Blueberry Hill
Page 10
I move across the room and kneel beside her chair. I search for the right words but find none.
“My lungs have gotten progressively worse. Every test—”
Although I know this is a time when I should do nothing more than listen, I blurt out, “That’s because you’re smoking.”
“No, it isn’t,” she answers patiently. “It’s been this way for the past two years. Each scan shows more deterioration than the time before.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Yes, it does.” She nods. “I’m going to die soon, and there are things I need to say and do before it happens.”
I have no more words, so I sit and let tears fall while I listen.
Donna tells me she wants time to say goodbye to her family and let Mama know how much she’s appreciated. “Mama’s like a little kid who needs to be praised.”
Despite the weight of this conversation I snicker, because what she says is true. When we play cards or board games we all let Mama win. Not all the time but often enough that she feels happy with herself.
“I understand why you’d want the tracheostomy closed,” I say, “but why smoking and drinking?”
She laughs. It’s a hollow sound, but in a strange way it is Donna. “Because I enjoy it.”
I start to sob. “Maybe if—”
Donna wraps her bony arm around my shoulder. “Don’t cry. We’re running out of time, so let’s not spend it being sad.”
For a long while we sit without speaking. She is resigned to what lies ahead; I am still struggling with it.
Although the original plan was for me to return home the next morning, I stay with Donna and we cling to these moments that are still ours. We reminisce about the things we have done together and express sadness over things we will never get to do. I try not to cry, but at times it’s impossible.
“Promise me,” she says, “that you’ll watch over the kids.”
“Promise,” I answer. The word is like shredded glass coming from my throat, thick with the reality of what is to come. Although I have walked beside her through these years of struggle, it is still unbelievable that I will one day turn and Donna will no longer be there.
For the first time in all our years, we talk of life and death.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Donna says, “but I’m afraid of leaving a hole where I once was.”
“A hole?”
She nods. “An empty spot in everybody’s life.” She wheezes for air then continues. “Debi and Charlie won’t have a mom to turn to. Mama won’t have somebody to watch after her. And you—” Donna’s voice cracks, and she goes back to breathing through the oxygen mask.
By the third day we are both weary of the sadness, so Donna suggests we get out of the house and have some fun. She spreads liquid makeup across her face and adds a pink glow to her cheeks. With a bulky winter coat covering her body, she looks less frail.
“Better,” I say and smile as though I mean it.
At the mall I rent a wheelchair, and we stroll the aisle browsing the window displays. Afterwards we go to lunch. At five-thirty we leave the mall and head for home.
It has been a long and tiring day, but Donna wants to say hello to her old friends.
“Let’s stop at the Crab House,” she says.
“Okay.” I smile.
As we climb the three steps, she leans on my arm. Inside the bar is still dimly lit and the music loud, but everything else has changed. A pool table now sits in the center of what used to be the dance floor, and a female bartender in a black silk vest and red bow tie has replaced Harry. Most of the stools are empty, and to those who are at the bar Donna is a stranger.
“What’s your pleasure?” the bartender asks.
Donna waves the girl off. “I was just looking for a friend,” she says. Then she turns back to the door, and we leave.
As we drive away, I can see how the disappointment stoops her shoulders.
On Friday I drive home with the hard truth of reality pressing against my chest. I want to be strong like Donna but I’m not, and so I cry all the way up the New Jersey turnpike.
A Sad Goodbye
For what will be the last time Mama and I take Donna to Johns Hopkins Hospital. We go directly to the emergency entrance, and she is admitted within the hour. We stay with her and follow along as they wheel her upstairs to a private room. Donna is pale, and her eyes have faded from hazel to the color of cold dishwater.
The nurses seem to know what is ahead, and long after the last visitor chime has sounded they pass us and say nothing about leaving. We have already called Geri and Donna’s children. Tomorrow they will all be here. It is after ten when we start to leave. I lean over the bed to kiss my sister goodnight and I whisper, “Hang on, Donna.”
She flickers her eyelids and gives a weak smile.
It is close to midnight when Geri arrives at Mama’s house. Debi and Charlie come in fifteen minutes later. This time there are no spouses; it is just the five of us. Floyd has already gone to bed, and the others will come tomorrow. We talk and stay together long into the night.
