A Death & A Deliverance - Part II

The first time I met Jinny, I couldn’t stand her. She was the gushy, chatty girlfriend of my son, Julian, and she walked around radiating almost unbearable positive energy despite the fact that, at 32 years old, she was terminally ill. It was almost too late before I began to see her in  a different light. 

THIS IS PART 2 of a SEVEN-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

 

Jinny

I tried to put Jinny out of my mind. Julian would meet another girl, the relationship wouldn’t last. But it was impossible. Our house horseshoes around a pretty pool and on many weekends that first summer of Covid, Julian would bring Jinny over and they would stand at one end of the pool and we would stand at the other, shouting commonplaces at one another across the blue water. “How are you?” “How are things going?” “Were you able to get to the store?” “Do you have enough masks? Toilet paper? Provisions?” But it was Jinny who spoke most. In a colorful blouse, thick hair covering her shoulders in dark tresses, she would shout: “Julian has been cooking the most fantastic meals!” Or: “Julian was able to find a dozen rolls of paper towels!!” Or: “Julian cleaned the whole house today and I baked cookies.” (She’d leave a tin of half-burnt ginger snaps on the doorstep.) At the other end of the pool, I wouldn’t quite know what to say.

But that didn’t matter because Jinny did all the talking. To me, she was an alien, a strange blabby being who hurled platitudes across a 20 foot stretch of turquoise water. “Your house is so beautiful!” she’d yell. “Y’all are such nice people, inviting us over like this.” Inside, I’d cringe, thinking who is this person with her endless bullshit? It never occurred to me that the relationship between Julian and Jinny was serious or would last.

But then one morning, Julian called me up, announcing that he and Jinny intended to marry. It was not my finest hour. I didn’t like Jinny, and I was damned if my son was going to tie himself to this miserable girl and inherit all her medical debt. So I made a big scene.

“You can’t marry her!” I yelled over the phone. “If you make it legal, you’ll never get out from under that big pile of bills.” I suggested they just have a ceremony instead. 

The fact was, although she was plump and looked like she was brimming with health, Jinny had terminal breast cancer and didn’t have long to live.