Blood Sisters Page 11

  “Well, it is really nice looking. You all keep up the yard, don’t you?” his mom says when they get up to the house.

  “And the inside. That’s the rule, and we have duties. Tonight, I’m in charge of the dishes and the kitchen. Mollie’s cooking, and Ellie is helping her. Ellie is not that great a cook and needs to be told what to do. She’s good at vacuuming, though.”

  “Where do you get your food?”

  “We decide what each of us will cook, and we make a list of what we need for the week, and two of us shop at Fred Meyer. Sometimes we forget things, so we get creative. Like last night, Jerry cooked fried eggs and green beans because we didn’t get the sausages he wanted. He was a little mad, but he got over it because we all like eggs.”

  The three of them go into the house and hear a guitar. “Jerry, we got company,” Janey calls, as Jerry walks into the living room, his guitar over his shoulder. “He’s our only male. We all think we need another guy in this place.”

  “Why?” Jim can’t help asking.

  “To help take out the garbage. Isn’t that a man’s job?” Janey laughs and pats Jerry’s guitar as she introduces him to Jim’s mother.

  I can take out the garbage, he thinks. And do other man chores. Even mow the lawn.

  Then they walk through the house, the bathroom with its cabinet with names on the drawers, the three bedrooms with twin beds and closets and chests. “I have a single bedroom because my chair takes so much room,” Janey explains.

  “Good excuse,” Jerry jokes. “I have a single bedroom because I am the only guy in the house.”

  Janey laughs. “Not a good excuse,” and she knocks into Jim with a wheel of her chair.

  “And you have a social worker who keeps an eye on you?” Jim’s mother is still not smiling.

  “Gladys. She comes by on Thursdays, goes over our bills and budget, and sometimes even plans activities on the weekend for us.”

  “If we are good,” Jerry says.

  “And we are always good, aren’t we?” Jim likes that Janey winks at him.

  On the way home, his mother says only, “The place was very neat.” Like that is important. He doesn’t tell her that the four people who live there have voted that he could move in. “Be your own person,” William said. Maybe Dr. Kauffman will explain what that means and how he can do it.

  Dr. Kauffman asks about being accepted by the group, and Jim gives him the list of feeling words he thought of earlier: glad, scared, worried.

  “Do you think that possibly your mother has the same feelings about the group home? That maybe that’s why she visited it today?”

  “Why would she? She’s not going to move there.”

  “But if you do, she might be worried about you, don’t you think?”

  “She shouldn’t worry. Janey’s mother doesn’t worry, I bet. Or Jerry’s.”

  “Mothers always worry about their children. It’s their job. But there comes a time when, despite their worry, they let their child go. Like a mother bird does when her chick is ready to fly away. Have you ever seen that?”

  “Once we had a crow’s nest in the tree outside my window. We watched the babies stick up their orange necks for food. Then one of the little birds hopped out of the nest and walked along the limb. The grown-up birds called to him, over and over, until he waved his wings and stepped off the limb.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He flew, sort of. Landed on a branch and looked around. The big birds went to him and made more noise. Mom said they were saying they were proud of him.”

  “Do you think the parent birds were a little worried as he flew off that first time?”

  Jim knows why Dr. Kauffman is asking that question. “Yes. Because it’s a mother’s job to worry. Even when it’s time to…”

  “Let go.”

  “William, my tutor at work, said I should become my own person.”

  “Good advice.”

  “Does that mean I have to fly off a branch?” Jim thinks he’s making a joke, but Dr. Kauffman doesn’t laugh.

  “It means exactly that. Time to start flapping your wings.”

  34

  Three flashbacks in the past four days. The last one happened yesterday when Hank stopped for coffee at Jack’s Café. He was reading an article in the newspaper about Elvis Presley dying. Elvis Presley had not been very important to him after he got back from Korea, since he had a family and not much time for anything else, but the article reminded him of the night he watched an episode of The Ed Sullivan Show, Jimmy in his lap, and wondered what the world was coming to. The singer belted out “Nothin’ but a hound dog,” and even Hank found it hard to sit still as Presley’s hips and body gyrated. Jimmy laughed as he bounced in his red pajamas on his father’s knees.

