everyadventure
02-02-2011, 04:23 PM
Margaret unpins hot rollers from her hair as I watch from the edge of the tub, banging my feet against the avocado fiberglass. She makes faces in the mirror, puckering her frosty pink lips, smiling, simpering. “Let’s go for ice cream,” Father calls from the living room, as he does every Sunday afternoon at three.
Margaret rolls her eyes and hairsprays her flip liberally. She shakes her blonde mane defiantly and shouts back, “I’m not in the mood for ice cream.” She grazes her hands over her hips. “I’m watching my figure.” She leans over and pinches the roll above my cut-offs. “You’d better skip the ice cream too,” she whispers viciously.
I pinch her arm in return, twisting fiercely. Father pokes his head around the bathroom door in time to see Margaret whack me with the bristled end of her purple plastic hairbrush. “Girls!” he admonishes sharply. “It’s time to go.”
Margaret follows Father into the living room, stamping her feet on the shaggy burnt orange carpet as I trail behind. Mother sits on the floral couch, feigning interest in last month’s Woman’s Day.
Margaret squares her shoulders and thrusts out her chest, pert breasts pointing accusingly through plaid fabric. “I’m not going,” she states, crossing her arms in emphasis.
Mother pales and sets down the magazine. There’s an advertisement for Spam: “A Spamwich makes a Super Sandwich!” Mother never buys Spam, she says it looks like cat food. She glances at Father apprehensively, but Father only replies, “You’re going,” in flat monotone.
Margaret’s lip curls, nostrils flaring. “I’m not! It’s stupid! She’s stupid!”
Mother rises, gliding swiftly to Margaret and slapping her face sharply. A thick silence descends as a scarlet print emerges, radiates. Mother’s face is blanched and waxen, her lips a pursed sphincter of distaste. Mother turns abruptly on the heel of her wedged sandal, marches to the front door, and swings it open with malevolence. Subdued, we follow her in silence.
Mother sits stiffly inside the Pontiac, beads of sweat forming on her whitened brow. We climb into the car and the vinyl burns the back of my thighs. Father inserts the key, then immediately turns off the radio. Sunday’s drive, as always, is quiet.
We drive past the Dairy Queen, the Safeway, the Shell station. I lean my head on the window and watch the houses roll by, giving way to farmland. There will be nothing to see for the next hour. I close my eyes, lulled by the whirring tires and the steady breath of my sister.
I awaken when the car crunches onto Shady Pines’ graveled drive. I sit rigidly attentive as the hulking stone asylum looms closer. Father parks the Pontiac and sits for a moment, hands clutching the wheel. Mother also sits unmoving, her face blank and closed. A line of sweat trickles down my back. Finally Father stirs. “Right, then,” he says grimly.
And with that cue, we exit the car. Immediately I can hear the faint wailing that plays in the background like an endless 8-track tape. Goosebumps sprout along my bare arms, and I hug myself in the Mississippi heat. Father takes Mother’s elbow and leads her to the arched entrance, but Margaret lingers behind. I hesitate, my loyalty challenged.
“Come on, Margaret, they’re leaving us.”
Margaret narrows her eyes and glares at their receding backs. “She isn’t really our sister, you know.” She spits the word “sister.” “Does she live with us? Does she look like us? Does she act like us? No! She’s a Mongoloid from Mongolia!”
I bite my bottom lip and taste blood. It tastes like a penny. “Mar-ga-ret,” I plead.
Margaret whirls to face me and presses her hands to the sides of my head, flattening my ears. Her eyes hold a fierce gleam as she hisses through clenched teeth: “She—is—not—my—SISTER!”
Her face softens as she registers my alarm. She pats my cheek lightly and says, “But you are, Mary Kate,” and then hooks her elbow through mine, solidifying our alliance.
We enter into a corridor made narrow by a receiving desk behind a glass wall. Father is signing the visitor’s clipboard, he passes it through a slot in the window to a nurse with a starched cap and a pea-sized mole on her chin. She slides laminated clips to my father, and I pin one to my tank top: VISITOR. Margaret slides hers into the pocket of her jumper as Mother eyes her sourly.
“What?” demands Margaret. “Everybody knows we’re visiting. Do you think they’re going to mistake me for a retard?”
Mother stiffens, and Father places a calming hand on her shoulder. “Let it be,” he whispers to her. Mother shakes off his hand.
Another nurse emerges from the hallway and says brusquely, “Follow me, this way please.”
Margaret rolls her eyes. “As if we don’t know where to go,” she whispers.
