Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  Clarissa

  The little girl loves to color. With her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, she traces pictures of the pretty women in magazines onto onionskin paper, colors them in with colored pencil, and then outlines their curves of flesh and fabric with a felt-tip pen.

  When the mother comes home from work, the little girl hides them. The mother will think she has too little to do. So she schedules her summer afternoons like this: wake up, find a lady in a magazine, sweep the kitchen and take something out of the freezer, trace and color, vacuum one bedroom, outline, vacuum another bedroom, watch a rerun of Bewitched on TBS, vacuum final bedroom, find a lady, scrub the bathtub.

  And so she lives her small life on the corner in the house with green siding. The neighbors can’t get over how helpful she is. She always smiles and waves when she’s sweeping the porch.

  What a wonderful child.

  One day Leonard the Granddaddy Man knocks on the front door. “Clarissa?” he hollers.

  She opens up. “Hi.”

  “Me an’ Dianne are going for a drive in the country. Maybe get some ice cream. Wanna come?”

  “I can’t. Mom’ll be home soon, and I haven’t made dinner yet.”

  “You’re cooking dinner? At your age?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well now, I …” He looks at his daughter’s house. “Well now.”

  Fairly

  How do I even make sense of today?

  Of course, I had to be the one to find her. I’d just wrapped the old white bathrobe with red poppies around me all set for a nice morning cup of Uncle G’s Assam tea with honey, and I noticed her feet poking out from behind her bedroom door, which was halfway open. Why in the world would Georgia be lying on the floor?

  Precisely. Of course, we all know why.

  Somehow, she’d managed to awaken from stupor number one and do it all over again in the middle of the night. And why do I expect her to be rational?

  Passed out, she was breathing so irregularly I’m certain I waited ten seconds in between each breath, not daring to breathe myself. And let me tell you, ten seconds becomes excruciating while waiting for someone to breathe. Made me lightheaded.

  That woman!

  Several empty bottles lay like struck bowling pins on the carpet.

  I guess I am a little angry right now. What a horrid day. And it isn’t so much that I feel put out, it’s that Georgia has everything life has to offer right at her fingertips and she refuses to reach out and grab it. It’s difficult to feel sympathy for somebody who has a gorgeous husband she rebuffs on a regular basis, more talent than the rest of us put together, and honestly, great hair and boobs. When I think of women like Edith Head or Madeleine Albright, my cousin infuriates me.

  The room stank, vomit spewed like cooked oatmeal on carpet, walls, and bed linens, and she’d opened a window sometime during her binge, the summer heat overtaking the air conditioning.

  How did I not hear her during the middle of the night? The desk chair lay on its side and a coat rack too.

  Still, I knelt down, trying to avoid the throw-up, but it was simply everywhere. For someone who skipped dinner…

  Oh, her hair was a clotted, sticky, matted mess, and I had to push it away from her face with my fingers, shoving down a wave of nausea—like we needed more regurgitation in the room. I’ve washed my hands at least five times today, and, like garlic or fish, the smell won’t go away completely. Her skin felt so cold.

  “Uncle Geoffrey! Quick!”

  He came running in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Look.”

  “Dear God.” Uncle G knelt right down in the puke. “Oh, Georgie.” He turned to me. “Did you just find her?”

  “Just a second ago.”

  He pinched her cheeks, called her name. “Call 911.”

  Just then a seizure overtook her, and I ran down the hallway to the kitchen, knocking my shin on the coffee table and my hip into the counter, and, boy, do I have quite the display of purple shiners there this evening.

  Uncle G remained calm. He had turned her on her side by the time I came back into the room, still attached to the phone line. Her body convulsed in a slow, purposeful rhythm, as if her brain had told her, “Enough is enough! I’m gone,” and left her body alone to do its own, jerky thing. All I could do was recite an old rhyme in my head in time with the jerking of her body. One, two, buckle my shoe. Horrifying, I know.

  I wanted to fly away to the spot where Georgia’s mind probably rested right then, lucky her, and didn’t it figure? She’s off to oblivion with the rest of us here running like lemmings about to go straight off the cliff.