When the sun has barely creased the horizon we climb from our beds and start for the hospital, the five of us in one car. It is too early for visitors, and we know that, but we need to be there. We walk quietly through the lobby and ride the elevator to the third floor. No one stops us when we go into Donna’s room.
She is sleeping, so we stand by the wall and wait.
When Donna opens her eyes a short while later, she sees Debi and stretches out her hand. Debi moves to the bed and takes the frail hand in hers.
We remain here throughout the day. Although only two visitors at a time are allowed, no one mentions that we are five and they allow us to stay and spend precious moments together. At eight o’clock that evening Janice, the nurse who has been with Donna for most of the day, comes in and urges us to leave.
“Patients need to get their rest,” she says.
We leave and return to the house. Mama suggests, “I can order a pizza. Or a bucket of chicken.”
“No, thanks,” we say.
No one is hungry. No one is sleepy. We simply wait.
In the wee hours of the morning the telephone rings. We know before Mama answers what the caller will say, and we start to cry.
~ ~ ~
Three days later Donna was laid to rest. I could tell you of the funeral, of the people who came, of the countless tears that were shed and the way Mama shrunk to a size that could slide through a keyhole, but the truth is if you’ve ever lost someone you love you know of all these things.
For weeks people came bearing gifts of food and flowers. They promised prayers and lit candles. They showered us with condolences and whispers of how she is now at peace. At the time it was hard to believe such a thing, but I have since come to see the truth in it.
Donna was too full of life to linger on death’s doorstep. She wanted it to be over. She wanted to move on, and she wanted us to move on. I am certain that somewhere in this vast universe there’s a party going on, and she’s now part of it.
There were a number of things Donna was wrong about. She was wrong to think smoking was harmless. She was wrong to choose Charlie as a husband. She was wrong to think she could run away from home, and no one would care.
But she was right when she said she’d leave a hole. She did. A hole so large that I could live for a thousand years and still not be able to replace her.
Gone but not Forgotten
Two seasons passed before I could find heart enough to smile. From the window of my office I watched the snow disappear and buds spring to life on bare branches. The lilacs that stretch across our yard blossomed as fragrant and sweet as bubble bath, but I kept the windows shuttered. The smell of flowers was little more than a reminder of the time I tried to forget.
I held to the heartache of that bitter winter for many months. Long after the sun turned hot and the lawn grew thick, I felt cold and wore wooly slipper socks on my fee
t. I thought about Donna every day, but the good memories didn’t come to mind. Instead I saw the picture of her gasping for breath and heard the sound of her pen tapping the telephone.
In August the dreams began.
At first I would wake with a start and although I could recall seeing my sister, I remembered nothing else. Little by little, the visitations became more detailed and in the morning I would linger on the edge of sleep trying to hold on to the dream for safekeeping in my memory.
In the beginning the dreams were like an eight-millimeter film with no sound: choppy little segments of our life spliced together. Mama was young, her hair dark and without strands of gray. Donna and I were kids. In some dreams we were eight and ten, and in others we were teenagers. We were always young and carefree. After a while the dreams broadened and became spirited conversations.
In the waning days of summer a single dream came back time after time. It was a replay of the day Donna tried to teach me to ride a bike.
~ ~ ~
“You’re never gonna get this if you’re afraid of falling,” she says.
“I’m not afraid,” I answer, but even in the dream I can feel beads of sweat rising on my forehead.
Donna flashes a devilish smile. “Don’t gimme that crap.”
When I try to protest I inevitably snap to, and that’s the end of the discussion. I am awake and Donna is gone.
~ ~ ~
For two weeks I kept remembering that day, and now I regret not trying harder. Donna was right, I was afraid of falling. She wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was petrified of falling.
The truth stares me in the face. I am a coward. And as long as I remain a coward, I will never live life to the fullest.
They say that providence plays a part in everyone’s life, and I believe it. Two days after I have come to see myself as I am, I find myself standing in front of Mac’s Bicycle Shop. In the window is a bright red retro model, a replica of the one Donna rode. For a few minutes I stand there looking at it. Then I make a decision. Five minutes later I am loading that big bicycle into the trunk of my car.
I would like to say I am not the least bit afraid when I climb on the bike, but it would be a lie. Before my foot touches the pedal I am already picturing what it will be like to walk with a cast on my leg.
Like Donna, Dick claims riding a bike is easy.
“I’ll get you started,” he says.
