Hell Bound

Twenty-Eight

I sat down on my bed and stared out the window. This is why I avoided things. This is why I didn't like digging. Bucky was right. If something was hidden, it wasn't meant to be discovered. Every time I paid too much attention to my past, something surfaced that had the potential to change my whole life. I was already struggling to deal with what might have really happened the day everyone died. Now I had to deal with Bucky suspecting my parents weren't really my parents. I didn't want to believe it, and I couldn't ask them. He was right to think they would lie if they thought it would protect me. I didn't believe they would have kept something from me maliciously. I knew they both loved me unconditionally. My memories were clear on that, at least.

Clara was young when I was born. Young enough to not notice something weird going on. Young enough to not question a sister that came out of nowhere. But she might have been old enough to pick up on clues. Even if she couldn't understand them. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to hear her voice. I needed to know that she was real and our past was real. She was my sister regardless of what Bucky suspected. I still had my phone stuffed into my back pocket. So I pulled it out and called her.

"Hi, it's me," I said when she answered. I slouched and sank into my bed. I felt pathetically miserable. As if I needed my big sister to reassure me. But I couldn't bring it up outright. It would probably hurt her more than it hurt me. And I knew for certain that they'd never tell her if it was true.

"Jo, hi!" she replied with excitement. "What's going on? Why do you sound so down? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, no, no. I'm fine. I just miss you. Kind of hard to get the hang of living without you guys. I was wondering what you were up to."

"I've just been working like crazy since we got back to the city. So has Tony. We've hardly had enough time to see each other. Just constant work. He definitely keeps me busy." She sounded so normal. Just a woman with a regular job and average parents. Definitely not the kind of woman who'd have a secretly adopted sister who was harboring a wanted assassin in her house.

But then again—she was dating Iron Man.

"Oh, I don't want to bother you if you're busy."

"You're not bothering me at all! I probably can't talk for long, but I could use a few minutes to myself. What's up? What's going on? How's the new job?"

"It's been great. There isn't much for me to do, actually."

"How's your new therapist?"

"She's nice. You just reminded me that I need to call her. But she's nice."

"How are you guys communicating?"

"Well, we talk. A bit. It's been hard. I'll be honest."

"I understand, but you should really try giving her a chance. She might be able to help. And Sam trusts her. That should be good for something, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"So—Tony kind of mentioned you had a guy over."

"Graham?"

"Don't play dumb with me. He told me you have two people staying with you. And that you asked him not to monitor you this morning. I was there when you called, by the way. And you made it clear it was at least one guy."

"At least one?"

"Well, I wasn't gonna ask. But one is a bit on the young side." I sighed heavily and flopped back onto my mattress. I hadn't bothered to make the bed, so the blankets and sheets were still twisted and messy.

"Just one," I admitted. "Not the young one. And it's just a thing." I wasn't going to tell her it was Bucky, and I really hoped she wouldn't be able to figure it out.

"It's not—him—is it?"

"What? No. Of course not. I came back here to get my life going again, remember?"

"Yeah, but—you seemed pretty—uh—what's a nice way of putting this?—You had it bad." I rubbed my forehead. I didn't know I was that obvious. I'd definitely told her that we'd gone to bed together. But nothing more than that. I'd tried to make it out like a momentary lapse of judgment. Not that I was lovestruck.

"I promised Sam and Steve I'd tell them if I knew anything. I just want things to go back to normal." I bit my lip.

"So what's he like? Tell me about him," she said. I almost sighed with relief.

"I really don't want to talk about him. It's not anything—uh—huge. Just a thing—you know—for fun." She was silent for a minute.

"You never struck me as the type to go for 'things.'"

"Yeah, well. I've got a lot on my plate. I'm not interested in—long-term things."

"Right. Well, still. Tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell. We don't—talk a whole lot."

"But he's been staying with you." Crap crap crap.

"Yeah. Well. He's not staying with me exactly. He just hasn't left."

"The last time a guy moved himself into your house, he hit you." She avoided saying his name even though she knew it. She also knew I'd killed that guy just a few weeks before going to stay with her in Malibu. I appreciated that she didn't say his name.

"It's not like that at all. I mean, it's still new. But he hasn't moved in or anything. I have the weekend off, and I asked him to stay."

"But you don't talk." I was going to have to divert this conversation fast. She wasn't going to let it go.

"No, we just fuck a lot, Clara," I told her.

"Okay then."

"You asked."

"And I sincerely regret it."

"Well, like I said, nothing to worry about." Then I smacked myself in the face. "So anyway, I was thinking about something weird, and I kind of wanted to ask you about it."

"I knew there was another reason you called. What's up?"

"Do you remember Mom's brother at all? I know she had a brother growing up, but what the hell happened to him?"

"I think he died."

"When?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"I'm sure I did. I think he came to meet you when you were born. But the only thing I really remember is that he always used to send me dresses for Christmas. Then he just stopped. I was probably too young to ask questions."

"Do you think they had a bad relationship? I've never even seen pictures."

"Oh, Grandma has one!"

"Does she?"

"I'm pretty sure. You know how she keeps that old cigarette case by her bed?"

"Yeah, the silver one."

"She puts pictures in it. I found them when we moved her into the nursing home. She has pictures of us, Grandpa, Mom, and some other guy. Probably her son, but I don't really remember what he looked like."

"What was his name?"

"Ivan, I think?"

"Ivan Weisberg?"

"Yeah, something like that. I don't think they really got along. Mom never talks about him, and neither does Grandma." I tapped my fingers against my jeans. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just telling—Graham—the kid who's staying here—something about how we don't have any cousins. He thought it was weird. But, hey, do you remember when Mom used to write those coded letters to Dad?"

"What? No."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I don't think so."

"She wrote them while we did homework at the kitchen table. She always said they were for Dad."

"I guess I never paid much attention. That's kind of cute."

"I guess so."

"Well, hey. I'd love to keep talking, but I really have to get this work done by tonight. We're really behind on planning for the Expo, and Tony has an interview with Time coming up. Will you call me again before the weekend is over? We're going to try to take a day off soon. Eventually. Hopefully."

"Yeah, of course."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"This was nice, Jo. I like when you call me unexpectedly."

"I'll do it again, I promise."

We hung up, and I dropped my arms over my face. Then I remembered that throwing my phone would probably break it. And screaming at the top of my lungs would probably attract more attention than I wanted. So I sighed and tried not to cry instead.