Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(32)

When the sun has barely creased the horizon we climb from our beds and start for the hospital, the five of us in one car. It is too early for visitors, and we know that, but we need to be there. We walk quietly through the lobby and ride the elevator to the third floor. No one stops us when we go into Donna’s room.

She is sleeping, so we stand by the wall and wait.

When Donna opens her eyes a short while later, she sees Debi and stretches out her hand. Debi moves to the bed and takes the frail hand in hers.

We remain here throughout the day. Although only two visitors at a time are allowed, no one mentions that we are five and they allow us to stay and spend precious moments together. At eight o’clock that evening Janice, the nurse who has been with Donna for most of the day, comes in and urges us to leave.

“Patients need to get their rest,” she says.

We leave and return to the house. Mama suggests, “I can order a pizza. Or a bucket of chicken.”

“No, thanks,” we say.

No one is hungry. No one is sleepy. We simply wait.

In the wee hours of the morning the telephone rings. We know before Mama answers what the caller will say, and we start to cry.

~

Three days later Donna was laid to rest. I could tell you of the funeral, of the people who came, of the countless tears that were shed and the way Mama shrunk to a size that could slide through a keyhole, but the truth is if you’ve ever lost someone you love you know of all these things.

For weeks people came bearing gifts of food and flowers. They promised prayers and lit candles. They showered us with condolences and whispers of how she is now at peace. At the time it was hard to believe such a thing, but I have since come to see the truth in it.

Donna was too full of life to linger on death’s doorstep. She wanted it to be over. She wanted to move on, and she wanted us to move on. I am certain that somewhere in this vast universe there’s a party going on, and she’s now part of it.

There were a number of things Donna was wrong about. She was wrong to think smoking was harmless. She was wrong to choose Charlie as a husband. She was wrong to think she could run away from home, and no one would care.

But she was right when she said she’d leave a hole. She did. A hole so large that I could live for a thousand years and still not be able to replace her.





Gone but not Forgotten




Two seasons passed before I could find heart enough to smile. From the window of my office I watched the snow disappear and buds spring to life on bare branches. The lilacs that stretch across our yard blossomed as fragrant and sweet as bubble bath, but I kept the windows shuttered. The smell of flowers was little more than a reminder of the time I tried to forget.

I held to the heartache of that bitter winter for many months. Long after the sun turned hot and the lawn grew thick, I felt cold and wore wooly slipper socks on my feet. I thought about Donna every day, but the good memories didn’t come to mind. Instead I saw the picture of her gasping for breath and heard the sound of her pen tapping the telephone.

In August the dreams began.

At first I would wake with a start and although I could recall seeing my sister, I remembered nothing else. Little by little, the visitations became more detailed and in the morning I would linger on the edge of sleep trying to hold on to the dream for safekeeping in my memory.

In the beginning the dreams were like an eight-millimeter film with no sound: choppy little segments of our life spliced together. Mama was young, her hair dark and without strands of gray. Donna and I were kids. In some dreams we were eight and ten, and in others we were teenagers. We were always young and carefree. After a while the dreams broadened and became spirited conversations.

In the waning days of summer a single dream came back time after time. It was a replay of the day Donna tried to teach me to ride a bike.

~

“You’re never gonna get this if you’re afraid of falling,” she says.

“I’m not afraid,” I answer, but even in the dream I can feel beads of sweat rising on my forehead.

Donna flashes a devilish smile. “Don’t gimme that crap.”

When I try to protest I inevitably snap to, and that’s the end of the discussion. I am awake and Donna is gone.

~

For two weeks I kept remembering that day, and now I regret not trying harder. Donna was right, I was afraid of falling. She wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was petrified of falling.

The truth stares me in the face. I am a coward. And as long as I remain a coward, I will never live life to the fullest.



They say that providence plays a part in everyone’s life, and I believe it. Two days after I have come to see myself as I am, I find myself standing in front of Mac’s Bicycle Shop. In the window is a bright red retro model, a replica of the one Donna rode. For a few minutes I stand there looking at it. Then I make a decision. Five minutes later I am loading that big bicycle into the trunk of my car.



I would like to say I am not the least bit afraid when I climb on the bike, but it would be a lie. Before my foot touches the pedal I am already picturing what it will be like to walk with a cast on my leg.

Like Donna, Dick claims riding a bike is easy.

“I’ll get you started,” he says.

He holds the bike steady, and I climb on. I push down on the pedals, and the bike starts moving. He’s holding the back end of the bike and running alongside. I start pedaling faster and feel the wind rush by.