Two Sisters Times Two

by Jeffrey Anderson

9

  They arrived at the elegant nineteenth century hotel with its gilded age feel and its ornate lobby at around dusk. The bellman escorted them to their plush and spacious suite that Leah had negotiated for the regular room rate. Jodie maintained her nonchalance and her silence through the beautiful lobby and the polished brass elevator and into the regal room. But once Leah had tipped the pleasant and efficient middle-aged white bellman named Lee (“Like the general!”) and closed the door, her stored excitement and wonder burst forth as she trotted about the room touching and admiring everything from the heavy velvet drapes to the antique writing desk, Tiffany lamp, and leather-seated chair.

  But she grew quiet when she opened the curtained French doors into the bedroom and saw two queen-size beds separated by about four feet of carpeted floor.

  “Something wrong?” Leah asked as she came up behind her.

  Jodie hesitated for just a fraction of a second then blurted, “I liked having you near me last night.” She’d not realized till just that moment how important Leah’s physical presence in her bed had been to her quick recovery from last night’s demeaning detour. In her mind, there was nothing inappropriate or erotic about that contact. She simply wanted—indeed, craved—the sense of safety and love that Leah’s physical presence had provided. She didn’t pursue this thought process to its next determination—that it was exactly this sense of safety and implied love that had led her into the beds of every female lover she’d ever had.

  Jodie’s disappointment triggered a knee-jerk reaction in Leah as well. She actually took a step toward the phone on the sideboard to call the front desk and request a room with a single king-sized bed. Then she reined in that impulse. She came alongside Jodie and touched her hand lightly. “I figured two beds were better. Whitfield says I can be a restless sleeper.” This was a fib. Whitfield said she slept like a rock, never moving an inch in the night.

  “I guess,” Jodie said, retreating to a safer place.

  “And these beds are plenty big. If you grow frightened or lonely in the night, I’ll come sleep beside you.”

  “How will you know?” Jodie asked.

  Leah grinned as if keeping a secret. “We’ll figure something out.”

  They quickly unpacked, splitting the bedroom’s beautifully crafted dresser down the middle. Leah got the shallow walk-in closet to herself, as Jodie didn’t have anything requiring hangers. They ordered room service—Jodie a vegetarian cobb salad, Leah a turkey club sandwich—and watched a second-run action thriller on the large flat-screen TV in the sitting room, leaving the sound switched off and providing imagined commentary and dialogue to the vivid scenes.

  At some point Jodie asked, “Is that what you did with all TV shows and movies when you were deaf?”

  Leah laughed and quipped, “All of life!” Then she offered a more honest answer. “No, I watched and waited. Sometimes it took a while, but sooner or later the world opened up before me.”

  “I wouldn’t have had the patience.”

  “First skill I learned.”

  Jodie was in her sweatpants and tank top and swallowed by the cushy mattress and plush covers and countless fluffy pillows when Leah emerged from the bathroom in her full-length flannel nightgown. Before climbing into her bed, Leah tied a piece of thread from an emergency sewing kit she carried in her travel bag to the headboard post on Jodie’s bed.

  “When Jasper was an infant, I’d tie a piece of yarn from his crib or playpen to my finger when I was reading or resting in the chair. He quickly learned he could get my attention by simply tugging on that piece of yarn.”

  “Probably about pulled your finger off.”

  “No, hardly ever used it. He was always good at amusing himself; still is.”

  Jodie laughed from her cave of bed linens. “I’d have pulled it off.”

  “You threw stuff at me.”

  “I did?”

  Leah laughed at the unexpected recollection. “Stuffed animals, your Raggedy Ann doll, pillows. Those were O.K. The wooden blocks hurt!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You always needed attention.”

  “Still do.”

  Leah laughed. “Well, if you need attention tonight, pull on this thread. After I take off my processors and get into bed, I’ll tie it to my little finger. One tug—or maybe two or three—and I’ll be up and checking on you.”

  “Thanks, Leah,” Jodie said, though she knew she wouldn’t use it.

  Oddly, neither considered the far simpler solution to nocturnal needs—that Jodie cross the narrow chasm between beds and slide into Leah’s.