Nikki, her younger and more emotional sister, was concerned.
“You see, Nikki was the one to discover the—”
Clare felt the need to begin again. “Nikki was the one to find Mom. She’s taking it pretty hard as you can imagine.”
Clare’s eyes flashed like scimitars. Not with tears.
It would be said in Mt. Ephraim that Nikki, the younger Eaton daughter, had collapsed after discovering her mother’s body but this was not true! I had not collapsed at the time. I had not collapsed for hours. Not so that anyone could see.
As soon as I was alone upstairs in the Chisholms’ house my head seemed to come unhinged from my neck and fell heavily forward. It had been my intention to shower immediately, to tear off my blood-smeared clothes and wash my hands which bore traces of black ink, but in the bathroom I became frightened, flushing the toilet involved so much noise. I seemed to lack the strength to take a shower, I was shivering badly and unable to remove my clothes. Sweatshirt, jeans. My punk-cut hair I’d been tamping down with both hands like a monkey displaying grief.
I was too exhausted to take the sleeping pill Dr. Myer had given me. I couldn’t make the effort to run water into a plastic cup, lift the cup to my mouth. I staggered into the attractively furnished guest room that Clare was providing for me at the end of the second-floor corridor of the house, I’d never slept in my sister’s house before and was comforted by a familiar scent of our mother’s floral soap and potpourri for this room closely resembled Mom’s guest room and in fact a number of Mom’s things were here: an oyster shell afghan Mom had knitted, a macramé wall hanging, coral shell knickknacks and clay vases. I fell heavily onto the bed. Onto the oyster shell afghan. When someone knocked hesitantly at the door—“Nikki? Are you hungry?”—I burrowed more deeply into the afghan and did not answer for I could not bear facing my sister’s children with the terrible knowledge between us of what had happened to their grandmother, I could not face them just yet.
Nikki! Don’t leave me, honey .
Honey, I need you. Come help me.
If you’d come earlier…Nikki!
Toward dawn I fell asleep. I think.
And in a dream there was the whispered promise that what had happened that hurt so badly would be rescinded in the night. What had happened that had no name would be rescinded by morning. I had not been a little girl for many years but I was willing to believe as a little girl might believe. For there was Mom wearing the clumsy oven mitts she’d bought at a church bazaar, three sizes too large for her, stooping to pull a bubbling casserole out of the oven and unaware of me watching. And there was Mom feeding her “strays”—three very hungry cats jostling for her attention, in a corner of the kitchen. And there was Mom casting a sidelong look at Clare and me who were acting silly about something Oh really, you two! Make yourselves useful .
For why should things be serious, couldn’t you turn them into a joke? Better to smile than to frown. Better to laugh than to cry. Deflect a remark that might wound with a quizzical lift of the eyes, an innocent/mischievous twitch of the lips. Dad was the worrier in the Eaton family. Dad was in need of “lightening”—“cheering up”—for Dad took his responsibilities seriously, supporting his family, this damned recession in western New York State that seemed never to be turning around the way politicians were always promising yet taxes remained high, taxes were steadily rising, where was it going to end!
Go give Daddy your valentines. Go on, Daddy is waiting. And give Daddy a kiss, whether he asks for a kiss or not.
Mom was sewing a quilt. Not a full-sized quilt but a baby-sized quilt, for one of my older Eaton cousins was having her first baby. The quilt was “patchwork”—squares of all different colors, designs—pale green, pale lavender, white bunnies, red cardinals,
“You see, Nikki was the one to discover the—”
Clare felt the need to begin again. “Nikki was the one to find Mom. She’s taking it pretty hard as you can imagine.”
Clare’s eyes flashed like scimitars. Not with tears.
It would be said in Mt. Ephraim that Nikki, the younger Eaton daughter, had collapsed after discovering her mother’s body but this was not true! I had not collapsed at the time. I had not collapsed for hours. Not so that anyone could see.
As soon as I was alone upstairs in the Chisholms’ house my head seemed to come unhinged from my neck and fell heavily forward. It had been my intention to shower immediately, to tear off my blood-smeared clothes and wash my hands which bore traces of black ink, but in the bathroom I became frightened, flushing the toilet involved so much noise. I seemed to lack the strength to take a shower, I was shivering badly and unable to remove my clothes. Sweatshirt, jeans. My punk-cut hair I’d been tamping down with both hands like a monkey displaying grief.
I was too exhausted to take the sleeping pill Dr. Myer had given me. I couldn’t make the effort to run water into a plastic cup, lift the cup to my mouth. I staggered into the attractively furnished guest room that Clare was providing for me at the end of the second-floor corridor of the house, I’d never slept in my sister’s house before and was comforted by a familiar scent of our mother’s floral soap and potpourri for this room closely resembled Mom’s guest room and in fact a number of Mom’s things were here: an oyster shell afghan Mom had knitted, a macramé wall hanging, coral shell knickknacks and clay vases. I fell heavily onto the bed. Onto the oyster shell afghan. When someone knocked hesitantly at the door—“Nikki? Are you hungry?”—I burrowed more deeply into the afghan and did not answer for I could not bear facing my sister’s children with the terrible knowledge between us of what had happened to their grandmother, I could not face them just yet.
Nikki! Don’t leave me, honey .
Honey, I need you. Come help me.
If you’d come earlier…Nikki!
Toward dawn I fell asleep. I think.
And in a dream there was the whispered promise that what had happened that hurt so badly would be rescinded in the night. What had happened that had no name would be rescinded by morning. I had not been a little girl for many years but I was willing to believe as a little girl might believe. For there was Mom wearing the clumsy oven mitts she’d bought at a church bazaar, three sizes too large for her, stooping to pull a bubbling casserole out of the oven and unaware of me watching. And there was Mom feeding her “strays”—three very hungry cats jostling for her attention, in a corner of the kitchen. And there was Mom casting a sidelong look at Clare and me who were acting silly about something Oh really, you two! Make yourselves useful .
For why should things be serious, couldn’t you turn them into a joke? Better to smile than to frown. Better to laugh than to cry. Deflect a remark that might wound with a quizzical lift of the eyes, an innocent/mischievous twitch of the lips. Dad was the worrier in the Eaton family. Dad was in need of “lightening”—“cheering up”—for Dad took his responsibilities seriously, supporting his family, this damned recession in western New York State that seemed never to be turning around the way politicians were always promising yet taxes remained high, taxes were steadily rising, where was it going to end!
Go give Daddy your valentines. Go on, Daddy is waiting. And give Daddy a kiss, whether he asks for a kiss or not.
Mom was sewing a quilt. Not a full-sized quilt but a baby-sized quilt, for one of my older Eaton cousins was having her first baby. The quilt was “patchwork”—squares of all different colors, designs—pale green, pale lavender, white bunnies, red cardinals,
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