Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(16)
I have been in the tub so long the water has grown cold. It is no longer a comfort, so I pull the plug and step onto the bathmat. A soft flow of air from the heater warms the room. It is a sharp contrast to the frigid air in Donna’s apartment. Although she lives south of here her building is poorly insulated, and the iciness of winter slides across the floor and settles in the air. The apartment is always cold. It’s the kind of cold that goes through your skin and burrows into your bones.
Even so, Donna doesn’t complain about her circumstances. Debi and I both asked her to come and live with us, but she refused.
I like my independence is what she wrote on her notepad.
If an intruder broke through the thin glass of Donna’s apartment window she couldn’t cry out for help. Without a voice, she can’t even do something as small as ordering a pizza, so how can it be considered independence? I think the truth is my sister lives alone because she doesn’t want to be a burden.
Perhaps if I were more insistent she’d change her mind.
I wonder if I accept her answer too readily because deep inside I am fearful of living with oxygen tanks and suctioning machines? They carry the sound and smell of sickness, and once experienced it is something that can never be forgotten.
Yes, they give life, but it comes packaged in heartache.
The Onset of Winter
It is an ugly day. Dark clouds push up against each other and hover low in the sky; not even a pinpoint of brightness shows through. Another storm is on the way. Yesterday’s snow is already a hard crust of ice on the trees, and the street is a slippery mixture of mud and slush. Although the furnace here is chugging out a steady stream of hot air I shiver, thinking about Donna huddled beneath an afghan as she sits alone in her apartment.
The building she lives in is old. Old and drafty. The wind pushes against the window and passes through the towels tucked around the sill. For the millionth time I wish Donna was closer, close enough that I could drive over every afternoon and bring hot soup or a few minutes of friendship. Baltimore is less than two hundred miles away, but right now it feels as if it’s on the other side of the earth.
I move aside a pile of papers, reach for the telephone, and punch in a sequence of numbers. My finger has barely left the last digit when the ring bounces back and closes the stretch of miles between us.
I listen and count, certain there will be no response until after the fourth ring. Finally the click comes, but the recorded voice is not Donna’s. It belongs to her daughter. Debi sounds like her mother did a short time ago. Most callers don’t realize it’s the daughter speaking, not the mother. I do, but then I know the story.
Debi says no one is available to answer the call, then tells me to leave a message after the tone. As a long beep sounds in my ear I say, “Donna, it’s me, Bette. Pick up if you’re there.”
Moments later I hear the second click and know my sister is on the line. For want of anything better to say, I ask, “Are you there?”
Tap.
“Is everything okay?”
Tap.
“Is anyone else there?”
Tap, tap.
I ask questions that can be answered with a yes or no, because those are the only answers she can give. A metal pen sits beside the telephone for use when I call. A single tap means yes, a double tap is no.
I continue with a steady stream of conversation about inconsequential things: a newspaper article I’ve read, a television show I’ve watched, and so on. I don’t talk about books because Donna doesn’t read. She loses herself in a television show the way I lose myself in a book.
It has been just two days since my last call and I have nothing new to say, but I talk anyway. I force myself to sound cheerful. This may be the only outside communication Donna has today, so I try to make it as pleasant as possible. I tell jokes that are older than Mama, poke fun at the day’s headlines, and laughingly complain about the price of tomatoes. Occasionally my sister taps an affirmative agreement, but there is nothing else. The sound of her silence is painful beyond belief. When I say goodbye, I promise to come for a visit next week. As I am about to hang up I hear the smack of Donna’s lips kissing the telephone receiver and understand it is her way of saying she loves me.
Two days later I receive a letter from Donna. Her letters are short and to the point. She is no fonder of writing than she is of reading.
Dear Bette, she writes. When you come down please bring a bag of peanuts in the shell. I need them for the squirrels. Still no sign of Lucifer. I miss that damn cat and wish he’d come back. Tuesday the county nurse is taking me to Doctor Craig for my monthly checkup. Last time he said there was a possibility he might be able to reverse the tracheostomy if the scar tissue in my throat heals. Geri’s birthday is coming up and I’ve not been able to get out to buy a present. Would you pick one up for me? Well, I’d better close for now, my hand is tired and I think this pen is running out of ink. Love you, Donna
The letter reminds me of Donna’s two squirrels. Every afternoon they come and wait alongside the rusted grill standing outside her patio door. They stay there until she slides the door open and places four peanuts atop the grill. They seem to understand the way this bounty is to be divided, and neither of the squirrels ever takes three. Donna has named them Sam and Susie, but their names remain unspoken.