Mothered (71)

“Come on! I’m sorry!”

Ten seconds later: “I’m bored! Come on, Grace!”

“You know Mommy will get mad at me!” Grace yelled over her shoulder. “If you shut up you’ll at least be able to hear it.”

Hope shut up for twenty seconds. Then, “I’ll take the blame! I’ll tell Mommy I made you! Please?”

“It won’t matter.” She clicked the volume up another notch.

Just as Grace was getting into the show, finally able to concentrate, Hope let out a piercing shriek—the kind of sound Grace might make if she found a tarantula crawling up her leg. She leaped out of the chair and dashed to her sister’s bedside, expecting to see . . . something.

Another vomity mess. A many-legged creature advancing toward Hope’s pillow. Instead, Hope offered her version of a guilty smile.

“What?” Grace demanded.

“Sorry. Just thought I saw a face at the window.”

It was a creepy enough thought that Grace went to the window and peered out. With the bright room reflected on the glass, she couldn’t see much of anything. The miniblind was a bit mangled, but Grace lowered it and tried to force the crooked slats to do a better job of blocking out the night.

Hope reached for her, her arm and fingers hyperextended.

“There’s nothing there,” Grace said, returning to the bedside. Hope’s finger snagged her shirtsleeve.

“Okay. I’m sorry sorry and you have to accept my apology.”

“I do. But Mommy wanted you to stay in bed and rest, and you’ve been up and about all day.”

“Just a little TV,” Hope begged.

“No. Read a magazine. Take a nap.”

“I’m too snuffly to sleep. I’m all stuffed up.”

“Mommy will give you some medicine when she gets home.” Grace disentangled her sister’s finger.

Hope flopped against her pillows, defeated or mock dead, Grace wasn’t sure. She escaped back to the living room, growling a little in her throat when the show went to commercials just as she was getting comfortable again. During the break she finished a couple of math problems, proud of herself for multitasking—don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer!—and for finally getting her sister to accept she’d lost the battle. When the show came back on, Grace shoved her math book aside.

From the other room, Hope started singing—loudly. She’d advanced past humming, and while she didn’t actually say all the words, she vocalized the melody. Loudly. The song was more or less in tune, but that hardly mattered.

“Shut up!” Grace yelled. Hope continued singing.

Grace raised the television volume to a near-deafening level. She gritted her teeth, hoping a little patience would win this new stage of the war. If Hope’s mouth was so dry, if she was really so stuffed up, surely she couldn’t go on singing for very long. But her warbling became more like screeching, and it was making Grace crazy.

Once again, Grace leaped from her chair and raced to her sister’s room. She flung back the curtain just long enough to scream, “Shut! Up!”

Back in front of the TV, Grace lowered the volume because that had become an annoyance, too, almost as bad as her sister’s caterwauling. She thought Hope was finally out of breath, but a moment later—perhaps after gulping some water or tea—Hope launched into a new song.

Grace pressed herself into the mommy-cat cushion, hands mashing her ears. She wanted to outscream her sister or burst into tears or throw on her coat and run out into the night and leave Hope to fend for herself.

With every passing second, the noise and her sister’s obstinate will were shredding her composure. She felt like the sound was stripping off her skin in thin pieces—the same way she peeled off random strips from the ancient wallpaper in the upstairs hallway. But she didn’t have a plaster wall hiding beneath her facade but raw, oozing flesh.

“Shut! Up!”

If only their mother could witness this and understand the degree to which Hope was not the frail girl she imagined. If only this was what her mother, instead of Grace, had to deal with every day.

Hope’s voice was a nail pounding through Grace’s skull. “Stop it! Please!”

Her eardrums exploded. Her skull shattered. The bony plates joined the piled strips of bloody skin. Hope had reduced her to this fireball of pain, nerves exposed, her lacerated body nothing but a fragile, searing cluster of overloaded senses. Grace’s voice joined her sister’s in a howling duet as she charged into Hope’s room.

From afar, Grace saw herself yank the pillow from beneath her sister’s head.

From afar, she saw herself press the pillow against Hope’s face.



Grace transferred the blanket from the washer to the dryer. As she curled up in her favorite chair, she was quite pleased with herself. The house was clean, the laundry nearly done. Grace’s homework was well underway, and for once she hadn’t let Hope break all the rules. Mommy would come home soon and find Hope sound asleep in her bed, and Grace would finally earn her mother’s praise.





45


Grace tumbled off the sofa, the dream branded into her consciousness. She paced the length of the living room, back and forth, oblivious to the dawning light that was slowly returning color to everything in the room. The nightmare was not a surprise—she’d expected to dream about her sister’s last night. Even the story line wasn’t a shocker: it was the scenario her mother had fed her; it was exactly what Jackie wanted her to see. What bothered Grace was how she’d felt while seeing the images unspool.