ALLI'S COMB

“I can still see her in a white eyelet bustier, acid-washed shorts, oversized gold earrings and red lipstick. And her hair: By the time she was a young adult, it had become her glory."

Alli didn’t talk for the first couple of years of her life, so as the big sister, I spoke for us both—asking for the cookie, a glass of water, to go outside. By the time we were teenagers we’d learned to communicate without any words at all. We could lock eyes and simply flare our nostrils to say “Can you believe this guy?” or “Let’s get out of here!” A language all our own.

We grew up in the late 1970s. Alli wanted long hair, but hers was so astonishingly thick that it grew out before growing down. So she improvised. Changing into her pajamas, she’d leave her shirt draped from her head, pretending it was Farrah Fawcett hair, and admire herself in the mirror that hung above our white, gold-trimmed dresser.

She was often annoyed by me—the way I easily got good grades and kept my side of the room neat, how the sound of Mom’s slippers on our bedroom carpet was enough to gently wake me in the morning while she had to be physically shaken from sleep, the “gross lip noises” I made when chewing food. But the night I choked on my ham sandwich and Mom had to stick her fingers down my throat, she ran and locked herself in the powder room, terrified I’d die.

School was never easy for Alli. She rushed through assignments to get them done, only to be told to erase her work and try again. She’d scrub at the paper so hard it tore, and then cry or curse in frustration. Therapists advised that she punch a pillow to release her anger, but for Alli it felt more satisfying to stab her pencil into the vinyl top of her white jewelry box, its miniature plastic ballerina the unintended casualty inside.

Alli turned heads wherever she went. I can still see her in a white eyelet bustier, acid-washed shorts, oversized gold earrings and red lipstick. And her hair: By the time she was a young adult, it had become her glory, framing her beautiful face and dark eyes. Yet as striking as her looks were, it was her presence you remembered. She was a light. She loved being around people and was often at the center of the fun. She did spot-on imitations of friends and family, and when she told stories her facial expressions were comic genius.

We took different paths—me to college, Alli to an early, unexpected pregnancy and a marriage that didn’t last. In her early twenties, she caught the attention of an older man who had money to spend on nice dinners and romantic gifts. She was infatuated. I’ll never know how long it was before she sensed danger from this man. He strangled my sister to death four days before her twenty-fourth birthday.

After she died, I kept this comb. It was in her bathroom among the things she used every day. She’d had many combs over the years, of course, but this one was the last one she bought for herself. More than thirty years later, it’s now faded and worn, but I use it every day after I shower. I find comfort in knowing Alli used it first.

—Shavaun McGinty

My beautiful sister, Allison Stewart Jacobs. This photo was taken at my wedding—Alli was of course my maid of honor—on May 2, 1992. She was murdered almost exactly one year later, on May 9, 1993.

Alli, grade 4, with hair growing out instead of down.

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Shavaun McGinty lives and works in Chester County, PA. A licensed professional counselor and grief therapist, she is the school counseling supervisor at the Pennsylvania Leadership Charter School and has contributed to articles for Healthline and well+good.

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