The Secret Language of Sisters

by Luanne Rice

  I looked up.

  “Let’s do it a few times,” Nina said. “Bring your attention to your breath, and let it whisk gently through your mind. Notice if it’s a deep or shallow breath.”

  At first I wanted to tell her it was stupid; what good could it do? I must have sputtered, because she gave me a small smile of encouragement.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Stay with it. Let your thoughts and feelings in your heart come up, and let them go. Don’t follow them. Stay with your breath.”

  I focused on the feeling of air coming in and out of my nose. Hurriedly at first, then a little calmer. My breath became steadier. And you know what? My thoughts weren’t so brutal. Instead of feeling total despair, that I would be in this condition, this exact place, feeling so betrayed and brokenhearted, I felt myself right here with Nina, alive and breathing. And for that moment I was okay. I was fine. The thoughts weren’t so overwhelming. They were like monkeys, but this time high in a canopy of tree branches overhead.

  Now, while Dr. Howarth waited outside, Nina removed my dressing, cleaned the sore, applied Silvadene ointment, and taped on a clean bandage. I took the time to breathe deeply, and I knew Nina was doing it with me. Somehow I had the feeling she had come in on purpose, knowing I needed her. By the time she’d finished changing the dressing, I was calm, and my thoughts of despair and frustration weren’t dominating me.

  I was ready to start again and signaled Nina by looking up.

  “Good girl,” she whispered, kissing my forehead. “You can do it.”

  Thank you, I wanted to say. I really did have a team here, and as I prepared for this big step, I felt them with me.

  Nina pulled back the curtain, and I saw Dr. Howarth sitting in the chair by the window, checking his phone. He was unguarded, looking away for a second, and my heart skipped at the sight of him. My mom had stuck by my side, and Isabel, but with the other important people in my life disappointing me, leaving me, he was my rock. He was so steady and patient, and he understood me, and I knew I could count on him.

  He beamed when he saw me, moved closer to my bed. That shock of brown hair fell into his startling blue eyes; I would have liked to brush it back for him.

  “Is this too much for today, Roo?” he asked. “Should we stop for now and start up again tomorrow?”

  He held the letter board up for me, his pen ready to point to the letters.

  No, I spelled. I want to do it now.

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “I love your determination.”

  Nina gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up and left the room.

  Okay, I am ready, I said.

  “You’ll be expressing yourself with lightning speed; this computer will be an extension of your central nervous system,” he said in the English accent I could have listened to all day. But I had a job to do; deep down, I wanted to make him proud, I wanted to see the pride in his eyes as I had once seen it in my father’s. And I wanted to feel proud of myself, too.

  He was still speaking, his words and phrases flashed through my mind: electrocorticograph … don’t hold your breath, it’s important that you’re breathing in and out, that’s a girl … focused commands, Roo, not vague thoughts … cursor up, cursor down …

  Dr. Howarth was right beside me, but I went deeply into myself, the quietest part of my being, and I breathed steadily. I felt my lungs expand and contract, and I let all my thoughts and worries go. I looked at the cursor on the screen, poised beneath the row of letters and words. Here I was, breathing. In and out, and I knew: I can do this. And I can do it right now. Then I told that little arrow on the blue screen to go up.

  The cursor moved up.

  Dr. Howarth leaned forward but did not speak—now he was holding his breath.

  I told the cursor to move to the letter I, and then a space, and then the letter a, then m, a space, then h, easily to e, r, back to e.

  I meant to spell I am here, but it came out I sm neeerrr.

  “That’s it, Roo. That’s the way!”

  No, it’s not, I thought. That’s not what I’m trying to say.

  “Try again,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  Eooo.

  “Almost,” he said. “Give it another try.”

  Roo.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh, Roo! My wonderful Roo! Oh, let me lift you up and spin you around!”

  He hugged me, long and hard. I smelled his sandalwood-scented shampoo. I wished I could move my arms so I could hold him. In this hug was a strange, terrible anger at Newton. Dr. Howarth’s hair smelled different, his arms around me felt more muscular, he wasn’t wearing glasses, and he wasn’t looking at my sister, and he was proud of me.

  Tilly. Inexplicably, my next thought was Wait till Tilly finds out what I can do. We have so much to talk about.

  And then I just lay still, basking in the fact I had learned something new, something wonderful.

  * * *

  It took a few more sessions to get better with CBI. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, one step forward, two steps back. I developed a fever. They were worried my brain would start to swell, so I had to stop working and try to get some rest. The fever and anti-inflammation drugs made me sick, so I had a whole day of doing nothing but throwing up. I was too tired to even think about CBI.

  Dr. H worked with me all day. And when he went home, I practiced meditation to keep from going crazy. The fact that I couldn’t move gave me lots of time. And the more I focused on my breathing, the less tortured I felt about being paralyzed, about not knowing what the future would bring. It didn’t work all the time, but it helped.

  My mother visited, but I wasn’t ready to try using the computer until I got better at it. Some days, mindfulness went out the window, and my frustration was killing me. I kept making mistakes, and my heart rate would increase to the point of worrying everyone, including me. It was an awful feeling, having my pulse pound so hard I thought I’d explode. It helped when Nina sat with me, which she did nearly every shift when she could grab a few minutes.

