Brother Jack, Sister Jill

(Jill’s wedding. Jack in the brown suit and me on the far right with Jessica (tummy!)

Brother Jack, Sister Jill

“Hi, Jack, it’s Jane, your sister.”

“You're not my sister. I was adopted.”

Crying, I apologize for not knowing this. It was my first conversation with Jack in two years, and I didn't know what to expect. But I know not to argue.

“Janie, don’t cry. Mr. Zelensy is my dad. That’s why I was kept in the basement.”

Jack describes having only McDonald's to eat. He says Dad gave him money, but he had to start working early. “I started working when I was nine and a half, Janie. Can you believe that?”

“No wonder your shoulders are so bad.”

Jack mentions his shoulders and torn bicep in each phone call that follows. He started his concrete business shortly after high school, and his body shows the abuse from a demanding career.

Today, Jack is 71. He calls me Janie, a name only my family has used. He claims that our sister, Jill, was also adopted when Dad returned from the Korean War. And he insists his name is Jake.

James, Jack's eldest son, recently informed me that Jack has been diagnosed with dementia. He will no longer be able to live alone and must move into memory care.

Jack and Jill, my older brother and sister—I can’t think of one without thinking of the other. Only nine months apart in age, they were as close as twins. They shared a love of football and each other.

Jill moved into memory care in 2019 and died in March 2020 at age 66.

Right before Jill entered the care home, when Mom was in the hospital, Jack and I talked more often than we ever had. We were both busy trying to keep Mom happy. Occasionally thereafter, I’d see Jack when I’d visit Mom to take her shopping or out for a hamburger. Afterward, I’d drive to see Jill in Waterford, where she resided in memory care. But Jack wouldn’t visit Jill. I didn’t understand. He acted as if she wasn’t there.

Although Jack and I weren’t as close as he and Jill were, I always called him on his birthday and other special occasions. Our conversations were pleasant, and he had a lot to say. But two years ago, when I called to wish him a happy birthday, he asked, “Who is this?”

“Your sister—Jane!” I thought he was kidding. Jack rambled on about his work, his trucks, and the weather.

Not two weeks later, I called after Dane’s heart attacks. Jack didn’t answer, so I left a message. I tried again, but still no answer.

A year passed, and I called Jack on his next birthday, but  I got his voicemail again. Seven months later, I called to tell him my granddaughter, Helena, had been killed. Jack never called back. Angry, I stopped calling.

Now James tells me Jack started becoming forgetful two years ago. My heart sinks as James tells me about Jack, his confusion, the police, and his involuntary hospital stay. As James talks, the Catholic guilt that Mom raised us on has free rein in me.

Before James finishes, I apologize. I mentioned the unreturned calls and how angry I’d felt toward Jack. He assured me Jack hadn’t been returning anyone’s calls. I wondered if James knew I was the one initiating calls throughout the years, but did it matter? It seemed that James had heard this story before. I’m impressed with James’s patience as I badger him with questions in the days after learning about Jack’s illness.

Today, James tells me he found a place for Jack to live in Oconomowoc. His relief is evident, but so is his concern. He’s just finished washing and folding Jack’s clothes. On Monday, he’ll fix up Jack’s new room.

James recommended that I wait to visit Jack until he’s settled, so for now, I call daily. Jack still does most of the talking. I’m excited to see him soon and hope that by listening, I’ll bring him some comfort.

I’m kicking myself for assuming my brother didn’t want a relationship with me. Understandably, he was drained after Mom’s death and the responsibility of acting as her executor. Losing Jill was hard on him. Until she entered hospice, he still hadn’t visited her. Then he went almost every day the week before she died.

Now I realize he was in denial. And I know he wasn’t intentionally ignoring my calls. Jack is sick like Jill was.

I remember having to hear the “Jack and Jill” rhyme over and over again when we were kids, and people discovered my siblings’ names. Sadly now, I listen to it cycle through my mind: Jack and Jill went up the hill...