We enter the visitor’s area, a room of threadbare elegance. Dust clings thickly to the heavy brocade curtains. Victorian settees in faded rose dot the expansive marble floor. A vast and ponderous painting hangs on one wall: Jesus among a herd of pigs. Once I stood to look at the bronze plaque beside it, hoping for a clue: “Legions.” “Mother,” I’d whispered, “What’s a legion?” But she hushed me, and enlightenment remained elusive.
We sit on a pink couch, and Mother balances on the cushion of a highback chair, its thin velvet worn to white. I peer discreetly around the room. Other families, most in their Sunday best, also sit in uncomfortable silence. No one speaks, or smiles. One woman, wearing pearls, blows her nose into a tissue. Everyone else pretends not to notice.
The sound is a faint murmur at first, but grows increasingly louder as they approach. The heavy double doors swing open, and we’re assaulted by a cacophony: the screech of a walker against the floor, a repeated yap of “yah yah yah,” a shriek that begins low and wails upward, like a siren. The visitors ruffle themselves like birds, **** their heads, and perch on edge of their chairs. The patients enter, arms flapping in effusive greeting.
“Peggy, darling!” gushes Mother, pressing Peggy’s head to her bosom. Peggy grins, open-mouthed, her thick pink tongue dancing happily. Mother clasps Peggy’s shoulders and holds her at arm’s length, studies her face: the ritual weekly check-up. Peggy’s hair is cropped in a pageboy, raggedly trimmed, but clean. Mother licks her thumb and scrubs at an imagined spot on Peggy’s cheek. Peggy arches upward under her touch like a cat. Margaret catches my eye and sticks her finger in her mouth in exaggerated pantomime: “Gag me!”
Father clears his throat. “Peggy,” he says, bobbing his head in greeting. Peggy flies from Mother’s grasp and catapults at Father, rocking him to and fro in enthusiastic embrace. I can’t remember the last time Father hugged me. Margaret chips at her nail polish, salmon flakes snowing on her lap.
Now that everyone’s occupied, I brave a bolder glance across the room. It’s hard not to stare. There, a boy held to a wheelchair by a complex network of straps. His limbs are thin, contorted in impossible positions. His neck appears to be permanently twisted, he looks eternally upward for unattainable relief. A trickle of drool catches the light and sparkles on his wet chin.
To the left a hulking girl hides behind a curtain of colorless hair. She rocks and moans, moans and rocks, as the woman in pearls flutters her hands in a useless gesture of comfort. “There, there,” she murmurs in metered time with the moans, “there, there.”
Peggy wedges her wide bottom between Margaret and me on the couch. Peggy reaches up for Margaret’s earring and yanks. “Ow!” yelps Margaret, springing to her feet.
“Hush!” says Mother. Margaret stares venomously at Mother.
“Now, now,” says Father gently to Margaret, “Peggy doesn’t know any better. She’s just saying she likes your earrings.” Margaret looks at Father in disbelief and marches out of the room, cupping her injured ear.
Mother begins to rise, but Father restrains her with a hand. “Let her go,” he says. Father looks at me expectedly; it’s up to me to salvage this visit.
“Hello, Peggy,” I say with false cheer, giving her knee an awkward pat. Peggy clasps my fingers and holds them in her lap. Mother relaxes visibly, and Father gives me a nod of encouragement.
“So… what’s new?” I ask, wincing. Silly question. Nothing is ever new here: Peggy never learns anything new, goes anywhere new, tries anything new. Life at Shady Pines is an interminable sentence of monotony.
But Peggy doesn’t seem to mind. She takes my hand and leads me to the tall paned window. She points outside, chirping happily. I glance back at my parents, but they look at each other, not me. A remarkable smile plays on Mother’s lips. I turn back to the window and grin at my reflection; Peggy’s reflection grins too.
It’s soon time to begin the goodbyes, a long process that begins halfway through the visit. Mother sniffles while Father clenches and unclenches his jaw. I try desperately to keep the mood light, resorting to a slew of knock-knock jokes until Father tells me to cut it out.
Finally the nurses arrive, tennis shoes squeaking across the marble. They collect their charges, oblivious to the patients’ wails of protest. They are practiced and efficient; in moments only the families remain. For a while we all listen as the screeching, yapping, and shrieking fade down the unseen hallway. When it is quiet, the families rise in unison and move towards the exit. We stand close together, in a civilized mass, but no one touches, all eyes are cast downward. Down the corridor, single file, to spill out into the afternoon sunshine.
