, turning over and over, its’ face shining in the sun one second, facing the full, dark depth of the pool the next, spinning and falling and sinking at the same time, not knowing which way was up, which way was air, which was light,  eventually landing on the bottom, unable to move, pressed down by the weight of 10,000 gallons of water, decades of unlived years, oceans of tears. When Linda ran out of pennies she’d collected on her own, she went to the bank for more, ignoring the condescending condolences cascading from the cashier.

Paul started to complain (not just about the pennies, but the undone laundry, the never- cooked dinner, her unkempt hair), Linda pretended to hear him, got really good nodding along as he went on and on about moving forward, about life going on  (didn’t she know it was hard on him too, that she wasn’t the only one grieving,  that he and Charlie needed her?). She’d lie and promise to go to the support group meetings and see the nice therapist that Jenny’s oncologist had recommended so she could share her feelings about what it’s like to have a daughter one day and then not have a daughter the next day and how she had cried so much she was drained so completely dry she could actually feel herself shriveling up and shrinking, like an apple left to rot in the sun, how she was the worst mother in the world, the kind who promised her 9 year old daughter everything would be fine, and then it wasn’t.  Instead, six months after Jenny’s very small, very white casket had been lowered into the hard, desert ground,  Linda continued to toss pennies into the pool, thousands of them, one by one, for hours upon hours, making wishes that would never come true, for a daughter that was never more, a piece of herself, her dreams, her heart, sinking with each one.