  “Why did you turn her? Aren’t you supposed to keep people as they are?”

  “I don’t want her to swallow her tongue, Fair.”

  Three, four, shut the door.

  I sat at the edge of the bed and gripped my knees. “This is scary. Will she be all right?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s probably got alcohol poisoning.”

  I believed him. He’s seen enough stuff like this to know.

  “See if you can find any more empties.”

  Five, six, pick up sticks.

  I knelt down and flipped up the bedspread. I mean, that’s where I’d hide them. “Good heavens.”

  “How many?”

  “At least ten. But I’m sure they’re not all from last night.”

  He sighed. “So we just can’t tell, then.”

  The convulsions slowed down, then ceased.

  We stared at each other.

  Seven, eight, lay them straight.

  “I’m scared, Uncle Geoffrey.”

  “Me too.”

  We watched for the rise of her chest, hoping for a breath. It didn’t come. The next one didn’t either.

  “Georgia!” Uncle Geoffrey yelled out, leaning closer to her ear.

  Nine, ten, do it again.

  “Georgia Ella Bishop!”

  His hand gently traced her face.

  I grabbed her wrist, laid the tips of my fingers against the vein. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Uncle G laid his head against her chest, felt the portion of her neck covering the carotid artery. “I think her heart stopped beating. Do you know CPR?”

  I nodded. “You pump, I’ll breathe.”

  I tipped her head back, cradling the back of her neck in my hand. So cold she felt, so dry. I checked for blockage, then laid my mouth on hers. I didn’t taste the vomit then, and now, that thought astounds me. I only heard my pulse like a war drum in my head; I only felt my own breath burning in my lungs; I only saw pale, dead skin covering Georgia’s face.

  By the time the paramedics arrived she still wasn’t breathing. They removed paddles from a carrying case, turned on the machine, and laid the paddles on her chest. Clear! Pressed the buttons, and her chest jumped a mile, and her heart began to beat again. They started an IV, strapped her to the stretcher as fast as they could, spouting their jargon, and Uncle Geoffrey ran behind them.

  He pointed to the hook by the door as he followed the gurney. “There are the keys. Meet me at Saint Joe’s emergency room. I’m going in the ambulance.”

  “I’ll get her purse. Hopefully she has insurance.”

  And guess what she didn’t have?

  I got lost several times, went the wrong direction down a one-way street, ran a red light and almost hit a Budweiser truck, but finally managed to locate Saint Joseph’s, a bloodless complex every bit as depressing as every other hospital at which I’ve kept a vigil. First for Mom as she struggled to stay among us after the accident. Dad was killed on impact. Then, of course, Hort. A much longer vigil, and so much more sad to watch him waste away like that before he finally refused treatment. Why God decided to let death have its fun for a while on my husband, I’ve yet to figure out. Not at all decent of Him, I’d say.

  Can’t we all have heart attacks, massive strokes, or car accidents where we don’t know what hit us? Is that to
o much to ask?

  I filled out as much of the paperwork as I could and tried to be as good a liaison as possible, and good heavens, this is the most pathetic little family imaginable. Me, Georgie, and Uncle G. Pathetic. We are all Georgia has.

  And if that isn’t about the most depressing thought I’ve ever had, I don’t know what is.

  About an hour after I’d arrived, Uncle G slipped out to where I sat in the waiting room flipping through a sun-bleached copy of Redbook. He looked as if two decades had come and gone since he hurried out of the house to the ambulance.

  “She’s okay, right?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Georgia’s in a coma.”

  Lovely, cousin. A coma. What a positively Shakespearean diagnosis. Tragic. Flawless. Not enough blood, though, do you imagine?

  “Fairly?”

  Horrible reaction, yes.

  “Fairly?”

  What were you thinking? How? How? How?

  “Fairly!”

  I shook my head, felt a bit of hysteria inside, prayed it wouldn’t take the form of hyena-like laughter, tears being much more appropriate.

