Blood Sisters

by Jo Barney

  Hank hears Eleanor come into the house from somewhere. He sees that her arms are full of grocery bags. “We have enough in the account to pay for all that?”

  Eleanor unpacks the bags. “We will be okay for a while. Then you’ll be getting unemployment and a job soon, so not to worry.” She goes to the window where he is standing. “I see you have discovered the results of our hard work this past week. It’s going to look good as soon as the new leaves come out, isn’t it?” She hesitates, adds, “Patsy’s father said that it is impossible to kill a laurel hedge.”

  Hank’s hand reaches out and slices across Eleanor’s cheek. She gasps, holds her palm against the hot sting.

  Hank turns his back to her. She doesn’t get it, what he’s going through, why a hacked-up hedge is as painful as a lost job. She can’t understand how much he has lost. How nothing is left of himself. Even his place in this house. “Forget it,” he says. “I need a good night’s sleep.”

  He carries his glass into the bedroom. He shouldn’t have hit her, but if she understood, like a wife should, she wouldn’t have cut the hedge. And other things. Like not even trying to listen to him about the place for Jimmy. Things would be a lot better if Jimmy were somewhere else. Or if he himself were somewhere else. With that thought, he sinks into a dreamless unconsciousness.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry about last night.” Hank has awakened knowing he needs to apologize. “I was drunk and felt really low. I’m not this morning, and we need to talk. That is, if you are ready.”

  “You’re right. We need to talk. But not right now. I’d rather talk after I’ve done some research so that I know what I’m talking about. How about late this afternoon, after you come home from work?”

  Eleanor seems surprised that he has started this conversation with an apology. Does she imagine he wanted to hit her? Has she never been so overwhelmed with life that she feels out of control? Probably not. She doesn’t know what it is like to be hopeless, empty.

  Hank will do a little research too. And will ask Wes, at work, more about that place and maybe about the VA. Can they help him find a job, too? He grabs his lunch and leaves, hoping that maybe this might be a good day.

  Wes isn’t at his machine at the plant. Disappointed, when the supervisor comes around, Hank asks where his friend is. “Wes quit yesterday, asked for his severance. Said he was moving. He mentioned that since his wife has left him, he has no reason to stick around any longer.”

  Hank can’t concentrate on the metal slabs moving through the rollers. Wes seemed so positive, hadn’t even hinted that his “wife problem” was that she’d left him. He claimed he was okay with his stepdaughter’s placement, said he was going to counseling at the VA. A lot of good it did him.

  Or maybe it did. Maybe Wes got the courage there to move into a different life. That took guts. During his break, Hank looks into a telephone book and finds the number of the VA hospital in town. Couldn’t hurt to find out more about them. He dials and is told to come with his papers to the administration office of the hospital, and then he can talk to the counselor on duty if he didn’t mind waiting a bit. “The hospital is very busy, lots of veterans asking for assistance,” the voice explained. “Come in early in the morning; you’ll have a better chance of getting an appointment without as long of a wait.”

  He can hear the woman flipping through papers, onto another task. “Good luck,” she says.

  He’s glad that Eleanor’s cheek isn’t red anymore, and she seems pleased that he called the VA. She even smiles as she clears the table, and after Jimmy leaves to watch TV, Hank decides to try again, about that place Wes mentioned. She probably doesn’t know anything about it, how it could make things easier all around.

  He pats the chair next to him at the dinette table. “Time to talk?” It feels strange but good that she has poured glasses of vodka and sits waiting for what he might say. Hopeful.

  He gasps a breath, begins. “Wes, a guy I work next to, told me about a state program that his stepdaughter is in. It’s like a boarding school, he said, for people who have disabilities and need supervision. His daughter has made friends there, and she’s liking it a lot.”

  “And you told this Wes about Jimmy?”

  “Sure. And he said the program sounded just right for him. Wilcox House, he said, only thirty miles away at the capital. They go visit their daughter all the time. Sometimes she comes home for a day or two. He says he and his wife don’t worry about her anymore. They can go on vacations, have people in, live a normal life now.” Hank’s lying a little, he knows.

