The Language Of Sisters Part 4

The first two weeks of her waking in the night had not bothered me too much. My body was used to being active in the dark and I had immediately run to soothe her, to adjust her pillow, to turn her over so she wouldn't develop sores. But the long hours awake with her during the day-feeding her, walking her around, changing her diapers, giving her her medications-had drained me. I longed for a four-hour-straight block of sleep like a starving man longs for bread.

Jenny's needs were constant, their strength coaxing me to her even as I tried to pull away, tried to take a shower or finish a cup of coffee. My lower back screamed from lifting her swollen pregnant body. A dull ache had settled in behind my eyes. My sister woke several times a night and rose early; she needed to be fed, showered, diapered, and dressed. Then there was her medication schedule, which I had scrupulously charted out and stuck to the refrigerator but often pa.s.sed by without consulting. Take her back to Wellman, a small voice within me cried. You can't do this. It's too much. I felt inept, lost in the wilderness of what caring for her demanded of me, afraid I might never return to the freedom of the life I had known.

I wanted to leave, to go back to San Francisco. I missed Shane. I missed Barry. I missed the simple, solitary pleasure of taking Moochie for his afternoon walk. I wanted to be able to go to the grocery store without having to think about the logistics of pus.h.i.+ng a wheelchair and the shopping cart, or whether I had packed enough diapers for an hour away from the house. I wanted to be able to take more than a five-minute shower without worrying that Jenny had fallen out of her bed and cracked her skull. I wanted to take back all my lofty promises, to take back what had happened to Jenny and return to the life I'd lived for the past ten years.

My mother wasn't helping stem these feelings of regret. I watched her move around Jenny and me as though we were polite but uninvolved acquaintances. I did not understand her. Putting aside my own complicated issues with my mother, I had truly believed that having Jenny home would soften her, bring her back to the mother she had been to Jenny before Wellman. "Help!" I longed to plead. "Help me do this! She's your daughter. What's wrong with you?"

She seemed to float above us like a balloon attached to our wrists, tied to us forever but distant, inanimate. She slept at the other end of the house, in the same room she'd shared with our father when we were children. She wore earplugs, something she said she had done since Jenny moved to Wellman. "After she left," my mother told me, "even the tiniest sound would wake me. I'd be sure it was Jenny crying, needing me." She shook her head. "A woman's hearing becomes supersonic when she becomes a mother. Intently tuned to the sound of her children's cries. Even the illusion of them. If I didn't wear these"-she held up the earplugs-"I'd never sleep again."

But despite her words, the first time Jenny had woken up in the middle of the night, I'd stepped back into the hallway after comforting my sister and sensed my mother's presence nearby. I also smelled something burning. I caught her sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, smoking. Her legs were crossed, and her dangling foot wiggled furiously. "What are you doing?" I asked. I was sure she had come to check on Jenny, but I wanted her to be the one to say it. To admit she cared.

She looked at me, her pale, angled face suddenly illuminated pink by the glowing tip of her cigarette. Her expression resembled a rubber band that had been stretched to its limit. "I was hungry," she said. There was nothing to eat on the table in front of her, only a saucer filled with ash and two spent cigarette b.u.t.ts. She jutted her chin toward the hallway to Jenny's room and tapped her cigarette with her finger. "Everything okay?"

I wanted to say, "No, everything's not okay. Jenny's knocked up and I'm exhausted." But I bit my tongue, unwilling to share how I was really feeling. After her refusal to visit the salon with us, I hadn't reached out to my mother. I sheltered my emotions under deep cover, unwilling to let her hurt me again. "When did you start smoking?" I demanded, ignoring her question.

"I've always smoked." That explained the still-yellow walls in the living room.

"I thought you hated that Dad smoked."

"I hated that he smoked in front of you." She looked at the end of her cigarette as though it might have something to tell her, then squished it in the saucer. "It's not something I do every day," she said without looking at me, and I left her there in the dark, wondering what else there was I didn't know about my mother.

But now, Jenny's cries worsened, tightening their hold in my chest. I trod out my door and into her room, the rancid stink of fresh excrement attacking my nose with its fist. I flipped on the light. She lay on her back, her hands clawed and in her mouth, fat tears rolling from the corners of her eyes to the pillow, mixing with the drool there. The long hairs around her round face were damp with sweat. I covered my mouth with a hand and pulled back her covers. The dark stain spread out from her diaper to the edges of the twin bed. "Oh, Jen, what happened? Are you sick?" I felt her forehead; it was cool. Then I remembered. Last night's botched enema. I didn't know what I was doing, and look what it had done to her.

