Chapter 2
“Ka - Karen,” Porter yelled as he busted through her bedroom door. “I did - did it,” he stammered.
“Awesome,” Karen said. “No one saw you, did they?”
“No – no,” he said as he waved his arms about frantically. “I – I – was real careful.”
Karen struggled to pull herself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. “Did she open the door? Did she talk to you?”
“No - No,” he gasped for breath, “sh - she didn’t.” Porter walked over to the closet and pushed the shirts and pants aside to get a house coat. “Sh – she seems weird. Are you sure she’s the right one?”
“Yes, she has to be,” Karen said. She forced herself to sit upright, even though her body was telling her to lie back down. “Can you bring me my wheelchair?”
“I was worried you – you -- wouldn’t get up,” Porter said. “You - you missed all the Saturday cartoons and – and -- all the good movies,” he said over his shoulder, as he went to get the wheelchair.
Karen fluffed her overstuffed pillows and straightened the pink striped comforter as best she could from a sitting position. She pushed and pulled on the worn stuffing, and fussed with the clothing on the Cabbage Patch doll. She remembered the smell of her grandmother’s perfume, which had lingered on the doll long after it had been given to her on that first hospital stay. Lifting the doll to her nose, she inhaled deeply. But time had removed every trace of her grandmother’s cologne. She combed through the doll’s hair with her fingers, then sat it next to the princess lamp on the bookcase headboard.
She heard Porter swipe the wooden door frame in the hall again. “Dang – dang -- dang it,” he yelled. Karen held her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. He always caught the edge of the doorframe, as he finagled the wheelchair through the narrow hallway. She speculated that one day the door frame would surrender to the constant barrage and be reduced to a heap of splinters on the floor.
He pulled the wheelchair up to the side of the bed and applied the brakes on the wheels. “Which ho – house -- shoes?” he asked.
“I want to wear the big red fuzzy ones today,” she said. She pulled the collar of the flannel pajamas up around her neck. “They’re in the closet.”
Porter searched the closet, throwing shoes and toys over his back as he tried to find the red fuzzy slippers. “How about the pur – purple ones, or the ones - ones with the monkey face,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed.
“No, do you see the lime green ones with the fur lining?” she said.
“I hate these,” Porter said, as he held the shoes up for Karen’s inspection.
“Why?” she said amused. “How could anyone hate house shoes?”
“You – you -- got these before,” he said as he struggled to pull the shoes over her puffy feet. “Remember Aunt Marge sen - sent them to you. Then – then -- they got lost in the mail.” Porter shoved the second shoe on with a grunt and pushed his bangs back out of his eyes. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “And then she – she -- died.”
“So they were sent from the grave?” Karen held out her arms like a zombie.“Oooo. . .” she moaned like a ghost.
Porter fell backwards. “Don - don’t -- do that,” Porter said, with his eyes as big as saucers.
“I ha – hate it when you act like th - that.”
“Oh, Porter,” she said as she held her arms out for a hug. “Come here.”
Porter leaned across her lap, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on longer than he liked. “Can you – you -- let go of me?” He said. “Your hands are cold.”
“So are my feet. That’s why I wanted the warmest slippers. Help me with my housecoat,” she said.
Porter tugged on the sleeves of her pink terrycloth robe. Then he pushed the sleeves up on his T- shirt and wiped the sweat from his brow. He gave her a big bear-hug, as he pivoted her into a sitting position in the wheelchair. “Do you – you -- think Aunt Marge still has a mustache?” Porter asked with a devilish grin. Karen chuckled. “Do – do -- ladies have mustaches in heaven?” he asked. Porter tucked the length of the robe around her back and lap.
Karen laughed, “I’m glad Mom didn’t hear you.” Porter grabbed one of Karen’s dolls and held its ponytail over his lip, giving his best Aunt Marge imitation. “How – how’s my little su –sugar dumpling?” he said as he pranced around the room.
Karen held her side and cackled. “Oh no, Oh no,” she said. They both laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks. The laughing led to a bout of coughing forcing Karen to look away from Porter in order to gain her composure. “Don’t make me laugh; it makes my side hurt.”
