Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(22)

Just when I start to believe winter will never end, bits of yellow pop out on the wisteria bushes. The coming of spring seems to soften the harshness of winter. It is as if the weight of snow and ice has been lifted from my chest and I can breathe again. I wonder if my sister is experiencing this feeling.

That same week I receive her letter. This letter is just as short as her others, but this one has happiness woven through ever word. Debi is getting married.

Please come down, she writes. We need to go shopping for a dress.

For the first time in many months, I can feel the happiness in my sister’s soul.



That weekend when we arrive in Baltimore, I can almost swear Donna looks healthier. She has a blush in her cheeks and seems less dependent upon the oxygen. There are periods that stretch as long as forty minutes before she slides the tubing back under her nose and breathes.

The portable tank holds two hours of oxygen. It goes with us on our shopping expeditions. For these excursions Donna pulls on the skinny jeans that now hang loose like trousers and fluffs a sheer scarf around her neck to hide the chunk of metal in the front of her throat. Dressed as she is and with makeup on her face, she looks pretty. I smile and say, “You look great.”

She shrugs and gives me the cynical look of doubt that is hers alone. She mouths the words, I’m trying.

When we arrive at the mall I get a wheelchair for Donna. Not because she can’t walk, but because the mall stretches out for almost a mile and the oxygen tank is too heavy to carry. The first trip we are there for almost three hours, and only twice does she need to reach for the oxygen. On that first trip Mama finds a dress that falls in soft folds over the areas she wants to hide. When she steps out of the dressing room, Donna claps her hands and gives a thumbs up.

In the short span of less than a year, I have learned to read my sister’s lips and her movements. So has Mama. We have come to understand these things almost as well as others understand the spoken word. Donna makes no effort to talk to the salespeople or the waiter at the restaurant. She has already indicated what she wants, and I order for her. Were you to pass by and see the three of us at the lunch table, you would believe we are as normal as everyone else. Our heartache doesn’t show, and neither does my sister’s tracheostomy. Even though Donna doesn’t find a dress this day, it is a good one.



It takes several such trips, but in time Donna finds a dress. The moment she puts it on I think how lovely she looks. She smiles and nods. If she had words we would have squealed with delight. She would have asked me time and time again if the back was too snug around her butt or if the color was wrong, but as it is we must settle for a single nod. “You look absolutely beautiful!” I say, and it is the truth.

Donna has chosen a cocktail length dress of silver blue lace. The body of the dress is lined, but the sleeves and mandarin collar that rises to hide her throat are lace. It is enough to cover the tracheostomy and yet allow for the passage of air to breathe. The dress is narrow through the waist and hips, but the below that there is a swirl of skirt to camouflage her thinness. She is ready to be the mother of the bride.



Two days before the wedding Donna and Mama come to stay at our house. Donna drives. The back of her car is loaded with equipment: the big oxygen tank, the portable oxygen tank, boxes of saline solution, the suctioning machine, countless medications, boxes of supplies, and the dress.

On Saturday we arrive at the church. Donna walks with her back straight and her chin high. We are seated in the first pew and only then do I start to wonder if Charlie will come with Cyndi Lou, who is now his wife. I glance at my sister and pray he doesn’t. I know it has been years but I also know in the secret part of her heart, the part where Donna hides the pain of life, she still loves him. Simply saying this prayer causes me to remember how much I detest the man. Remembering how he loves himself and with such vanity, I fear he will indeed come with Cyndi Lou hanging on his arm.

I sit at an angle where it appears I am facing forward, but I can in fact see the church entrance. I watch and wait. Only a few minutes pass before Charlie walks in. He comes alone. I breathe a sigh of relief.

With nothing more than a nod, Charlie slides into the pew behind us.

After the ceremony there is a reception. As is customary, the bride and groom have the first dance; then the bride dances with her father and the groom with his mother. Then they call for a dance by the bride’s parents.

Charlie comes to our table and extends his hand to Donna. She smiles and accepts it as if it is perfectly normal for them to dance together. He leads her onto the dance floor, and they sway to the beat of a slow fox trot. As I watch Donna gracefully glide across the floor, a swell of admiration rises in my throat. I have never felt more proud of my sister than I do at that moment. No one in the room, save myself, knows the agony she feels.

When the dance ends, I make my way to her side and we go outside to her car where she can clear the phlegm that has collected in her airway. As we walk across the parking lot, I hear the gurgling in her throat and see a damp stain appear on the lace collar of her dress. I hand her a tissue, and she quickly blots the moist spot. She slides behind the wheel and turns on the ignition. It seems ironic that the converter enabling her to operate the suction machine works off the cigarette lighter.

Twenty minutes later we return to the reception, but for Donna the dancing is over. For the remainder of the evening she moves slowly, nodding graciously at the other guests, smiling but not speaking.