She moaned again, her eyes pleading with me. She could not stand this, I knew-the horror of lying in her own waste, unable to move, unable to do anything but wait for someone to come. How could anyone stand it? I imagined her at Wellman, her cries m.u.f.fled by thick walls and other patients, how long she must have lain there, helpless.

"Come on," I said, swallowing, as best I could, the rolling wave of nausea that traveled up my throat. I bent down and slid my arms under her back as levers, sitting her up and swinging her to the side of the bed so I could get her to the bathroom. She'd need a shower, and I'd have to change the sheets-the white, lace-trimmed sheets I'd picked out as a child for my baby sister's new big-girl bed. My mother had tried to get me to choose a darker color, perhaps foreseeing the impractical nature of my first choice, but had relented when she saw how excited I was to give them to Jenny. I wondered how many times Mom had been stuck doing laundry in the middle of the night, running these ridiculous sheets through the bleach cycle.

I pulled Jenny into an upright position, and she stood, shaky, a pitiful cry hiccuping from inside her: "A-huh, huh, huh." The stench reached down my throat, and I gagged, once, twice, but managed to keep from throwing up on the rug and making the situation worse.

Again, I had to stifle the urge to call my mother for help. This is her job, I thought petulantly. I shouldn't have to do this alone. I just didn't understand why she was holding herself away from Jenny when she obviously loved her. Maybe it was me she was keeping away from. Still, I didn't think that was enough to justify standing by and watching me do this alone.

But you said you wanted to, a voice reminded me. And I knew it was true: I did want to. But I honestly didn't know whether wanting to would be enough.

It took about an hour to get Jenny cleaned up and the bed changed. She stood patiently in the shower as I washed her, her fleshy belly slightly raised and hard beneath my touch. I wondered if the baby was moving yet, if Jenny felt it tumble inside her. If she knew what had happened to her. What was going to happen to her. We had an appointment in the morning with an obstetrician who had agreed to take Jenny as a patient-one of the doctors Dr. Leland had recommended to me. Dr. Ellen Fisher had worked with developmentally disabled patients before, though never one as severely handicapped as Jenny. She had been businesslike in our brief conversation, so professional in her tone that I almost felt chastised for not having dressed better for the call. I was a little apprehensive about meeting her.

It was after four when I tucked Jenny back into her bed, lying on her left side. I kissed her and smoothed her hair, making sure she was adequately propped up by pillows so she wouldn't roll onto the floor. Exhausted, I stumbled back under my own covers and slept, mercifully, until the moon faded away and the sun took its turn at lighting the world.

"Did she always wake up like this?" I asked my mother over a huge mug of industrial-strength coffee that morning. "I don't remember."

My mother smiled a little wistfully. "Yes. Not every night, but often enough." She sat down carefully at the table, wiping away invisible crumbs from the front of her dove gray, pin-striped suit. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. The bank didn't open until nine, but since she walked the eight blocks to the Junction's Was.h.i.+ngton Mutual, she needed to be ready to leave by eight-thirty. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight French twist, and she wore a pastel pink lipstick that did little to brighten her already pale face. She needed to find a new shade.

"How come I never used to hear her?" I asked, my eyes heavy with lack of rest. And the unasked question: How did I hear Dad go into her room and not you?

"I was quick. I could hear her before she even started." My mother patted my hand, then leaned forward to tighten the laces around her too-white tennis shoes. When she sat back up she looked at me, obviously considering something. "Nicole," she started, but didn't go on right away.

"Yes?"

"What does Shane think of your being here?"

I bristled at the inquiry. "He's fine with it. He supports me." At least, that was what he had said the last time we'd spoken. But then again, he hadn't called me since then; the few messages I'd left for him had gone unanswered. I felt hurt and a little angry at his lack of concern, but I wasn't about to tell my mother that.

"He doesn't have a problem with you being away so long?" she asked.

"No," I said, hopeful my face didn't give the truth away.

"Well, he must be an exceptional man." Then she stood, grabbed her purse, and moved toward the hallway that led to the front door. "I've got to get going."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us to Jenny's appointment?" The question tumbled from my mouth before my defenses could stop it. Something deep within me wanted her to be involved in this process; she'd always been the one to deal with Jenny's doctors. And if I was honest with myself, I had to acknowledge she'd always been the one to deal with Jenny. The short time I'd spent caring for my sister had shown me that. Whatever a.s.sistance I thought I'd provided as a child was nothing compared to what my mother had done all day, every day, for Jenny for fifteen years. I felt a newly developed, grudging respect for my mother. Perhaps that was why I asked her to come to Jenny's appointment.