  “You need to go home and get cleaned up, Fair. And bring me some clean pants, would you mind?”

  I looked down. Dried vomit circled the knees of my pajama pants.

  So that was my day.

  I’m lying here on my bed. The house smells clean. That cab-driver-actress-voice-over-talent lady with the spiky blond hair named Alex came over and cleaned up the puke.

  A casserole sits in the freezer. Not from Peg, obviously, because it’s got barley and tofu and spinach in it. Ghastly. But … it really is the thought that counts at times like this, right?

  Jonah brought over a container of groundnut stew, obviously made with love because it was one of the most delectable dishes I’d ever eaten, and I gobbled down at least half of it while watching Wheel of Fortune, and before I go to bed, I’ll probably heat up yet more. Tomorrow morning, prior to the hospital run, I’m going over to Della-Faye’s for some sausage gravy and homemade biscuits.

  I’ve never been a stress eater before—but what is there right now?

  And now we’ve got to worry about Miles the cat. He’s under the bed, I think.

  Oh no! Nobody called Sean.

  PART III

  Pink

  Georgia

  It’s pink in here—a pale blush of a pink that fades into a fuzzy blue around the edges. I can remember lying on the floor of the bedroom around 3:00 a.m. and feeling the room spin.

  I hate the spins.

  I don’t know how much I drank. I’d been so optimistic, and then the fear struck: Sean and me for the rest of my life, rehab again, accountability to a real live face. The next thing I knew, Fairly was cussing up a storm over my body. My goodness, talk about a potty mouth. And she always sounds so “cosmopolitan, dahling,” but whoa, when life gets tough, apparently so does my cousin’s vernacular! I could only hear her, and even then I knew my regular ears weren’t picking up the profanity, but some other sort of consciousness was listening in. I had no idea she resented me so much, and I can’t figure out why. Thank goodness she didn’t kick my body like some burlap bag of grain. I really thought that was next on the agenda.

  I entered some sort of pink zone once my body started jerking and popping. I like it better here in this cotton-candy world. It’s actually quite nice, very watery too, as if I’m floating on something I cannot see. I feel as though I’m looking through binoculars, looking at the pink haze, which reminds me of the angel hair our next-door neighbor used to swirl around the lights on her Christmas tree. But that was before Mom died and we moved to the condo, closer to the Ten O’Clock.

  Uncle G is talking to the doctors right now, and they’re telling him it doesn’t look good, that they’ll have to do an MRI to see what’s happening in my brain. There may be severe damage because I wasn’t breathing for so long. Severe brain damage?

  Does that mean I get to stay here in the pink?

  I couldn’t be more miserable than I was before, right? It’s very sweet here. And very real. I didn’t know comas were like this. Are they all? If not, they should be. I’ll have to mention that to God. Maybe He actually listens to people in this state.

  Footsteps retreat. And a hand grasps mine. UG is still with me, I guess. “Georgia? Can you hear me?”

  I can.

  “Oh, girl. Can you squeeze my hand?”

  But my hand is a million miles away. His touch, normally so mortal and real, feels spidery and light.

  A million miles away is a very long distance. Perhaps it’s another dimension entirely.

  Fairly

  Solo picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Solo, it’s Fairly.”

  “Hello, Fairly Godfrey. You sound very upset.”

  Solo knew me that well. Something sweet flowed into my heart. I told him everything, and he offered no advice … for there was none to give. But he gave me plenty of “oh my’s” and “poor lady’s” to soothe me.

  I just needed to hear my friend’s voice. That was all.

  And then—the Sean call.

  Now or never, as people say.

  I rubbed my hand over the tweed cover of Uncle G’s address book. No PDA for this man, no sir. And sure enough, Mr. Organization himself had already recorded Sean’s Sister Pearl number.

  Why me? Couldn’t I simply tuck myself in between the sheets, sip a cup of tea, and read a book, then get extremely sleepy so that the book kept slipping backward and I kept going to the same paragraph over and over? And then, I wanted to close my book, click off the light, roll into my pillow, and close my eyes until tomorrow morning.