  “And what is her disability?”

  “Not sure. Something about her having seizures a lot. The medications weren’t working well, and she injured herself so bad she had to go to the hospital for a few weeks. That’s when they heard about Wilcox.”

  “So it’s a place for severely handicapped people who can’t manage for themselves.”

  “I suppose so. People with problems with their brains, like his daughter, and with learning problems, like Jimmy.” Eleanor’s eyes narrow as he adds, “Not mental problems, not like he’s crazy, just problems about not being able to understand stuff. Like how to talk.” He doesn’t look at her as he raises his glass. “I think the stress around here might be adding to my bad nights.”

  “I can’t believe what you are suggesting. Jimmy is improving his speech. You’d know that if you ever listened to him. His therapist is very pleased with his progress.”

  “Hell, Eleanor, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s through changing. He has to find a way to live without you taking him by the hand every time he moves.”

  “I already knew about Wilcox. The place has been in the papers the last few months, but apparently not on the sports pages. Hank, what you’re describing is the state’s answer to dealing with children who are mentally and physically different: an institution. The whole building is filled with people who have been placed there by parents and others who don’t want to deal with them any longer. I’ve read terrible stories about the place.”

  Hank exhales, places his hands on the table. No more hitting, he tells himself. “I knew you would say something like that. You have a problem, you know. You cannot let go of your son. You get something out of having to worry about him, some sort of satisfaction from having him cling to you, depend on you. It’s sick, Eleanor. You are sick.”

  “All I know is that the newspaper reported that they are finding hundreds of containers of ashes on shelves in that building’s basement, the remains of people who have died there, forgotten in death just as they were forgotten in life. I’m not sick. I’m a mother. I can’t do that to my son, put him away. Forget him.”

  “Fuck, Eleanor, no one is asking you to forget him, only to let him loose. That’s the way Wes described it—a letting go in order to find a new life for both his daughter and for her parents.”

  “I’d sooner let go of you, Hank, than let go of my son.” She stumbles as she gets up, grabbing at a chair back, and as she makes her way to the bedroom, she whispers, “It won’t solve a thing sending him away.”

  17

  The next morning, by the time Patsy calls on the phone and asks whether I’m ready to finish the hedge with her, I’ve regrouped, but the hedge is the only thing I can imagine finishing. “Yes, yes. One more cup of coffee and I’ll be out.”

  Patsy has planted Izzy in the playpen along with a pile of stuffed animals and something that plays the same tune over and over again.

  “‘This is the way the wheels go ’round.’” Patsy grins as her daughter pushes a yellow plastic school bus back and forth between two teddy bears. “Once you hear it, it will be engraved forever in your brain. Try not to listen.”

  We start clipping and raking, changing jobs when arms or backs get tired, and with the top finished, we work fast. After a couple of breaks to give snacks and a clean diaper to an amazingly happy little girl, we break for a Coke and relax in the dappled shade of the almost-finished hedge. The wheels
have stopped going ’round, and Izzy is napping next to a purple cat and a pink dog, soft silent companions.

  “You look a little under the weather, Eleanor. Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer for a beat or two, trying to decide whether I should mention my hangover and Hank’s proposal. “I have something on my mind.” Before she can ask, I’ve already decided I will tell her. She is a social worker. She will know about Wilcox House. “Hank wants Jimmy to live at Wilcox House.”

  “Why?”

  “He claims that stress about Jimmy is part of his problem with the nightmares. And he says that I am suffocating our son; I don’t let him be independent. That he’ll never grow up.”

  “What does he know about Wilcox House? It’s a good place for some people; it’s safe, and I believe the clients are well cared for—better than most state institutions, I’ve heard. But I’m not sure Jimmy belongs there.”

  “Will you send Izzy there when she is older?”

