This story is true. The town, state and names have been changed, but all of the events in this story and the ones to come are real. Swyer's Syndrome is an actual disease, and the effects I describe are actual. My Character "Jody", really has Swyer's, and she was 20 when I moved back into my childhood home.
I was born in Southern Oregon and lived most of my life within 11 miles of Lakeview. My street was pretty normal, not too far from town, not too far from school. My best friend, Bob, lived across the street, along with his annoying little sister Jody.
She was the bane of my life.
Everywhere Bob and I went Jody had to go. When we wanted to play with trucks, she wanted to play with dolls. When we joined the Scouts, she joined the Girl Scouts. When I went to the senior prom, she threw water on me.
When I got married, she cried.
It took six years, travel around the world, a diving accident resulting in the death of my wife, and my heartbroken return to the empty home of my childhood before I realized that she cried because it was supposed to be her standing at the altar with me.
My parents had passed away by the time I was 22, and their (my) home had been empty while Sheri and I were starting our company. By the time I was 24, Sheri was gone, and I found myself standing outside my old front door, stunned to realize that the key which had just turned the lock to admit me into the dark house was the same one my Dad had given me when I was sixteen.
I moved inside and turned on the light, dropping my Halliburton bags on the carpet. I kicked the door closed like I had done a hundred times, but there was no one there to yell at me. I have to admit that I would have jumped out of my skin if there had been.
I turned right and went into the kitchen. The light over the dining table revealed a single white carnation and a card. In an elegant hand, it read, "Welcome home. I'm so very sorry. Call me when you need to talk, I'll be waiting. Jody."
Memories washed over me. The little annoying brat. The 13 year-old annoying teenager, still tiny and bony. After that mental picture though, I drew a blank. She must be almost 21 now, but I hadn't seen her since our wedding, when she was 13. I'd sent a card when her Mom had died, but hadn't spoken to her for years. Somehow I knew that she was alone in the house across the street, but I didn't feel like company tonight. I checked the refrigerator, and sure enough, there was a six-pack of Rogue ale. I would have to thank my mystery benefactor.
I awoke at ten the next morning and made my way downtown. I completed the transfer of funds to my old bank and went to Shop-n-Kart and got some food. Pulling into the driveway, I felt as if I'd seen a ghost when Jody waved at me from the porch across the street. She hadn't changed at all. Other than the obvious modest girl-shape, she looked just like she had six years ago.
When I woke up on the couch, it was evening, and she was knocking on the open door frame.
"Come on in, Jo," I called.
I stood to meet her, and she walked into my arms, her face stricken, and she began to sob as she buried her face into my chest.
"I'm so sorry about Sheri, and your folks, and ... and everything." She sobbed.
Pretty soon I was crying too, and we stood and sobbed, and snorted, and sniveled. And then we laughed. We laughed at our crying. We laughed at our sniffling. When we saw each other's faces, red and wet and covered in snot, we laughed until we had to sit on the floor and hold our ribs.
I reached over to one of my mom's ever-present crocheted Kleenex box covers and snatched about a dozen pink tissues and shared them with Jody. She went into the bathroom to wash her face. I made do with the kitchen sink, and brought back two beers. She was sitting on the couch when I came back, and I handed her a beer and sat in the chair across from her, then got up and sat at the end of the couch instead.
Her dark blonde hair was up in a large bun on her head. I figured there was quite a bit of hair up there, and remembered that she hated to cut her hair. Her blue chambray work shirt was tied around her tiny waist and unbuttoned to reveal a white lace camisole underneath. Her tiny fingers ended in pink nails with French tips. Pointed, like her Mom's; not squared off like in L.A. No rings. Her navel sported a banana shaped barbell with a glittery jewel, and her low-cut jeans hugged her slim hips. A pink thong dove up and over her hips and disappeared around the back.
"You haven't changed a bit, Jody," I said, staring into her vibrant green eyes.