  “Let’s talk some more,” Dr. Howarth said one day in May. “Are you game?”

  Yes.

  “Ah. Wonderful.”

  What we talk booottt? I asked.

  “Take your time,” he said. “Concentrate on each letter.”

  So I corrected myself: What should we talk aboot about?

  “So many possibilities,” he said.

  Possibilities, I spelled.

  “That is excellent, Roo.”

  Thank you.

  He beamed. “You’re welcome.”

  Although I’d been working for days, the breakthrough happened all at once. I got the hang of it, and suddenly the ease and fluidity of moving the cursor to express my thoughts filled me with surprise and happiness. He had said this would happen, and quickly, but I suppose I hadn’t really believed it.

  “Tell me what you love about photography,” he said.

  The camera tells the story that’s in my heart.

  “Really? In what way?”

  I photograph what is beautiful to me, and then I have a record of what I love.

  “Marvelous!”

  I had the feeling he meant not what I had said, but that I could say it, that I had found the ability, using his system, to express myself.

  I would like to photograph you, I said.

  “Would you, now?” he said, grinning. “I make a rather poor subject, don’t I, compared to your lovely pictures of the seacoast and the night sky? And your family?”

  You are important to me. I blushed, wondering if he would get the link about photography, my heart, love, and wanting to photograph him.

  “Thank you, Roo. And you are important to me, my darling girl. Oh, look! Here’s Dr. Hill!”

  Dr. Hill walked in, tall and elegant with his hooked nose and white mane, the elder statesman of neurology, but even he couldn’t hide his excitement.

  “What’s this I am hearing about Miss McCabe having a breakthroug
h?” he said in his stentorian voice. A woman wearing a lab coat trailed behind him. She looked about thirty and had curly reddish-brown hair that reminded me of Tilly’s.

  It’s all because of Dr. Howarth, I said.

  “No, it’s you, Roo,” Dr. Howarth said.

  “Spectacular,” Dr. Hill said.

  We were discussing photography, I said.

  But my two doctors and the third were deep in their own conversation; they moved out of my field of vision to examine the cap and electrodes I wore on my head. I felt someone prodding my scalp, and I heard them talking.

  “Intensity of pulses?” Dr. Hill asked.

  “… stimulated with biphasic TMS, occipital cortex site …”

  “You were right … binary information … I see you changed the electrode positions on the scalp sites …” the woman said.

  “Spatial filter, F4, T7, C3 …” Dr. Howarth said, and the list went on.

  I stared at the computer screen. I had so much to say—not just to Dr. Howarth, but to the world, and even to myself. I wondered if I could start a journal, keep it private. Reading poems had always eased my heart, but I was not a poet. When we were young, and my mother was in graduate school, getting her teaching certificate, she used Tilly and me as guinea pigs for her classes. For one of them, she decided to have us write haiku, and I had loved the simplicity.

  The hospital bed

  Is the river of blue

  And I am the boat.

  “What’s that you say?” Dr. Howarth asked, reading over my shoulder.

  A haiku.

  “How wonderful,” Dr. Hill said, then, “We are going to keep you busy, Roo. Measuring brain waves and cognition.”

  “I’m going to call your mother now,” Dr. Howarth said. “To report on this new level of progress. And I’m sure she will tell the rest of Team Roo. Oh, by the way, we have another team member for you to meet. Roo, this is Dr. Amy Gold.”

  Hello, I said to the doctor with the Tilly-colored hair.

  “Roo, it’s a pleasure and honor to meet you. I’ve been hearing so much about you from everyone here, and I’ve had some long talks with Dr. Danforth in New London. She thinks the world of you, and she sends her best regards.”

  My heart skittered, thinking of Dr. Danforth, of how much I relied on her those first weeks. I pictured the warm look in her eyes, the little teddy bear pin she always wore.

  Nice to meet you. And plaszze ell r sai hi.

  I took a deep breath, remembered to keep breathing, focused on the cursor, and redid it: Please tell her I say hi.

  “I will,” Dr. Gold said.

  “Roo, we have tired you out. It’s normal to confuse letters and miss a few, especially at this phase. It’s not a setback. Please don’t worry. We are going to let you rest now. You should feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment,” Dr. Howarth said. “I cannot tell you how proud I am. Just over the moon.”

  Im vrr th moon tooo.

  “Good,” he said. “That is what I want to hear. Rest now, and I’ll see you later.”

  Okay. Thank you.

  They left my room, and for the first time since I had first woken up in the hospital, I felt a sense of peace. Being heard and understood, knowing there was no limit to what I could say, made a difference. It made all the difference.

  Just before I fell asleep, I remembered that tonight was the full moon. And the kids at Black Hall High were having a dance to raise money for my care. I’d felt both embarrassed and frustrated when I first heard about it. I hated that I needed help, and that I couldn’t be there.

  But tonight I felt okay. Things were getting better. Just a little, but better.

  I let myself drift off, and I dreamed of my haiku, that small boat on a big sea. It was night, and the full moon traced a path on the sea. I was sailing, I could hear music from the dance and see harbor lights up ahead, but someone was missing.