  “I’ve learned a lot about Down’s syndrome, and I’ve learned that Izzy has the possibility of growing up in a gentle, joyful way, a loved member of our family. I can’t imagine placing her anywhere except in our home. Just as I couldn’t imagine aborting her when we got the results of the ultrasound. No, we won’t put her in an institution.”

  “Jimmy has grown into a young man, but he is an uncomfortable burden to Hank, certainly an additional responsibility to me, and, I’m afraid, a danger to our marriage.”

  “And your marriage would be okay if Jimmy were elsewhere?”

  I really wish Patsy hadn’t asked that question. With or without Jimmy’s presence, my marriage is about to implode. Because of Jimmy? No. I must face the truth. Because of me, his mother. It is a choice between Jimmy and Hank, but not the way I had described it in my threat to Hank. I will lose both if I don’t pay off Lloyd, my son because he won’t understand and Hank because he will. And if I agree to Lloyd’s plan, my marriage will end because I will not be able to live with the man who wants to send my son away.

  I pick up the rake, begin frantically gathering the fragments of our project. “I don’t know.”

  Patsy stuffs the twigs into a plastic bag, doesn’t say anything except to ask whether the bags full of leaves and cuttings should go into our garbage or hers.

  “Whatever you want. We’re done.”

  Done not only raking, but also done talking. I do not want to confess anything else to my neighbor. She’ll only give me the advice a social worker would give: noncommittal, ultimately unhelpful. I’ve gone too far this time, and I need to work out what’s next by myself. Years ago, after Lloyd, I tried talking to a counselor. He spent much of our time together adjusting his penis as if my story turned him on. I have never asked since for advice from anyone, except from Jimmy’s benign, non-intrusive therapist. Besides, if our income ends in a week, we won’t be able to pay either the therapist or Lloyd after a few months.

  “We should celebrate our finishing the hedge,” Patsy calls as she leans over Izzy and lifts her child in her arms. I struggle through the hole in the hedge. “Sure. Soon,” I call back and head for my kitchen and whatever waits for me there.

  * * *

  Jimmy is late coming home. Hank is silent, reading the newspaper in the living room or sleeping. I can’t tell from the angle of his head, but I do see that an empty glass is on a side table. I pour a small drink for myself, put the pot of water on, begin cooking mac and cheese, a dish we all can agree on. Then I look out the window to the backyard, see the neat (or at least neater) hedge, and wonder what good our efforts have done. Except for in my son, who has discovered he likes being needed at the top of the ladder, I personally don’t see any positive result. All I’ve managed to do is alienate an almost-friend, to cause extra charges on our garbage bill, and to anger my husband.

  “Mom! We are finished! Bags full, by cans.” Jimmy bursts through the back door. “Saw Patsy and helped her with the last ones.”

  “Yep, thanks to you, young man. You can be proud of your work.”

  Jimmy finds a yogurt in the refrigerator and opens it. “I did something else today. Something fun.” He digs into the cup, hungry and maybe excited about something.

  “Is that why you were late?”

  He licks his spoon, remembers to put it in the dishwasher. “Janey took me. To where she lives.”

  This is the first time he hasn’t come straight home. “Did you meet her parents?”

  “No, she lives with three other people.” He hesitates. “It was nice. Janey says they are her family. They cook together, watch TV at night, go places. She likes it.”

  “Janey is your friend at Goodwill, right? Do the others work at the workshop?”

  “No, they have other jobs. I only know Janey, no one else was home, but Janey says they get along good. They have a thing to wash their clothes in and a vacuum cleaner. All sorts of stuff.”

  He is apparently talking about one of the group homes run by the county for disabled people who can live somewhat on their own. Janey is in a wheelchair at work, but she must be able to function in that kind of setting.

  “Janey’s stove is lower than ours. She can cook okay, even without help.”

  “I’m glad she has found a place to live. A low stove would be handy. And a ramp?”

  “Yes.” Jimmy smiles. “She invited me to dinner sometime. Can I go?”