  As Hank remembers the moment, the pajamas dissolve into a red shirt, another baby in red, an explosion…

  “Are you all right?” the young waiter asks.

  “Yeah.” The spilled coffee is soaking into his pants. “Just bring me a refill.”

  He’s got to go to the VA again, tell them the flashbacks are happening more often. The dreams, too. He is afraid to go to sleep some nights, and occasionally he will wake up to find Eleanor sleeping on the couch. “You were restless, tossing about,” she explains. “But I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Hank drives to the hospital, finds the same row of sad faces in the waiting room, is told he would be called soon because he is on the list. “On the list! I need to be talking to a doctor, getting some medicine at least, even if that’s all you can do. These guys—” His arm swoops across the room. “—all need help. What is going on here? What happened to the idea that we risked everything for our country?”

  Like it’s another person’s body, Hank watches his hand reach out toward the receptionist’s long stringy hair. His fingers close around a hunk of it, and she screams. Something wraps around his neck. An arm. He is glad for the arm and yields to it. “Easy, guy, easy.” The arm edges him away from the desk, brings him to a chair.

  Strands of hair dangle between his fingers; tears wet his face. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I am so…”

  “Angry. We all are.” His rescuer, a young man, a red scar dipping into his eyebrow, still keeps his arm over Hank’s shoulder. “Sometimes going nuts gets a little attention. Someone is headed this way.”

  A nurse approaches, signals him, or maybe both of them, to follow her. “I’m Gerald, USMC,” the young man says, “and you are…?”

  For a second, Hank can’t remember. “Hank, infantry, almost thirty years ago.”

  “Korea, I bet.”

  “Korea still, it seems.”

  Gerald’s hand is now on Hank’s elbow; the two men are led into a room. The nurse asks, “You are relatives?” When they shake their heads, she says that Gerald will have to wait outside. “Dr. Perine will be here in a minute.” And he is, just as the nurse adjusts the blood pressure strap around Hank’s arm and pumps it up.

  Without an introduction, the physician asks, “Have these anger attacks often?”

  “I’m angry about a lot of things, but not like what just happened.” He considers mentioning that he slapped Eleanor, but doesn’t.

  “I understand you are waiting for treatment—for anger, PTSD symptoms, or more?”

  “I have flashbacks, bad dreams, and they are getting worse.”

  “Your blood pressure is very high, your heartbeat also.” Dr. Perine takes a pad from his pocket. “We can’t deal with the source of your trouble; that will happen once we get you to a specialist, and that may be weeks away. But I’m prescribing a drug that will help lower your blood pressure and a second prescription that will help you deal with the stress. I’m sorry we can’t do more at this time, but I’ll note this incident on your file, and that may hurry your application along.” The white-coated doctor holds out his hand, but Hank doesn’t reach out to meet it until he sees that it holds a couple of papers.

  And that’s it.
Hank pockets the prescriptions, rubs his finger free of the last strand of hair, and walks out of the building without looking at the receptionist talking on the phone or Gerald reading a magazine across the room.

  “I have a couple of prescriptions to get at the drugstore,” he tells Eleanor when he gets home. “I’m really tired. Can you get them for me?”

  “You went to the VA? I’m so glad.”

  He doesn’t tell her what happened there. The newspaper is on the coffee table. He opens it and finds the sports page. Eleanor stands behind his chair, asks, “So what happens next? When do you start the program?” When he doesn’t answer, he hears her open the door, go outside.

  The message light is flashing on the phone. Ralph’s voice tells him to be brave, to call him when he wants to talk. Hank jots the number down on the edge of the newspaper, tucks the scrap in his pocket. Maybe later? Maybe, he thinks.