Aunt Marge’s mustache became fodder for many a shared joke. Especially since their family never acknowledged the mustache and Karen and Porter had been instructed not to talk about it. The mustache became their shared secret, which included secured communication and hand gestures. One finger held under the nose, or the tapping of fingers on the upper lip at the dinner table elicited suppressed giggles.
She buttoned the front of the robe up to her neck, and then she rubbed her arms to generate heat, as she shivered. “I can’t believe how cold it is in here.”
“You – you – always say that,” he said. Porter looked at the thermostat. “It’s eigh - eighty -- degrees in here.”
He grabbed a knit beanie from the hat drawer. “Mom put so - some food,” he winced and stuttered as he pulled the hat over her ears. “She – she -- put food in the crock p – pot -- before she left for work.”
“No, I want ice cream,” Karen said.
“Mom said,” Porter fidgeted with the brakes on the wheelchair and stammered. “She - she said, you needed to – to -- eat regular food.”
“But it doesn’t taste good,” she replied. “The only thing that tastes good is ice cream, and it’s a dairy product, so it’s good for you.”
“That’s not,” Porter said but was interrupted before he could finish his sentence.
“Would you bring me my mirror?”
Porter yelled over his shoulder, as he retrieved the handheld mirror from her dresser, “She - she said you have to eat bet - better.”
Karen did not reply. She took a long look at her reflection. She did not recognize herself.
The eyes looked familiar, but the face was distorted and unnatural. She traced the dark circles under her eyes with her fingertip and then rubbed over her chapped lips. She pinched the pale, bloated skin over her cheeks. Then she adjusted the multi-colored beanie hat with its whirlybird propeller that her father had given to her. Her father had held it up for her approval and then gently placed it on her head. He spun the propeller, “Who needs hair when you can have a whirlybird propeller?” He had said.
She had always been Daddy’s girl, but that was before the divorce, and before he transferred back to his old job in Chicago. She wondered if she was still Daddy’s girl. He was the one person in her family that never treated her like she was handicapped, and she missed his silly jokes. She could relax around him and didn’t need to put on her game face like she did with Porter so he wouldn’t worry, and for her mother who always seemed to feel guilty. Of course, she had always taken very good care of Karen. But, her mother was very cautious; choosing her words carefully, preparing her meals strategically, and controlling the environment as best she could so that Karen would be safe. Although Karen was grateful, she felt like such a burden. She wished she could live like a normal kid. She even missed school. She tried to count the years on her fingers, but wasn’t absolutely sure which grade she would be in when and if she returned to school. Maybe seventh grade, she concluded.
“You – you -- look great,” Porter said.
She tucked the mirror under her thigh. “You always say that. Do you mean it?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she said and poked him in the belly with her finger.
Porter put his hands in his pocket. “Y
ou al - always look good to me” he blushed.
Karen smiled, “Do you want to play Monopoly?” Karen covered her mouth and coughed.
“No, no,” Porter said. “You - you always win.”
Karen winked and said, “That’s because I’m a genius.” She pointed to her head. “I got a humongous brain under this hat.” Porter rolled his eyes. “Then if you won’t play my favorite game, how about your favorite, Old Maid?” She coughed and cleared her throat. “I’ll let you go first,”
“Old Maid is not my fav – favorite,” Porter argued. “Don - don’t -- you want to - to read or watch TV?” Porter said as he shoved the wheelchair through the bedroom doorway. He knocked the hallway table over as he turned the corner into the living room. “Dang – dang -- it,” he yelled.
Karen laughed. “You’re a lousy driver.”
“No, I’m not,” he said indignantly. “I could - could -- push this chair all over town, if – if -- I wanted to.”
“Really, you would do that?” Karen said as she turned around and looked at Porter intently. “You promise?” She held up her pinkie finger. “Pinkie swear?”
Porter looked at her pinkie for a long moment, as if contemplating whether he should agree. Then he reached his hand forward and they interlocked pinkies. “Pinkie swear,” he said slowly and deliberately.
Porter pushed Karen’s chair under the portable game table which their father had erected in the living room. Reaching past the stack of romance books, she grabbed the cards from the low-rise shelving. “Cookie dough,” she said.
“What?” Porter looked at her perplexed, and scratched his head.
“I want cookie dough ice cream with chocolate syrup,” she said, as she shuffled the cards. “Bet you’re going to be the old maid again.”