My sister moved her eyes from her toast to our mother, seemingly interested in her answer.

Mom hesitated, but then shook her head briskly. "I can't. I can't do it all again." It seemed she said this more to herself than to me. "But you can tell me about it tonight," she offered, then paused, considering something. "Wait. I've got dinner with my book group tonight. I won't be home until late."

My molars squeaked against each other inside my mouth as I stood and moved next to my sister's wheelchair. "You're going out again?" She had been home for dinner with Jenny and me only three times since we had been there.

She looked at the door and not me. "Yes."

"Fine." That settled it. I definitely would not reach out to her again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I stepped over to the sink and began was.h.i.+ng the few dishes there. "It means nothing. It means, fine, go out to dinner. Have a wonderful time." I hated my voice. I hated this nagging-mother role that had overtaken me without my permission.

She sighed. "Nicky-"

"Nicole," I corrected her sharply.

Her green eyes hardened. "Okay, Nicole. Don't take your frustration out on me."

"I'm not frustrated."

She snorted softly, twisting the straps of her purse in her hands. "Oh. Okay. I take it you're just naturally this pleasant, then?" Sarcasm crackled in the air between us, dancing around all we did not say.

"Good-bye, Mom."

She shut the door firmly behind her. I felt my anger like the sharp sting of a canker sore. I was unable to keep from tonguing it, if only to make sure it was still there.

"It wasn't me who decided you should have this baby," I said to Jenny, who blinked her gaze away from the door, focusing on an unknown point on the refrigerator, ignoring me. Disappointment clouded her round face. I sighed, then stepped back next to her, running my fingers through her curls. "Sorry, Sis. Mom's just p.i.s.sing me off. It's not your fault."

She looked at me like, Well, I already knew that. I set a cup of chopped canned pears on her tray and watched her scoop them to her mouth with a grabbing motion of her right hand. Her left hand was tucked under the tray. She managed to hand-feed herself fairly well, though she had lacked a pincer grasp since she was three. Meals were a messy prospect; I had learned quickly not to dress her before she ate or I'd end up having to change her all over again.

I checked the time. Our appointment was at ten, and I still needed to clean Jenny up and get her dressed. After last night's unfortunate incident, I figured I could skip her morning shower; her hair still felt clean. I grabbed the cordless phone and dialed Shane's work number.

"San Francisco District Attorney's Office. How may I direct your call?" a nasally voiced operator inquired.

"Shane Wilder, please."

"One moment."

He came on the line. "Shane Wilder." His tone was intimidating, lawyer-like, daring anyone to contradict him.

"Hi. It's me." I sat down at the kitchen table, hooking my feet around the front legs of my chair.

He paused, his voice softened. "Hi, you."

"How are you?"

"Busy. As usual. And you?"

"Fine. A little overwhelmed, but fine. How's Mooch?"

A longer pause, full of a hesitancy I didn't understand. "Missing you, I'm sure."

"And how about you?" I prodded, reaching for the carafe on the counter to warm my forgotten coffee.

"What?"

"Do you miss me?" I hated having to push him to tell me how he was feeling. I longed for a man who was comfortable expressing himself. If one actually existed.

He sighed. "Of course I do. I miss you like crazy."

"Enough to come see me this weekend?" I ventured.

"Nicole ... " He sounded tired.

"What?"

"I can't, honey. Things are way too busy here. I've got four briefs to write and a deposition to prepare for this weekend." He paused. "Plus, what would I do with your child?" Referring, of course, to Moochie.

"Bring him."

"Honey, I don't know what you want from me."

"Support, Shane. I need your support." If my mother was going to think he was supportive, he'd d.a.m.n well better be supportive.

"I told you, you have it. I talked to the D.A. up there and he said the case is under investigation, but the police haven't found the guy yet. I also have calls in to several lawyers who could represent you in a civil case against Wellman. I don't know what else I can do right now."

"You could come and be with me." I knew I was being unreasonable, but I could not keep the petulance from my voice.

Jenny emitted a short, high-pitched shriek. "Ahh!" I looked over to her and saw that she had cleared all the food from her tray.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Jenny."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her," I snapped, making a nasty face at him through the phone. "She's just done with breakfast and wants me to get off the phone and pay attention to her."

