The Language of Sisters (21 page)

“Did Dad make it a difficult process?”

“Not really. He agreed to alimony and continued support of Jenny’s care, which is more than I expected.” She sighed, crinkling her almond eyes as she changed lanes to take the Admiral Way exit. “I’ve called him several times, you know, to tell him about what’s happened, but he’s never answered.”

“What a surprise,” I remarked blandly.

“Anyway!” Mom said brightly, obviously wanting to change the subject. “Can you believe what we’ll be getting for Jenny? Five million dollars! Less than that, of course, after Mr. Waterson’s fees, but how wonderful it will be to not have to worry about the cost of her care!”

I sighed. “Yeah, it’s wonderful.” What wasn’t so wonderful was the task that lay ahead of me now. It was time to find Jenny a new place to live.

•  •  •

The drive to the home in La Conner would take over an hour from Nova’s house, so by nine in the morning she, Star, and I had strapped Jenny and Layla into their respective car seats in Nova’s minivan, leaving Ryan with his other children for the day. We last saw him loosely tied to the red cedar in their front yard with Rebecca leading her brothers in a war dance around their smiling prisoner. Since Mom had to work, I had asked Nova and Star to come along with me for moral support. I also wanted to bring Jenny, to gauge her reaction to this home as best I could.

The Sunshine House was the last on the short list Mr. Waterson had given us. There was a larger home in Spokane with an opening, but a six-hour drive was farther away than Mom wanted her, so I hadn’t even bothered going to visit it. Despite the bits of help Mom was providing with Jenny at home, she was still leaving the search for a new placement up to me. She asked only that Jenny be as close as possible to home. “I trust you,” she had said. “You’ll find something.”

I resented having this daunting task left entirely up to me; part of me wanted to demand that she just keep Jenny with her at home. Money wouldn’t be an issue; she could quit her job at the bank. Then the rational side of my brain pointed out that taking care of Jenny wasn’t just a financial matter. It was an emotional
and physical drain, and as I’d realized before, my mother had already gone through the complicated process of disentangling herself from enmeshment with Jenny; I doubted she wanted to go through it again.

I took on the search for Jenny’s new home with deliberate intent. Earlier in the week I had visited the one residence on the list that was within the Seattle city limits. It had seemed the most promising; when the director gave me the historic Fremont District address I felt hopeful, picturing a quaint home trimmed in black filigree ironwork, a yard edged with antique roses and towering, century-old rhododendrons. I was not far off in my physical estimate. When I pulled up in front of the home, I was immediately drawn to its Victorian style.
What a perfect place for Jenny,
I thought as I entered through gleaming white French doors. The walls in the entryway were bright but classy, with a mural depicting a field of wildflowers. The furniture was all plush and clean, the windows open to let a fresh breeze blow through the gauzy white drapes.

I stepped a short distance into the living room, where the flash of cartoons played noisily on the large television set, around which sat three wheelchair-bound individuals, their eyes glazed and empty, their hands twisted together like tree roots. One girl had a small patch of macaroni and cheese upon her chest waiting to be wiped up. Unable to help myself, I went over to her and picked the noodles off, setting them on top of the television. I smoothed her light brown hair back from her face, and one side of her sagging mouth lifted into the hint of a smile.

“Excuse me, can I help you with somethin’?” a loud voice boomed from across the room.

I whipped around to face a large black woman with an abundance of long beaded braids. “I’m Nicole Hunter,” I
stated firmly. “I spoke with Ms. Perlman about the placement opening?”

“Ms. Perlman’s the director. She don’t come in ’cept on Monday mornings.” She pointed to the discarded pasta. “What’s that up there?”

I straightened my spine. “This girl had it on her shirt.”

The woman nodded and came toward us. She pulled a rag from her pants pocket and wiped the girl’s face with what seemed to me a rough motion.

“So,” I said, anxious to get on with things, “Ms. Perlman told me I could visit anytime.”

The woman looked skeptical. “Is that right?” But after a brief pause, a small light went off in her eyes. “Wait a minute. I think she might have said somethin’ ’bout your comin’. You got a sister?”

“Yes.” I glanced down a hall that seemed to lead to the kitchen. “Are you the only staff person at the moment?”

“Yup. My name’s Irene.” She checked on the girls in their chairs, wiping the drool from one’s chin and sniffing another’s lap for evidence of the need for a diaper change. Apparently satisfied with their respective states, she turned back to me. “Let me show you around.”

