“I know, Dad,” she teases. “And I appreciate your concern.”
It’s not the first time she’s called me that and in some ways, I suppose I do treat her more like a daughter than a sister. Our actual dad was from a low-income section of Amarillo, Texas. He grew up working from the time he could ride a bike. Paper route. Lawn boy. Window, car, whatever washer. Dog walker. You name it, he did it. He ran errands for the elderly, started painting houses by the time he was sixteen, and pretty much did anything and everything he could to earn a buck. Over the years he saved his pennies and by the time he was eighteen, he was able to afford to send himself to college. He’d met my mom there. She was a cello player studying music education. My grandparents helped as much as they could, of course, but for the most part, my dad was a self-made man. He was proud of that, it was part of who he was, and his work ethic was ingrained in my DNA. As were his protective tendencies. Even though he’s been dead ten years now, the beliefs he instilled in me live on.
“Take care of each other,” he’d said to my sister and me before he and my mother were killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. But he’d given me this look before he left and I knew what he really meant. Take care of your sister, Dallas, he’d conveyed silently.
I’ve done my best to honor his final request, which is why being away from her feels so strange. When we’d moved from our two-story house in a suburb of Austin to a tiny two-bedroom shack with our grandparents in Amarillo, I’d done everything I could to make sure my sister didn’t suffer more than necessary. I’d taken the converted closet as a bedroom so she could have the bigger one. I’d mowed the same lawns my father had as a kid to make sure she had extra spending money for ice cream or earrings or whatever her little heart desired. I’d even been careful not to be too rough on my clothes because I knew she’d likely have to wear them as hand-me-downs.
“So you’re okay then? Having a good time still?” I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, I am. But I won’t be too upset when she’s done traipsing across the countryside, either.
“I am having a great time,” my sister tells me. “Somehow it’s like . . . never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s like they’re here with me.” She sighs, the heavy losses we’ve experienced over the years weighing down her breath. “That sounds dumb, right? I mean, I’m not hallucinating or anything. I just . . . feel them.”
She means our grandparents. Because she’s on the road trip they’d planned to spend their life savings on but never got the chance to. And I know exactly how she feels. Between the memories of my parents and my granddad’s voice in my head, I feel them, too.
“I know exactly what you mean, Dixie Leigh. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the guitar lessons Papa gave me. And I could sure go for some of Nana’s cooking right now. Man can only eat so much diner food.”
She laughs and I use the moment to tell her about joining Jase Wade’s tour.
“Dallas!” she practically squeals at me. “And here I thought you were calling just to check in. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you, big brother.”
“Thanks.”
Some siblings might be jealous of each other’s success or resentful, especially since this was our dream once upon a time. But Dixie has always been one of the most selfless people I know.
“I can talk to the label again. They loved your song, Dix. I can convince them that you need to—”
“I need to be right where I am, Dallas.” She pauses a moment and I can picture her expression as she chooses her words carefully. “After this, I’m going to New Mexico. Then I’m going home for a while, so you can rest easy. I love you, and I’m happy for you. I miss you and I miss . . .” For a second I’m sure she’s going to say Gavin and that’s going to turn this into an entirely different conversation. But she doesn’t. “The band,” she says instead.