He holds the bike steady, and I climb on. I push down on the pedals, and the bike starts moving. He’s holding the back end of the bike and running alongside. I start pedaling faster and feel the wind rush by.
“Oh, wow,” I say. Then I realize he’s no longer behind me.
“Hey,” I yell, “what am I supposed to do now?”
From a half-block behind me Dick hollers, “Keep pedaling!”
I do.
~ ~ ~
Once I learned to keep myself upright I tackled the more difficult maneuvers, like rounding corners, slowing to a stop, and waving to a neighbor. Day by day I grew bolder. In time I had a basket mounted across the handlebars, plunked Brandi in it, and circled the block three times. Pretty soon we were zipping around the entire neighborhood, houses disappearing behind us one by one, Brandi’s ears flapping in the breeze, the warm sun on my back.
We were Dorothy and Toto pedaling across Kansas—no cyclone, no wicked witch, no need for ruby slippers. I had something far more magical. I had my sister’s ability to rise above fear.
I still find myself thinking about Donna at least once a day, but the hole in my heart is starting to heal. I realize my sister is not really gone. She never will be. There is a wisecracking, ever-laughing memory that lives on, not just in my heart, but inside of everyone who knew and loved her. It is this memory that gives us the courage to move forward. Not forget; just move forward.
A short while back we had a reunion in Atlantic City, just the four of us—Mama, Geri, Debi, and me. We tried to weave a patch across the hole in our midst. It was early September; the sun felt warm and the smell of the ocean thick in the air. We bought bags of salt-water taffy and walked along the boardwalk reminding each other about Donna as she really was and retelling the stories of her life. It was a time for remembering but not for sadness. We did as Donna would have wanted; we celebrated her life instead of mourning her death.
Geri brought a roll of quarters for each of us to play the slot machines. Mama was an all-or-nothing woman. Her quarters were gone in the time it took to pull that lever forty times. Me, I still had most of my quarters at the end of the three days. I’m not much of a gambler; I like safe, sure things. I pick stocks like General Electric or IBM, I never cross before the light turns green, and I bring my umbrella if there’s more than a ten percent chance of showers.
This is the way it has always been, me the cautious, practical sister, Donna the carefree daredevil. Plenty of times I resented that and tried to pretend I was above it all. I looked down my nose at the outrageous things she did, but the truth is I was jealous. I always thought life was kind of unfair; it seemed like she got the best of everything. Now I realize, she didn’t get the best of everything, she just made the best of everything she got.
To most of us, “Blueberry Hill” is nothing more than a song, but to Donna it was a place. A place where dreams come true, a place where you can catch a firefly, find a four-leaf clover, get over a broken romance, and forget your troubles. I may never find my Blueberry Hill, but Donna gave me enough courage to search for it.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
This story is a work of fiction, and it’s not. It is a memoir of sorts. It is the story of the last few years I shared with my sister, Donna. Most of it is true to the best of my recollection, but time clouds memories—especially memories of the things we choose to forget.
During these years there were many other people in Donna’s life: our sister, Geri, Donna’s son Charlie, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and the husband she married twice. These people all played huge roles in Donna’s life, but they are simply passersby in this story. This is my story. A story of sisters and the bond we shared.
Donna was an enigma. At times she lived life with wild abandon, but once her first child came she was ready to settle down. She loved Charlie, loved him so much she married him twice. She also divorced him twice. She had no choice. For that reason I think I also partly blame Charlie for the pathway Donna chose.
More than an accurate timeline, this is a collection of stories culled from memory. I chose not to include graphic descriptions of the horrors that come, but suffice it to say once seen it is something you never forget.
You may find spots where you argue with the story, where you say this wasn’t right, or she shouldn’t have done that. Unfortunately that’s how life is. It doesn’t always come wrapped in beautiful stories and tied with a bow.
Each day is a gift. Treasure it and remember it for what it is. There may come a time when that memory is all you have.
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Table of Contents
Sisters
In the Early Days
A Time of Rebellion
The Prodigal Daughter
Guy with a Guitar
The Madness of Marriage
&nbs
p; As the Years Passed
The Call
The Aftermath
Comimg Home
The Onset of Winter
The Gift
Winter’s End
When the Leaves Fall
Seating Arrangement
Talk to me, Baby
Christmas
The Truth
A Sad Goodbye
Gone but not Forgotten
A Note from the Author
More Books by Bette Lee Crosby