I followed Irene through the house. There were three bedrooms with two hospital beds in each tight space; two of the beds were occupied with the curled, silent figures of the other residents. The walls were painted white with a few colorful
Sesame Street
posters tacked here and there in the hallway. The one bathroom was clean but crowded, and the kitchen was a skinny rectangle, its countertops scattered with unwashed dishes. There was a chart on the refrigerator marking the residents’ medications as well as a sparse schedule of planned activities, which I noticed hadn’t been updated since the month of May.

Everything was clean enough, but I got such a feeling of emptiness as I looked around. There were no family pictures, no evidence of any of the girls’ personalities. Despite its warm exterior, the house seemed to lack a heart. Also, with room for six residents, it seemed to lack sufficient staff.

“Irene?” I called out.

She lumbered into the kitchen. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Are you a registered nurse?”

“A nurse’s aide, ma’am.”

“How many people are employed here?”

She lifted her chin and counted silently to herself. “Six, altogether, including me.”

“And how often are you alone with all of the residents?”

“Just during the lunch break for the rest of the staff.”

“Every day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I see.”

“This here’s a hard job, takin’ care of these girls. Hard to find good people for the pay.” She sounded defensive.

“I’m sure.” I held my hand out for her to shake. “Well, thank you. I’ve seen all I need to.”

“Should I tell Ms. Perlman that you’ll be callin’?”

I turned down the hallway to the front door. “No, Irene. I wouldn’t tell her that.”

I’d wept a little when I told Mom about the house, knowing it was on par with most of what was out there. “It was just so impersonal,” I said dejectedly. “I’m afraid it’d remind Jenny of Wellman.” After this, Mom couldn’t meet my gaze; the guilt she felt for putting Jenny in a place where she’d ended up getting raped stifled the air between us. I wondered if that was the only abuse she felt guilty about.

That night I had dreamed of my niece in an institution like
Wellman, lying helplessly alone in a metal-barred crib, crying out for someone to hold her, nurses rushing past, too overwhelmed by the weight of their profession to stop and give comfort.

I saw myself standing next to the crib as this infant wept—her tiny form a dark-haired, blue-eyed miniature copy of my angel sister. Her petal pink lips moved in slow motion, forming a word that my heart immediately recognized. “Mama,” she cried, her eyes glued to me, as though she had finally given me my rightful name. But when I reached my arms out to lift her to my chest, an unseen hand dragged me away.

I was unable to touch her, unable to claim this child who so obviously needed me. With this image I awoke, and my heart ached with such great force, such intense longing, that I was afraid it might fall right out of my chest. The dream stuck with me on our journey to La Conner, to the home that I hadn’t visited first because of the drive.

“Now, this place has a staff nurse, right?” Star inquired as we drove along, the morning light bouncing off the many silver strands that hung around her neck. She wore a loose dress the color of flax and a bright red pair of Birkenstock sandals. Her toenails were painted fluorescent blue.

“Three, actually,” I replied, scanning the map for the exit to Anacortes the home’s director had told me to take. “One of them is always there. Plus there are five part-time aides, so with only three residents, the ratio is pretty good.” I folded the map. “I think we’re supposed to get off here.”

“Do they have an opening for Jenny?” Nova asked as she signaled to leave the freeway.

“No, but one of the current residents is in the hospital right now, not doing so well. Her doctors aren’t very optimistic. I feel terrible checking the place out on the chance that she might not make it, but—”

“If you don’t, someone else will,” Star commented.

“What about a waiting list?” Nova asked.

“There isn’t one. It’s a fairly new home. The director told me that very few people know about it. I guess Mr. Waterson’s assistant knew someone who lives in La Conner and told her about it when it opened last fall.”

“Kismet,” Star commented. “Honey,” she continued, addressing her daughter, “turn left up here at the light.”

“I see that, Mom. There’s a very large sign that says ‘La Conner.’ But thanks.” She rolled her eyes toward her hairline.

Star saw the movement in the rearview mirror and tapped the back of Nova’s seat with her foot. “Be nice,” she instructed, her voice edged in warning. The air suddenly felt tense, as I sensed the same unease between Nova and Star that I often felt with my own mother.

“Still hate backseat drivers, huh, Nova?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood in the van.

“Backseats are only good for one thing,” Nova said, smiling. “We learned that in high school, right, Nic?”

“Along with a few other things,” I answered.