  35

  Izzy is finally sleeping. Patsy slips away from the crib, goes to her closet, and takes out a pair of jeans. She used to have business-type clothes, but she has packed them away. Who needs them when one’s days only lead you as far as the backyard? And besides, she has lost a little weight in the past month. She’s happy about that even though she can’t figure out why. Maybe because she hasn’t felt like cooking since Ray is not home for dinner. She should thank him when he calls next.

  This time, Ray sounds quite cheerful. He talks about several fellow counselees and about the growing camaraderie between a few of them. “We’re discovering that it’s okay to connect—or, in my case, I don’t need to avoid them.” Then he says, “I love you, Patsy,” and she is once again assured that she was right to arrange the intervention. His boss called a day before and told her that he was holding Ray’s job, and Patsy relays that message to her husband. She is surprised when he seems less than enthusiastic about the return to the office. “I’ll see,” is all he says. “Not there yet.”

  “Not there yet.” The “yet” sounds hopeful, she thinks as she hangs up the phone. Her mother’s voice interrupts that thought. “Hey, is my little girl waiting for me?”

  “Your big girl is. The little one is out like a light.” Sarah removes her jacket and hangs it on the coat tree. “Everything okay?” she asks as she accepts the cup of tea Patsy hands her.

  “Well, yeah, I think. Ray sounded good on the phone. He’s invited me to come to a group session next week. Something about Al-Anon. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s the mother in me. You look a little peaked. Eating okay?”

  “As much as I need. I clean out Izzy’s baby food jars because I don’t have to cook for Ray.” At her mother’s frown, she adds, “And TV dinners, a wonderful crutch for someone who doesn’t want to get near a stove.”

  “Very salty. I’ll bring us a casserole next time I come—and the next time I cook. I am also experiencing an antipathy toward gracious living despite Julia Child. But I’m not losing weight as you seem to be.” Sarah reaches over, yanks at the waist of her daughter’s jeans. “Patsy, two inches too big?”

  Patsy laughs. “Probably bought two inches too big.” But she knows they weren’t too big a month or so ago. She really needs to start eating.

  Izzy must hear their voices; she sends plaintive calls from the bedroom. Her grandmother is the first responder in this case, and Patsy takes a bottle of milk out of the fridge and pours it into a plastic cup. Then she opens a can of smashed squash for older babies and catches a glimpse of her face in the mirror above the sink. She can see why her mother said she looked peaked. She does.

  Sarah takes over the squash spoon, and wipes Izzy’s face when the feeding ends with an adamant shake of a head and a mouth clamped shut. Wiping her own hands, she laughs and says, “It appears Izzy’s finished her lunch. I’m taking her for a walk. You relax, with a book or something, and we’ll bring you back a surprise.”

  Before long, the house is quiet. No Izzy, no mother. Patsy follows Sarah’s advice and lies down on her bed. Maybe I should visit Dr. Levy, ask for a different pill. The Xanax doesn’t seem to be working anymore. Or I’m panicking for a different reason, now that my addicted husband is out of the house, getting help. Maybe I should be worried because I’ve lost eight pounds without even trying.

  Patsy rises, reaffirms in her dresser mirror what she had noticed earlier. Her cheeks are pale, yellowish. She calls her doctor, relieved that grandma and child have not yet come in from their walk. No sense worrying anyone else.

  An hour later, the two of them come through the door, a quart of ice cream perched in the stroller next to Izzy: chocolate, the favorite of all three of them. Patsy catches her mother glancing at her several times, the way she does—questioning eyes, lowered eyebrows—when she is worried.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Mom, I’m not sick, just a little tired. And maybe stressed. When Ray comes home, we’ll get back to normal.” She runs a hand over her hair. She can’t remember when she went to her hairdresser last. “I also need to get a trim. How do you feel about another day with Izzy?”

  Izzy is asleep in the stroller, her neck at an angle that puts an ear on a shoulder. “Oh, that looks like it hurts.”