  Dread stifles my answer. He’s never talked about this sort of thing before. What sort of thing? I ask myself. Sex? Is he asking about sex?

  Before I can think of what to say, he adds, “She is my good friend at work. I like her.”

  Yes, sex. At least a hint of it. “We’ll see, Jimmy. It’s time to clean up for dinner.”

  My son isn’t finished surprising me. “Mom, I want you to call me Jim, not Jimmy. Jimmy is for little kids. William at work said I should ask you.”

  “If William said so, I’m okay with Jim. It will be a while before I get used to your new name, though. Remind me when I forget.”

  Jimmy is about to leave, Jim is arriving; his world is a little bigger, maybe even exciting. However, if Hank has his way, our son’s new world will be miles away from us, outer space, a sci-fi environment. Even if he stays here, it seems clear he’ll be leaving, one way or another.

  I pour another small glass of vodka. To drown my sorrows? To celebrate? To clink glasses and say “Cheers” with all those other mothers who also must let loose their sons? I’m not sure I’m up to it.

  18

  Izzy is a good baby. Her smile is infectious, her new teeth like pearls when she opens her mouth. Patsy knows that this child will be part of her life for a long time. She is glad.

  Ray is not glad. Ray is not glad about anything. Right now he is comatose in bed after his usual intake of bourbon and Coke. Tonight, as he stumbled toward the bed, he asked that Izzy be asleep when he comes home. He doesn’t like looking at her. Patsy does not know whether this was Ray talking or the bourbon.

  Whatever it is, she understands that she cannot wait for Ray to hit rock bottom, decide he will get his alcoholism under control, put his life in order. It is time for her to let him know that she will not put up with the way he is moving away from both her and his daughter, his disinterest in each of them, the bottles in the garbage can next to the black bags of leaves and twigs, her own sense of having lost her own life, ever since his return from Vietnam.

  At first, she believed it was a temporary phase, that he needed time after two years of intense involvement in a terrible war to adjust and become himself again. His adjustment involved alcohol, and as his use increased, she began to realize that he would not seek help for his addiction.

  Before he fell into bed, he told her that his boss, Jack Rollins, had called him into his office to warn him that his performance as research director at the city housing office was not up to par, that he had missed too many deadlines on important RFPs. “What’s going on?” Jack had asked.

  When Ray told her of th
is encounter, he had no explanation, blamed the heavy schedule he had been given. “No one could do it,” he complained. “Not even that asshole Jack Rollins.”

  Patsy has never heard Ray call anyone an asshole, or anything close to it, until now. Nor had he ever been reprimanded for a job not done well, even in the service. His medals prove his dependability. Ray is in trouble, maybe closer to rock bottom than she thought. She actually hopes so. She may know what to do if he is. She tries to fall asleep on the couch, but she can hear Ray’s heavy snores from the bedroom. Izzy can too, wakes up, and Patsy brings her daughter to the living room so they can comfort each other.

  * * *

  He does not go to work the next morning. He begins on the Coke and bourbon before noon. He responds to her suggestion that he get up and maybe go for a walk, get some fresh air—she’d go with him, with Izzy in her stroller—by wrapping his fingers around her arm, squeezing, forcing her down on the bed, and raising his fist. He is unconscious a few minutes later.

  Patsy calls her mother.

  Sarah touches the finger marks on Patsy’s arm and asks, “What do you want to do?”

  “I want him to get well, become himself again.”

  “Should I report this as spousal abuse?”

  “No. Don’t, Mom. There are other ways to get him into treatment.”

  “I want you to be safe, you and your little girl.”

  “Are you up to helping me with an intervention? I’ve seen them work sometimes. I’ll contact a rehab center, ask for help.”

  Two days later, Patsy calls Eleanor even though her neighbor has distanced herself since they finished the hedge. “Eleanor, I know that you and I haven’t talked for a couple of weeks, but I really need your help. I need you to babysit Izzy for a few hours tomorrow evening.”

  “What about your mother? She’s your usual sitter, isn’t she?”