Star covered her ears. “Please. I don’t need to hear this.” She grimaced. “I may be hip, but I’m still your mother.”

“Please. Like you don’t know how I ended up with four kids.”

“I’d rather not think about it, thank you.”

“How
did
you end up with four kids?” I asked, laughing more.

“Easy. I’m a slut.” Nova and I both roared at her joke, and even Star couldn’t help but join us. Jenny giggled at us all, and Layla cooed and smiled, batting at the colorful toys that hung over her car seat. The tension in the vehicle had lifted, suddenly upbeat and oddly out of sync with the purpose of our trip.

I sighed, still laughing a bit. “I envy you, you know that?” I
twisted to look at Star. “You, too. Both of your marriages are so great.”

“Ha!” Star and Nova snorted at the same time, sounding so alike their relation suddenly became apparent.

“What do you mean, ‘ha’? You and Orion have been together how long, thirty years almost? And you and Ryan seem so close, Nova. I don’t know how you do it.”

Star reached up to touch my elbow. “You don’t think thirty years has been all candlelight and flowers, do you? Because it definitely has not.”

“And popping out a baby every few months is not exactly fuel for the romantic fires,” Nova added. “Seems like every time I’d actually get up the energy to do it, Ryan’d knock me up and
poof
! ‘No Sex in the Suburbs.’”

I laughed again, wistful. “I know. I guess I just wonder how it is to connect—I mean
really
connect—with someone. The right someone.”

“Seems like I saw some connecting going on with that Garret fellow at the barbecue,” Star commented knowingly. I wondered what Nova had told her about us.

I blushed, tucking my curls behind both ears. “Well, yeah, maybe, but I guess what I mean is how do you make it last? How do you stay together through the times when you
don’t
connect?” My thoughts fled to Shane as I considered whether we had ever actually connected on any level other than the physical.

“I think it’s really about expectations,” Star said. “If you expect to connect all of the time, you’re doomed.”

Nova whistled. “Watch out, Dr. Laura. Star Carson is on the air.” She followed the curve of the road onto the short main strip of downtown La Conner.

“Nova,” I groaned, shifting my body to look at my friend’s mother. “Star, that was very helpful. Thank you.”

“It was, Mom,” Nova relented. “I also happen to agree with you.”

“Well, will wonders never cease?” Star smiled. She looked out the window. “Here’s the street we’re looking for.”

“Okay, Mom!” Nova tooted the horn, obnoxiously. “Got it!”

“Just trying to help,” Star said, crossing her arms over her chest, her tone defensive.

“Well, give it a rest,” Nova said, turning the steering wheel. It was good to see another person get so easily annoyed with her mother. It almost made me feel normal.

We pulled up in front of a boxy, two-story gray house with white shutters and a wraparound porch. A wide ramp served as entrance to the double front doors, so Star and I didn’t have any trouble getting Jenny inside. Nova stayed in the car to nurse Layla, promising to join us soon.

When we entered, a short, stocky woman of what I guessed to be Latino descent approached us from behind a small desk. She wore violet-hued polyester pants and a matching nurse’s smock with sensible white orthopedic shoes.

“Hello,” she said, sticking out her hand. “You must be the Hunters.”

“Two of us are,” I answered, introducing myself, Jenny, and Star.

She bobbed her dark head sharply in our direction. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

I shook my head. I had been expecting the director. “Is Ms. Navarro here today?”

“I’m Natalie Navarro.” Her
r
’s had a slight purring sound. She gestured to her appearance. “I’m also a nurse a few hours a day. Shall I give you the tour?”

“Please.” I held my breath as she led us through the house, fearful that the next corner would reveal the darkness I had
been expecting, the stench that I believed accompanied all residences such as these. But all I found were orderly, professional surroundings edged by personal touches of photo galleries and stuffed animals. The two other residents were female, both with their own rooms on the first floor. The remaining room would be Jenny’s; it was a small, square space with a large window that looked out into the backyard. There were two bathrooms, both well-equipped with safety measures. Upstairs was Ms. Navarro’s office, along with an extra bedroom and half bath for the nurses to share. The kitchen was set up family-style, a long white picnic table along the wall opposite the countertop and sink. The girls’ wheelchairs would roll easily up to the table to eat. There was a television in the living room; one girl sat on the slightly worn couch watching a
Sesame Street
video. Nova joined us there; Layla slept peacefully in the sling. I smiled vaguely at her, and when she gripped my hand in her own, I did not let go.