"You got all that from 'ahh!'?" He sounded amazed. Or maybe it was disgusted.

"Yes." I grabbed a washcloth and ran it under warm water before using it to clean Jenny's face and hand.

"I can't really talk right now, Nic. I'm due in court in five minutes." He was always due in court in five minutes.

"Okay. Call me later. You have the number here, right?" He didn't answer, just shuffled papers. He had already left the conversation. "Shane?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, hon. I'll call you later."

"You'd better," I warned. "Love you."

"Me, too. Bye, babe."

I hung up and looked at Jenny, whose eyes were sly with understanding. I felt the need to defend myself. "Yeah, he's being a jerk, but he's really okay, once you get to know him. I promise."

She slid her gaze into mine with a wisdom deeper than I was ready to see. I looked away. "I love him, Jenny," I said, unsure of whom I was trying to convince.

For as long as I could remember, my mother had been a religious woman. She encouraged me to say my prayers each night and delivered me to Sunday school while she sat with Jenny in the sanctuary of our local Unitarian church, hopeful my sister would not start screaming in the middle of the sermon. At Mom's request, the congregation prayed every week for Jenny to be healed. But just as the medical establishment's failure to cure Jenny drove our mother to Sonia the Psychic Healer, her church's inability to produce a miracle soon drove her to desperation.

A few months after our visit to Sonia, Mom saw an ad for an evangelical service on late-night television and sank her teeth into this final shred of hope for Jenny's cure. She told everyone she knew about the pastor who performed weekly miracles during his sermons. "People who've been in wheelchairs their entire lives just stand up and walk after he touches them," she said excitedly to anyone who'd listen. I stood by her at the front door as she told the postman how Jenny would be cured and watched his expression fade from interest to pity. When my mother took the mail and moved into the living room out of sight, he looked at me sadly. "You don't let her get to you, young lady," he said.

I was mortified by my mother's religious exuberance. Each time she spoke of visiting the new church with Jenny, recklessness danced in her eyes. It got so that I could barely stand to look at her. She held on to her hope like a man who was drowning in the middle of the ocean would cling to a sinking boulder.

Before we left to pick up Nova the morning we were to attend the service, my mother stuck her head into the living room, where my father lounged comfortably in his recliner at the beginning of his sports-viewing day. "Are you sure you won't come, honey?" she asked him, her tone bright. I was glad I had convinced Nova to come so I wouldn't be bored out of my skull.

"I'm not going to waste my time at some sideshow religious service. I'm not an idiot." He looked pointedly at her, then back to the television.

My mother held her head high on her neck, white skin flus.h.i.+ng rosy pink. "You don't know what you might be missing. What if this man can heal your daughter? What will you say then?"

"I'll say it's a cold day in h.e.l.l, because that's when it might happen." He reached for the newspaper that laid in his lap and snapped it open in front of him, signaling the end of the discussion.

Though I resented the meanness of his words, I agreed with my father. I agreed with him more when we walked into the metal-sided, barnlike structure where the services were held. With its cement floors and bare wooden rafters, it looked more like a discount furniture warehouse than a church. The place was packed with people, some of whom already stood facing the stage as though the service had started, their hands waving above their heads, their tongues wagging an indecipherable language, wearing their desperation like perfume. One woman rolled on the floor, twitching and moaning.

"That woman's having a fit, Mom," I whispered urgently as we pushed Jenny's wheelchair toward the stage.

"She's just full of the Spirit, Nicky. She's overcome." Mom seemed not to see the dime-store religious adornments that littered the place: a grinning, plastic Jesus hung every couple of feet on the walls, each illuminated by loudly colored blinking strings of Christmas lights. She focused her eyes on the stage, on the spot where she imagined her daughter would be healed.

"She's over something," Nova whispered, and I giggled. "Smoke?" she murmured even more softly, and I nodded. We had found an unopened pack of Winston Lights in my father's truck a few weeks before and were not so successfully trying to start a habit.

"Mom? Nova and I are going to the bathroom, okay?"

"Okay. I'll save your seats. Hurry back." Her white skin was tight and s.h.i.+ny, her smile a painted red slash above the point of her chin.

Nova and I wove our way through the crowd of zealots, out the side door to what we hoped was the alley. We walked a few doors down from the church, where we found a woman already standing by some garbage cans, puffing away. She was thin, painfully so; her black hair was stringy and loose around her pale face. She wore jeans and a shabby silk blouse with a large bow tied at her neck. She nodded in greeting, sucking on her cigarette like a straw.