Margaret sulks in the car, her dampened flip drooping sadly in the heat. I know she hopes Mother will look at her with pity, see her flushed face, sweaty hair, and swollen ear, and rush to apologize: “Oh, you poor dear, sitting out here in this hot car! And look at your ear! I didn’t realize you were hurt so badly! Quick, Maxwell, let’s find a place to stop and get ice!” But Mother doesn’t even look back at her.
So I slide in beside Margaret and whisper, “Sorry about your ear.” But it isn’t my apology she wants, and she turns pointedly away from me.
We drive back to town, passing farmland, houses… the Shell station, the Safeway. My father pulls into the Dairy Queen. He says his line: “Who’s up for ice cream?” And I shout mine: “Me!”
I ask for a swirled cone and Margaret succumbs to the lure of a butterscotch Dilly Bar. We sit together at a speckled Formica table, and the truce, like so much else between us, remains unspoken.
Margaret rolls her eyes and hairsprays her flip liberally. She shakes her blonde mane defiantly and shouts back, “I’m not in the mood for ice cream.” She grazes her hands over her hips. “I’m watching my figure.” She leans over and pinches the roll above my cut-offs. “You’d better skip the ice cream too,” she whispers viciously.
I pinch her arm in return, twisting fiercely. Father pokes his head around the bathroom door in time to see Margaret whack me with the bristled end of her purple plastic hairbrush. “Girls!” he admonishes sharply. “It’s time to go.”
Margaret follows Father into the living room, stamping her feet on the shaggy burnt orange carpet as I trail behind. Mother sits on the floral couch, feigning interest in last month’s Woman’s Day.
Margaret squares her shoulders and thrusts out her chest, pert breasts pointing accusingly through plaid fabric. “I’m not going,” she states, crossing her arms in emphasis.
Mother pales and sets down the magazine. There’s an advertisement for Spam: “A Spamwich makes a Super Sandwich!” Mother never buys Spam, she says it looks like cat food. She glances at Father apprehensively, but Father only replies, “You’re going,” in flat monotone.
Margaret’s lip curls, nostrils flaring. “I’m not! It’s stupid! She’s stupid!”
Mother rises, gliding swiftly to Margaret and slapping her face sharply. A thick silence descends as a scarlet print emerges, radiates. Mother’s face is blanched and waxen, her lips a pursed sphincter of distaste. Mother turns abruptly on the heel of her wedged sandal, marches to the front door, and swings it open with malevolence. Subdued, we follow her in silence.
Mother sits stiffly inside the Pontiac, beads of sweat forming on her whitened brow. We climb into the car and the vinyl burns the back of my thighs. Father inserts the key, then immediately turns off the radio. Sunday’s drive, as always, is quiet.
We drive past the Dairy Queen, the Safeway, the Shell station. I lean my head on the window and watch the houses roll by, giving way to farmland. There will be nothing to see for the next hour. I close my eyes, lulled by the whirring tires and the steady breath of my sister.
I awaken when the car crunches onto Shady Pines’ graveled drive. I sit rigidly attentive as the hulking stone asylum looms closer. Father parks the Pontiac and sits for a moment, hands clutching the wheel. Mother also sits unmoving, her face blank and closed. A line of sweat trickles down my back. Finally Father stirs. “Right, then,” he says grimly.
And with that cue, we exit the car. Immediately I can hear the faint wailing that plays in the background like an endless 8-track tape. Goosebumps sprout along my bare arms, and I hug myself in the Mississippi heat. Father takes Mother’s elbow and leads her to the arched entrance, but Margaret lingers behind. I hesitate, my loyalty challenged.
“Come on, Margaret, they’re leaving us.”
Margaret narrows her eyes and glares at their receding backs. “She isn’t really our sister, you know.” She spits the word “sister.” “Does she live with us? Does she look like us? Does she act like us? No! She’s a Mongoloid from Mongolia!”
I bite my bottom lip and taste blood. It tastes like a penny. “Mar-ga-ret,” I plead.
Margaret whirls to face me and presses her hands to the sides of my head, flattening my ears. Her eyes hold a fierce gleam as she hisses through clenched teeth: “She—is—not—my—SISTER!”
Her face softens as she registers my alarm. She pats my cheek lightly and says, “But you are, Mary Kate,” and then hooks her elbow through mine, solidifying our alliance.
We enter into a corridor made narrow by a receiving desk behind a glass wall. Father is signing the visitor’s clipboard, he passes it through a slot in the window to a nurse with a starched cap and a pea-sized mole on her chin. She slides laminated clips to my father, and I pin one to my tank top: VISITOR. Margaret slides hers into the pocket of her jumper as Mother eyes her sourly.
“What?” demands Margaret. “Everybody knows we’re visiting. Do you think they’re going to mistake me for a retard?”