“Ugh,” Porter sighed as he headed for the kitchen.
With Porter safely out of sight, Karen set aside the deck of cards. She pursed her lips and took in a long deep breath and heard the familiar wheeze, which was followed by more coughing. The wheeze had started a few days ago, but she hadn’t told anyone. Her chest felt heavy, and sometimes she had trouble catching her breath. She tried to ignore it, but it increasingly became more difficult. The fatigue weighed on her like the impossible pile of quilts her grandmother had placed on her during their last visit. Grandma had piled on one quilt after another until the weight became so oppressive that Karen couldn’t move. Her grandmother meant well, and Karen had tried not to worry her, but when her grandmother died of a heart attack, somehow Karen held herself responsible. Her mother had told her that grandma’s death wasn’t her fault, but still she felt guilty. She felt guilty for everyone who worried about her and especially those who were required to provide her personal care.
Karen wished that she didn’t have to rely on Porter who was spending his time caring for her instead of hanging out with friends or playing sports. If only she felt better then she could be more independent. She tried to be cheerful for Porter’s sake, but she sensed that he was well aware of her suffering. At least, when the home tutor came, Porter had some reprieve from her constant care. The school had told them that they didn’t have funds to pay for a specialized tutor, and after their divorce, her parents couldn’t afford it either, so the tutor hadn’t been there since last spring. Her mother worked late every day, “To pay bills,” she had said. So on most days Karen was home alone until Porter came home from school. She wished there was someone who could help them so that Porter could live like a normal kid, and her mother wouldn’t have to work so hard.
Karen and Porter had become increasingly reliant on each other, and she wondered what he would do when the inevitable came. She grasped the cross necklace from under her pajama collar and rubbed the warm silver metal between her thumb and fingers. “Please, God, help me and my family.”
She heard the kitchen cabinet doors slamming followed by the sound of silverware crashing on the floor. “Dang – Dang it,” he yelled. Karen smiled. Retrieving the mirror from under her thigh, she again looked at herself in the mirror, and imagined what she would look like if she wasn’t sick. My hair would be reddish blonde, just like it was when I was a little girl, she thought. She heard Porter coming and tucked the mirror under her fragile thigh.
“Here,” Porter said. “But – but -- don’t tell on me.”
“I won’t,” she replied. Porter watched her closely, as she brought the spoon to her lips, but after only a few small bites she pushed the ice cream away. “I guess,” she swallowed hard to suppress the wave of nausea that she felt, “I’m not as hungry as I thought.” She coughed and cleared her throat.
“Why don’t we do some of your homework?” She pointed to Porter’s book bag which had been tossed in the corner.
“No – no.” He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “No – way!”
Karen knew that his grades at school were low, but she didn’t feel well enough to argue. “Maybe later?” She waited for his answer.
“May – be,” he said defiantly.
“Could you push me in front of the window so I can see outside for a little while, and would you bring me the soft pink blanket?”
Karen looked out at the murky gray sky which had all but smothered the sun. A few rays penetrated through the clouds like long fingers reaching for the earth. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried desperately to feel the sun’s warmth upon her face.
She removed her hat and ran her hand over her soft, smooth head. She saw Mrs. McGrath in the window across the street and waved. “I hope that she will help,” she mumbled. Porter arrived and placed the blanket over her shoulders.
“Do – do – you want your notebook?” he asked.
“I don’t need it today.”
The picture window began to vibrate as a carload of young people drove by with the car stereo blasting and the bass pounding. She often saw groups of people driving by or hanging out at the street corner. They wore sunglasses and knit caps. She wondered why they always wore sunglasses even on a cloudy day. She watched them curiously as they bobbed their heads in time with the drum beats.
She and Porter had been instructed to stay inside, but just hours earlier they had broken the rules. Her parents would not approve, but she rationalized that she had felt an urgency to reach out for help, not for herself, but for Porter. She hoped that her parents understood.
The activity on the street died down. A few grey squirrels came out of hiding and scurried about, somehow managing to maintain their footing in the misty rain. Karen watched the squirrels as they packed their mouths full of acorns before returning to the safety of the tall oak tree. The summer had come and gone so quickly, and soon it would be colder than she could bear.
A Dove for Eddy Page 2