Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(30)

Doing what? I wonder.

As soon as she opens the door I hug her and sniff her clothing. It is a musty smell, maybe smoke, maybe not. Right away I say, “I’ve got to use the toilet,” and hurry down the hall.

There is only one bathroom in her apartment, and I need to see if it smells of tobacco. As the door clicks shut, I take a deep breath. I am looking for the scent of cigarettes, but there is none. I sniff the air again and again, but all I get is the fragrance of rose petals. It is an overly sweet scent that makes me suspicious, so I start to poke around.

First I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing but vials of prescription drugs, a thermometer, and a bottle of aspirin. Next I turn to the storage cabinet and riffle through boxes of saline solution, gauze pads, plastic hoses, and clamps of one kind or another, but there are no cigarettes. I am almost ready to admit my error when I remember the built-in hamper and pull down the door.

One by one I go through soiled pajamas, socks, and panties; then I find it. Halfway down there is a plastic bag that contains three packs of cigarettes. Two unopened, the third half-empty.

I remove the cigarettes from their hiding place and head for the living room. “What the hell is this?” I say, angrily waving the bag at her.

Donna doesn’t even blink an eye. She adjusts the oxygen clip in her nose and pushes the footrest of her recliner into position.

“Well?”

She looks at me defiantly and says, “I’d call it cigarettes. What would you call it?”

This is the same girl who ran away from home and hitchhiked to Virginia because Mama wouldn’t allow her to wear jeans to school. I am no threat. The truth is Donna answers only to Donna. You can love her or hate her, but you will never control her. I know this, and tears well in my eyes.

“How could you?”

“It isn’t like there’s a lot else I can do.” She shrugs.

“Yes, there is. You could at least try to get well.”

She narrows her eyes and gives me a look as hard-edged as a knife. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

“You’ve got to keep trying.” I try to sound positive, but my words sound thin and desperate. “You’ve got emphysema! You shouldn’t even be in a room where somebody is smoking, never mind doing it yourself.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Donna lowers the footrest and sits upright, looking me square in the face. It’s almost as if she has zeroed in on the bridge of my nose the way a bomber pilot locks a target in his sights, but there is no contact because I blink and look away.

I cannot make myself look into her eyes, for I know the truth is there. She is still the sister I grew up with, the one who was tough and strong. Wonder Woman.

“Look at me,” she commands.

“Let’s not go there,” I say. The sound of her voice tells me she has a comeback, but I don’t want to hear it. The only thing I want to hear is that she will let go of these poisonous nicotine sticks.

“Look at me,” she repeats. “Look at my face, because you need to understand what I am saying.”

Several silent minutes pass before I allow my eyes to meet hers. In that single moment the years fall away. There is no sickness; we are simply two sisters, and she is the stronger one. Although every part of her body has failed her, Donna’s rebellious spirit and determination have grown stronger.

There is no flippancy in her voice, no smile on her face. “Did you ever see a fish in a dried-up stream?”

“That has nothing to do with…”

“Did you?”

I reluctantly shake my head.

“I have! When a stream dries up, the fish suffocate on air. Their body flip-flops around looking for one more puddle, any little wet spot that will keep them alive for a few minutes longer. It doesn’t matter how muddy or contaminated that water is, it’s their only hope. Those fish are as good as dead, but they keep trying to hang onto the little bit of life they’re got left.”

“Donna, don’t—”

“For once in your life, Bette, shut up. It’s important that you understand this.”

Donna blinks back what could be the start of tears, then continues. “Even when the stream is dry as a bone the fish keep sucking in air. There are no more puddles, but the poor dumb fish don’t know that so they prolong the suffering, hoping against hope that they’ll find another puddle.

“Eventually their eyes bulge out of their heads, and they die. It’s slow and it’s painful.”

“But, Donna…”

She holds up a bony hand to stop me. “I don’t have a lot of time; Doctor Craig has already said that. And I’m not going to use whatever time I do have flopping around like a half-dead fish.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I plead. “Now that the tracheostomy has been reversed, you’ll get better.”

She gives me a cackle-like laugh. “You know that’s not true.”

“Doctor Craig would have—”

Again she laughs. It’s not a real laugh but more the sound of sarcasm pushed into what once was a laugh. “He reversed the tracheostomy because I insisted on it. He wanted to keep it in because he thought it in would prolong my life expectancy.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” she answers and gives me another corkscrew look of disdain. “Doctors don’t say, ‘You’ve got three months to live and then it’s sayonara.’ But I feel the different parts of my body shutting down. I’m dying piece by piece.”