  Instead, I sat down on the brown couch, pushed aside obscure magazines on the coffee stump like the Christian Century and Sojourners—where is a copy of House Beautiful when you need one?—and set my heels on the shiny surface.

  I gave myself two minutes to breathe in and out like I was about to do aerobics or something. Okay, so then I called. I bore the news. And when silence stretched on the line, I said, “Did you hear me, Sean?”

  And I only heard one sob and a gulped “Thanks for calling.”

  When I finally went to bed, Uncle G had yet to return. I pictured him, slump-shouldered in the aqua blue vinyl hospital-room lounge chair, wondering how he got to be the one in charge of Georgia. No trip to the coal mines for him, I guess.

  Georgia

  Grandmom?

  A dark, familiar shape forms in the pink, focuses more sharply as it advances forward. Yes, it is.

  Grandmom, is that really you?

  Hello, there! How are you feeling?

  I can’t feel a thing, Grandmom.

  Good. It’s nice in here, isn’t it?

  Where am I?

  I have no idea. My place was green. I love green, though.

  I didn’t realize pink was my favorite color until I landed here. I like your dress.

  Thanks. It was your father’s favorite when he was growing up.

  Will he be coming?

  She shrugs. I don’t know. I’m surprised I’m here.

  She sits down on one of her old kitchen chairs, chrome and turquoise blue vinyl. I came to tell you a story.

  I loved Grandmom’s stories. Which one? The one about the three kittens and the witch? I’m sitting in a chair now too. This place gets niftier by the second and—did I really just use the word nifty?

  Oh no, dear, you haven’t heard this one yet. By the way, I think you’re wanted outside. Do you hear what I hear? Somebody’s crying. I don’t quite recognize the voice. Sounds familiar. Listen closely. Tears like that ought not to be taken for granted.

  So I concentrate.

  “Oh, Georgia. Oh, Georgia.”

  Sean.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. What did you do?”

  I’d like to ask the same thing before we get started on the story. Grandmom.
>
  I honestly didn’t plan on drinking that much, Grandmom. I just kept going and going with it. Normally I’m more in control, but I saw Sean for the first time in years. That’s who’s out there crying, by the way. I really thought it would be my last hurrah with the bottle.

  I see. That was a stupid thing to do, Georgie.

  I know.

  You’ve been doing a lot of stupid things for a long time, though, haven’t you?

  Yes. I’ve tried—

  No, you haven’t. Not really. Don’t lie in here, Georgia. You can lie outside, but you can’t get away with it here.

  Oh.

  Grandmom settles back in her chair. A footstool appears, the one she used to have in her living room. I’ll tell you what trying is. Trying is walking ten miles a day for water and a cup of grain to feed your children. Trying is going down on hands and knees and scrubbing the dirty floors of a hospital to make ends meet. Trying is setting aside the bottle even though it’s difficult. Subjecting yourself to a goofy AA meeting if that’s what it takes. My grandfather was an alcoholic, Georgie, did you know that?

  No.

  One day, he walked away from it. She held up her hand, one I remembered well from childhood. Now I’m not saying it’s that easy for everybody, but it’s amazing how powerful the mind can be.

  Grandmom, am I going to make it out of here alive?

  Chuckles sound extra warm in here. How should I know?

  Sean sobs and sobs.

  Can we wait until he leaves for you to begin the story?

  Of course, take all the time you need.

  Sean feels very different from inside here. Transparent, in a way. Feelings transport themselves over to me as if the words that explain them are plastered across his forehead. Sadness, of course, because Sean always took in the woes of the world, stamped them on his heart, and tried to cast them back out. But they would never leave.

  Grief.

  Oh, wow. Grief. Sean knows, doesn’t he? Sean knows that I’m never going to come out of this thing. Of course, he could be wrong. Sean thought I would go back with him, and he was mistaken then, so why should this be any different, right? But this grief feels so full, bloated like a corpse. I don’t know how he can deal with emotions like this. Has it always been this way for him? I’m glad I can’t see him.