  I was alone in my boat, but there should have been two of us.

  I couldn’t sleep all night. When I came down for Sunday breakfast, my mother was sitting at the table, drinking coffee. She wore one of my father’s old flannel shirts over her nightgown, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept either.

  “Would you like to explain how you ended up at Martha Muirhead’s house instead of the dance?” she asked.

  “I told you last night.”

  “You told me you ‘felt like taking a walk.’ That didn’t sound right.”

  I poured cereal and milk into a bowl, stirred it around, not eating it.

  “You went swimming in your new dress?” she asked.

  “I fell in, Mom. I feel horrible—I know it cost a lot, and I’ll pay you back for it.”

  “The price of the dress is not the point,” she said. “What happened last night? Were you drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Both Nona and Em have called here this morning. They were worried about you, too.”

  “There is nothing for anyone to worry about,” I said. “I have to go see Roo today.”

  “You can drive up with me.” It was Sunday, and my mother always spent the entire day with Roo. She’d bring books, and lunch, and papers to correct and stay until dinnertime. But I didn’t want her there today.

  “I want to go alone.”

  My mother peered at me as if I’d said I wanted to swim to the Arctic.

  “Just how are you going to do that? You’re fourteen, two years till you can drive. If ever.”

  “The train. You can drop me off at the station.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea after what happened last night. You haven’t been showing the best judgment lately. Besides, I want to see her, too.”

  “Mom …”

  “If you want to come, get dressed and we’ll leave soon. She’ll be happy to see us—Dr. Howarth called last night to say she’s getting really good on the computer. And he wants me to bring her camera.”

  Thirty minutes later, we were on our way. I stared out the window at landmarks that had become familiar. They reminded me of Newton, because most of my rides to see Roo had been with him: the view of Mystic Seaport, Mystic Aquarium, the WELCOME TO RHODE ISLAND sign, the big blue bug in Providence, the small pine forest just south of Boston. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see them, and wouldn’t think of last night.

  We parked on the street and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

  Every time I saw Roo, I felt the same rush of love and dread. But today she was propped upright, with her wired-up cap on, laptop open on the table across her bed. Mom and I kissed her. I went into super-devious calculation mode, because I knew I had to talk to her alone and didn’t see how it would be done.

  “How are you today, sweetheart?” Mom asked.

  Great, Mom!

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  Hi, Tilly.

  “Hi, Roo.”

  I can speak in complete sentences now and ask questions, she said.

  My mother laughed, glancing at me to make sure I was watching, feeling the wonder.

  “That’s cool,” I said.

  “Can you ask a question?” my mother said.

  Did you bring my camera, Mom?

  “Yes,” Mom said, laughing again, rummaging in her book bag. She placed Roo’s camera on the table beside the computer.

  “What are you doing with the camera?” I asked, even as I took note of the fact words were showing up on the screen as fast, apparently, as Roo could think them.

  Dr. Howarth’s going to show me how to take pictures with the computer.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  So is this. The words showed up on the screen, then she activated the unmute button, and the next words came out in a female computer-voice. There’s no end to what technology can do. I’m living in my own private science fiction movie.

  “Roo, that’s so great!” Mom said.

  Check this out. I’ve always wanted an English accent. And now she was speaking in one. Isn’t that jolly good?


  “Are you trying to sound like Dr. Howarth?” Mom asked.

  He hasn’t heard it yet. I’m just playing around with the computer. I can sound like a man, too. She clicked another option. Like this, she said in a deep male voice.

  I cringed because she sounded like a robot.

  “Oh, it’s so good to see you having fun!” Mom said.

  So much fun! Roo said, back to the non-British female voice.

  I caught Roo’s eye on that one. We could always read each other’s mind when it came to our parents. It was so like Mom to grab on to a tiny nugget of optimism and run with it.

  “Tilly, what do you think of your sister? Isn’t it incredible to see her using the CBI this way?”

  “It’s pretty great,” I said. “I really didn’t know how it would work, but it’s amazing.”

  You can use me as your science project.

  “Ouch,” I said. “That’s not funny. As if I ever would.”

  Sorry. I was teasing.

  “Get along, girls,” Mom said.

  Could you find Dr. Howarth? Roo asked. Now that I have my camera, we can start taking pictures. I want to take some of you two. Did you bring the cables to connect it?

  “I did,” Mom said, digging into her book bag, laying a neatly coiled cable on the table.

  The tripod?

  “Oh, dear,” Mom said. “I forgot that.”

  It’s okay. Please get him, Mom. Maybe he can find one; he has his ways. Just ask Christina, my nurse this morning. She’ll call him.

  “All right,” Mom said, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to run down and get a coffee, too. There isn’t enough coffee in the world for me today.”

  We watched her go; I heard her footsteps in the hall and checked to make sure she’d really gone.

  “We have to talk,” I said to Roo.

  No kidding.

  “Something weird happened last night.”

  Forget last night. This is the first time we’ve been able to talk, really, really, since the crash. There’s so much I want to say to you, Tilly. I want to be all, I love you, I miss you, but I am really mad at you.