  “Babies are ninety percent Play-Doh.” Sarah adjusts her granddaughter’s posture, careful not to wake her up. “Sorry, I’m on overtime on Friday. Can your neighbor help?”

  When Patsy calls and asks, Eleanor tells her that she can indeed and looks forward to playing blocks. Patsy will use the haircut as an excuse for needing to get away for an hour or so to see her doctor. She pats a smudge of blush on her cheeks.

  36

  Izzy is small for a three-year-old. She walks when she can hold onto a hand, as she is doing now. Patsy says that Down syndrome kids often take a while to rise up and conquer the world, but they enjoy the journey. Izzy is chortling sweetly as she carefully places one foot in front of the other, and I again understand that it’s good babies are born to the young. My back needs a massage. I allow the little girl to gently drop to the floor, and I do too, and we play with blocks again.

  Now my knees are complaining. I never ached when Jim was a little kid, did I? Probably not. He caused other pains, none of them physical. But we did sit on the floor and play with his Legos. Over and over. Took me a while to realize that my shy son was different than most of the children in nursery school. Actually, another mother brought me to that reality. “He sure is quiet. Does he ever talk?”

  I felt a need to lie. “At home he is a chatterbox.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I was a little worried. I’m used to my Sammy, who can’t shut up ever. Like right now.” The woman pointed to two boys grabbing at each other, shouting, “That’s my car!” She smiled, shrugged. “I’d better go separate them.”

  I remember being envious of that mother and her loud son. Does Patsy get envious of mothers and their daughters running ahead down the sidewalk? Izzy holds up her hands, signals up-up, wants to move again. I lift myself off the floor, and we parade in tandem across the room.

  Someone is knocking at the door. Izzy clings to my leg as I open it. A woman with a nametag hanging around her neck smiles at me. Gladys something. “Hello, can I help you?” I ask.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ellison. We haven’t met, but I know your son, Jim. I work with his friends at the group home. I heard you visited them.”

  I pick Izzy up and open the screen door, gesture for her to come in. “Yes, I did. Was that okay?”

  “Very okay,” Gladys says.

  Izzy has her hand over one of my eyes, and I need to set her down before she blinds me. “Sorry. I’m babysitting a neighbor’s child, and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a wiggler in the room. It’s been years since Jim…”

  Gladys laughs. “I’m told it’s like riding a bike.”

  I lower Izzy into her playpen, hand her a stuffed toy. “I’m getting off this bike for a minute. Sit down. What can I do for you?” My words come out in a burst, too fast, uncongenial. This woman makes me
nervous. I want her gone.

  “Jim asked me to talk to you. He’s worried that he will make you angry or that you will get upset. He is a sensitive young man. He cares for you.”

  “And he wants to move into the group home.”

  “Yes. The others want him to move in also.”

  She stops talking. I will not let her know that Jim is right, that I am angry and upset at this news. “There really is no reason for him to move from here, Gladys. He is free to come and go, his work is nearby, he is absolutely no burden to either his father or me.” I reconsider that last statement, know that it isn’t completely true, but it is none of her business. “So now what?”

  “Jim is very capable of joining a group like this; he has the skills and the will to be more on his own. It’ll be good for him, for his social skills to experience living with people other than his parents.”

  “We can give him opportunities to meet new people. I’ll take him to church. He can join clubs like Young Rotarians. I’d even let him travel.”

  “Your son is attempting to hold his life in his own hands, to make a very important change without his parents watching from the sidelines.”

  “Instead he’ll have you, a social worker, doing the same thing?”

  “The difference is that I’m watching all five of the residents. My job is to make sure they’re safe, that things are fair, that everyone is civil.”

  “He’s never been away from me—us.”

  “He’s eager to try. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But he’s felt these feelings before even though he might not have been able to give them names. When he started school? When he first took his new job? When…”

  “When other kids made fun of him.”

  “No one makes fun of anyone in this group. I can guarantee it. They all know how the home functions: All for one, one for all kind of thing.” She leans toward me, says, “Really. He can do this.”