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Most children’s first memories are the little, insignificant things. The sound of the squeak the back screen door made when someone opened it. How itchy that sweater from their Aunt Gertrude was. The fact that that one lightbulb in that one lamp was a different colour. The smell of their mother’s baking. Insignificant, yes, but also peaceful. There are times when Jenna wishes her earliest memories were that insignificant.
The first thing she truly remembers is the sound of her brother’s muffled cries. He had crawled into the room they shared and next to her crib. She remembers reaching out and touching his face and the feel the blood left between his fingers. She remembers the smell of blood and salt mixing. While other children are born into peace and that’s what their memories are of, she was born into turmoil, war even, and that’s what she remembers.
Later, she would remember her brother and father fighting. She would remember the way Jack would always stand between her and him, his shoulders squared, protecting her. Always. He always protected her, but he never had anyone to protect him. At age six she knew how to deal with split lips, black eyes, bloody noses; she could call 911 and give the ambulance the most direct route to their house, but Jack rarely let her. ‘You need a childhood, J’ is what he would always say, and she let him, despite the fact that they were only two years apart.
School was hard for Jenna. The regular subjects of math, history and English didn’t interest her as much as doodling in the margins of her notebooks. At recess instead of playing with the other kids, she would rather sit in the corner of the playground and sketch. She remembers Jack sitting there, although he’d rather be doing other things, almost daring anyone to come over and try and stop her from drawing. People did, and Jack was always there.
When she was eleven, Jack got an after-school job. She remembers seeing less of him, how he seemed to grow older within in a matter of months. Jack was the one that cleaned (or tried to) their apartment, he was the one that paid the bills, bought the groceries and made food. Whenever he got a paycheck he would always pay rent and utilities, go shopping and then give some money to his parents to support their various habits so they wouldn’t get violent.
The closer it got to Jenna’s twelfth birthday, the thinner he seemed to get. Jack was the only one who remembered about her birthday. Eventually she stopped hoping that her parents would care, and just look forward to what Jack would do. It was never anything fancy, but it was the thought that counted. This year, Jack took her out to dinner (something cheap, but it was a nice change) and although he didn’t eat (said he wasn’t hungry) let Jenna get whatever she wanted. He even ordered her ice cream for her birthday.
After he had paid, he slid her a package wrapped in last week’s newspapers. ‘I know it’s not much, but you should have something to open on your birthday.’
Jenna opened it carefully, and was left speechless. Inside lay a set of art pencils and a sketchbook. ‘It’s wonderful. Thank you, Jack.’
She wrapped her arms around him, and it was only then that she realized how thin he had actually gotten. It finally occurred to her that Jack had skipped meals in order to save money to pay for her present. ‘Thank you so much.’
He smiled at her and returned the hug. ‘Anything for you, J.’
When she was fourteen, Jenna had wanted to get a job like her brother in order to make his life easier and bring in some extra money. He had refused, stating the reason that she needed to focus on her school if she was going to go to art school. She was looking at schools as far away from here as possible, because while she loved her brother, she had to get out. When one of the prestigious art schools in France accepted her application she leapt at the chance. School had just let out for the summer and she would start the following fall on a scholarship.
The summer was spent dreamily looking forward to everything. Jack, on the other hand, had been working extra hours and gotten an extra job in order to pay for new clothes and the airfare for Jenna to get to France. He saw her off at the airport before going home and packing his own belongings. He took a minute at the door to remember everything. This house had a lot of memories, more good than bad, but life was a mixture of both, and he couldn’t really go out and live his life if he didn’t remember where he came from.
For the first year, he stayed close to home, checking the mailbox for any letter Jenna may have sent. After a while though, he parents were evicted for failure to pay their rent and bills and the mailbox belonged to someone else. All of Jenna’s letters were marked ‘Return to Sender' and had to travel across the Atlantic Ocean again. Eventually she would just stop writing.
In France Jenna Wilder was quickly becoming a recognized name. She had a style that was all her own and wildly (no pun intended) sought after for its mixture of traditional and modern art. Collectors would pay exorbitant amounts of money for her works, and she could buy her own home and no longer lacked anything. She still had the newspaper from her hometown sent to France, and it was this that carried the news of her brother’s death to her.
She was eighteen and had lost the only person that she could trust; the only person that she had truly loved. Jenna held a small memorial service, just her and a few close friends. None of them had known Jack, only through what she had told him. They still lit lanterns and let them go, though, and she was grateful of that.
It wasn’t hard to do the math. The siblings were two years apart, she was eighteen which would make Jack twenty when he died. She mourned his death, and would never forget her older brother. Had it not been for Jack, Jenna would not have been standing on the stage of her art school, graduating. She would always be grateful for what he’d done, and promised that she would remember him. Always.
On the black market art was big business. Especially fencing stolen goods. An informant of Alma’s had tipped them off. A stolen painting was on display at a French art museum and was about to be stolen again. Top of their list of suspects was the museum curator, herself. She had expressed a love for art in general, but that piece in particular, and yet did not own any art. Also at the top were the owners of the painting, hoping to cash in on the insurance money.
The team split up with Alma, Henley and Danny going to talk to the owners while Dylan, Jack and Merritt were talking to the curator. When they first walked in the door, Jack froze. Sitting behind a solid oak desk and a marble name plaque that said ‘Dr Jenna Wilder, Curator’ was his sister. She was older, and more grown-up, yes, but he would have recognized her if she had been eighty.
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Jenna.’
‘Good to see you.’
‘Same.’
And then she had surged forward like the Reine that she lived so close to and held him, determined to never let go, no matter what life brought her.
On her death bed, Jenna Wilder-Parques called her children and grandchildren to her side. One-by-one she looked them all in the eye and told them to always hold on to their memories. She died with the sketchbook she had received from Jack on her twelfth birthday all those years ago, and a smile on her face.