Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(24)

This winter moves faster than the one last year. It is broken up with moments of laughter and happiness as Donna prepares for her new grandchild.

She has little money to spend because her only income is what she receives from Social Security. We all offer to help out but she flatly refuses, so we do it in other ways. Mama takes the electric bill from her mailbox and pays it without Donna ever seeing it. I slide bills into her wallet and say nothing. Geri comes with boxes of groceries, and Debi tells her mom there was no co-pay on the medication.

We find ways to do these things, but we never act as if we are sorry for Donna. It is not something we speak of, but we all know being the object of pity is far worse than being sick or being poor. Being sick robs a person of their health and being poor robs them of life’s luxuries, but being pitied robs them of their will to live.



In early March Debi’s friends plan a baby shower. By then Donna has scrimped and saved enough to outfit the crib. She has bought yellow and green print sheets, bumper pads, and pillows. Plus she has crocheted enough blankets to keep the child warm into adulthood.

You might think in a situation like this there is little to make a person unhappy, but some people are born unhappy and throughout their life they carry the need to share that unhappiness with others. Jim’s mother is just such a woman.

Shortly after I’d receive an invitation to the shower, Debi calls me in tears. Under normal conditions she wouldn’t know about the shower in advance, but this isn’t a normal situation.

“Jim’s mother told Ellen not to invite Mom because she’s an embarrassment,” Debi wails.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The shower. Ann told Ellen not to invite Mom!”

“That’s crazy,” I say. “Why would she—”

“Because Mom has the tracheostomy and can’t talk.” Debi sobs. Then she says she’s not going to the shower unless her mom comes.

“Did you tell Ellen that?” I ask.

“Of course I did.”

“And what did Ellen say?”

“She’s inviting Mom.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Well, then…”

“But don’t you see how awful—”

“Yes, I do see,” I say sadly. “Ann should be ashamed of herself to even think such a thing.”

“She’s a mean person!”

“Yes, she is. But don’t let one mean person ruin your special day.” I’m seething, but I remain calm and logical for Debi’s sake. “And don’t ever tell your mom about this.”

“I’d never tell Mom!” Debi screeches. “It would kill her!”

Before the thought has settled in my ear, I heave a weighted sigh. “It probably would.”

We talk for a long time—an hour, maybe longer—but when we finally say goodbye Debi has come to terms with the situation. My hands tremble as I hang up the receiver. A cruelty to someone you love is far worse than a cruelty suffered yourself. The truth is I feel the same rage Debi feels, but I have nowhere to go with it.

The problem is gone. I tell myself to let it rest. Ellen has invited Donna, and the only people who know about Ann’s words are Ellen, Debi, and me. It will remain with us. Donna will never know. I am determined that on the day of the shower I will surround my sister with an impenetrable wall of love.





Seating Arrangement




On the second Friday of March, Donna and Mama drive up to New Jersey. It is the day before the shower.

I am nervous at the thought of them driving such a distance alone, but no one has a say in what Donna does so all I can do is wait for their arrival. Several times I go onto the deck and scan the thin line of traffic crawling along Hillcrest Road, but not a single car turns off. Not one. Finally I take my book and sit on the deck where I can look across and see the road.

Fifteen minutes pass, and I am still on the same page. I read a sentence, look down the road, then back to the book. Having forgotten at what point I stopped, I return to the top of the page and start again. At long last I see the maroon Chrysler turn the corner, inching its way toward our house. A whoosh of relief comes up from my stomach.

Donna eases the car down the steep driveway, pulls to the far side, then switches off the ignition. She does not get out of the car.

I hurry down the stairs and rush to greet them. “I was so worried,” I say, yanking the passenger side door open to help Mom from the car.

My sister leans across the seat and wriggles her fingers in a sign language hello. Jason sits between her legs like a co-pilot. Although she smiles and shakes off my question about being tired, I see a new weariness beneath her eyes. In the back seat of the car the big missile-shaped oxygen tank is wedged between several cartons of medical supplies.

I pretend not to notice this is practically a rolling hospital and act normal. Even though there is a knot of worry lodged in the center of my chest, I slide my arm around Donna’s shoulder and tell her she looks good.

In some ways I am as helpless as her. I am her big sister. I want to make it better; I want to do something. Anything. I don’t, because I love her too much. Saying “Lean on me, let me carry you and shoulder your burdens” would make me feel better, but it’s not about me. I remind myself that loving my sister means I have to step back and give her the dignity of independence.