Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(14)

She takes the notepad and starts writing. The notepad is always with her; it is our way of communicating anything that can’t be said with a nod, a shake of the head, or a wave of her hand. This time she writes Tell him I’m involved with someone else, and it wouldn’t be fair to keep seeing him. DO IT NOW!

Not happy about doing this, I dial Don’s number. Fortunately his answering machine picks up. I leave the message, but I am not a good liar and my words sound like a bad recording.

Afterward Donna settles into her recliner and watches television. There is little else to do. Although she has never been outside the United States, she watches travelogues of France, Italy, Greece, and faraway places I have never heard of.

At four-thirty I call and order a pizza for our dinner. She has no appetite and neither do I, so pizza sounds good. Fifteen minutes later the buzzer sounds, and I push the button to allow the deliveryman to enter the building. When I open the door it’s not the pizza; it’s Don. He angrily pushes past me and into the living room where Donna sits in the recliner.

“What the hell is—” He sees Donna and stops short.

She turns her head and waves him off. This is how Donna now dismisses anyone or anything she doesn’t want to deal with.

Don turns to me. “What happened?”

I give him the whole story: the hospital, the surprise tracheostomy, and the fact that it has to stay in until her throat heals. Again I lie.

“Hopefully it won’t be too long,” I say.

Don walks across and kneels next to Donna’s chair. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily,” he says. He takes her hand is his, but she is like a stick of wood. She allows him to take her hand, but she does not move into the embrace he offers. He tells her how she should trust that he would love her no matter what the circumstances.

“This is a temporary thing,” he says. “We’ll get through it together.”

Donna looks at him, raises her eyebrows, and crooks the right side of her mouth into an expression of doubt.

Don stays for nearly an hour, and we fill the time with small talk and watching bits of the detective show Donna has on television. When the pizza arrives Don doesn’t eat but says he’ll have a drink if there is any scotch in the house.

“No scotch,” I say. “But we’ve got rye.” It is the bottle Mama keeps on hand. Mama and Donna both drink rye whiskey now. Rye mixed with Coca Cola.

Don says yes to the rye, then drinks it quickly and leaves.



The next day Don sends flowers. He calls every day but doesn’t come back during the week I am there. I mention this to Donna, and she gives me a thumbs up. It is a hand signal that requires no writing. Although Donna claims she is tired of him anyway, I know that is not the truth. The truth is that she is unwilling to make her misfortune someone else’s problem.

I say, “Give the guy a chance. He’s trying to do the right thing.”

Donna gives me a scrunched up look of doubt and shakes her head. A few seconds later she takes the notepad and writes, Not love. More like drinking buddies.

In an odd way I realize that is probably true. Everybody loves Donna, but few people ever know the whole person. I do and her daughter Debi does. Mama is only a maybe, and although Geri is our sister she was always the baby so she never really had the chance to know Donna as I have.

Don’t misunderstand me; they both love Donna and would do most anything for her, but with Mama it’s a love-hate relationship. It’s been that way ever since Donna ran off. As much as she loves Donna, there’s a grain of unforgiving stuck in Mama’s heart.



Don soon tells their friends at the Crab House about Donna’s situation, and the get-well cards start pouring in. Many of them call even though they know she cannot speak. They leave warmhearted messages and say they will stop by. A few do, but when Donna peers from the side window and sees who is standing at the building entrance she shakes her head and I know not to answer.

She allows one friend to come in. It’s Henrietta, a black woman who works with her at the bank. I wonder why Henrietta is the exception, but as I watch them sit there and carry on a one-sided conversation I understand.

Henrietta is a woman who knows heartache. She is the mother of two children, both born with birth defects. As she talks I learn her older boy has Down’s syndrome, and the younger one who is seven years old has yet to speak. It is easy to see why she and my sister are such close friends; their lives run in parallel lines. They both carry a burden heavier than many can even imagine. I look at Henrietta and see parts of her that indicate she is a young woman, but the slump of her body and the weariness in her eyes tell another story.



Before I get ready to leave on Friday, Debi arrives and a new brightness lights Donna’s face. Her daughter is the one person who can bring about such a change. I know Donna loves her children equally, but Debi is the one she prefers to be with. Young Charlie has a male crustiness about him. He promises to visit, then doesn’t show. If he does come, he flicks the television on and gives that his attention. Charlie is too much like his father. I doubt he knows how to reach inside his mother and pluck loose the things in her heart. Debi knows how. She and Donna are not simply mother and daughter; they’re best friends.

Even though Debi has a job, she drops everything and comes when I tell her what has happened. When she arrives, I climb back into my car and start home to New Jersey. It is a long and tearful trip.