Mother stiffens, and Father places a calming hand on her shoulder. “Let it be,” he whispers to her. Mother shakes off his hand.
Another nurse emerges from the hallway and says brusquely, “Follow me, this way please.”
Margaret rolls her eyes. “As if we don’t know where to go,” she whispers.
We enter the visitor’s area, a room of threadbare elegance. Dust clings thickly to the heavy brocade curtains. Victorian settees in faded rose dot the expansive marble floor. A vast and ponderous painting hangs on one wall: Jesus among a herd of pigs. Once I stood to look at the bronze plaque beside it, hoping for a clue: “Legions.” “Mother,” I’d whispered, “What’s a legion?” But she hushed me, and enlightenment remained elusive.
We sit on a pink couch, and Mother balances on the cushion of a highback chair, its thin velvet worn to white. I peer discreetly around the room. Other families, most in their Sunday best, also sit in uncomfortable silence. No one speaks, or smiles. One woman, wearing pearls, blows her nose into a tissue. Everyone else pretends not to notice.
The sound is a faint murmur at first, but grows increasingly louder as they approach. The heavy double doors swing open, and we’re assaulted by a cacophony: the screech of a walker against the floor, a repeated yap of “yah yah yah,” a shriek that begins low and wails upward, like a siren. The visitors ruffle themselves like birds, **** their heads, and perch on edge of their chairs. The patients enter, arms flapping in effusive greeting.
“Peggy, darling!” gushes Mother, pressing Peggy’s head to her bosom. Peggy grins, open-mouthed, her thick pink tongue dancing happily. Mother clasps Peggy’s shoulders and holds her at arm’s length, studies her face: the ritual weekly check-up. Peggy’s hair is cropped in a pageboy, raggedly trimmed, but clean. Mother licks her thumb and scrubs at an imagined spot on Peggy’s cheek. Peggy arches upward under her touch like a cat. Margaret catches my eye and sticks her finger in her mouth in exaggerated pantomime: “Gag me!”
Father clears his throat. “Peggy,” he says, bobbing his head in greeting. Peggy flies from Mother’s grasp and catapults at Father, rocking him to and fro in enthusiastic embrace. I can’t remember the last time Father hugged me. Margaret chips at her nail polish, salmon flakes snowing on her lap.
Now that everyone’s occupied, I brave a bolder glance across the room. It’s hard not to stare. There, a boy held to a wheelchair by a complex network of straps. His limbs are thin, contorted in impossible positions. His neck appears to be permanently twisted, he looks eternally upward for unattainable relief. A trickle of drool catches the light and sparkles on his wet chin.
To the left a hulking girl hides behind a curtain of colorless hair. She rocks and moans, moans and rocks, as the woman in pearls flutters her hands in a useless gesture of comfort. “There, there,” she murmurs in metered time with the moans, “there, there.”
Peggy wedges her wide bottom between Margaret and me on the couch. Peggy reaches up for Margaret’s earring and yanks. “Ow!” yelps Margaret, springing to her feet.
“Hush!” says Mother. Margaret stares venomously at Mother.
“Now, now,” says Father gently to Margaret, “Peggy doesn’t know any better. She’s just saying she likes your earrings.” Margaret looks at Father in disbelief and marches out of the room, cupping her injured ear.
Mother begins to rise, but Father restrains her with a hand. “Let her go,” he says. Father looks at me expectedly; it’s up to me to salvage this visit.
“Hello, Peggy,” I say with false cheer, giving her knee an awkward pat. Peggy clasps my fingers and holds them in her lap. Mother relaxes visibly, and Father gives me a nod of encouragement.
“So… what’s new?” I ask, wincing. Silly question. Nothing is ever new here: Peggy never learns anything new, goes anywhere new, tries anything new. Life at Shady Pines is an interminable sentence of monotony.
But Peggy doesn’t seem to mind. She takes my hand and leads me to the tall paned window. She points outside, chirping happily. I glance back at my parents, but they look at each other, not me. A remarkable smile plays on Mother’s lips. I turn back to the window and grin at my reflection; Peggy’s reflection grins too.
It’s soon time to begin the goodbyes, a long process that begins halfway through the visit. Mother sniffles while Father clenches and unclenches his jaw. I try desperately to keep the mood light, resorting to a slew of knock-knock jokes until Father tells me to cut it out.
Finally the nurses arrive, tennis shoes squeaking across the marble. They collect their charges, oblivious to the patients’ wails of protest. They are practiced and efficient; in moments only the families remain. For a while we all listen as the screeching, yapping, and shrieking fade down the unseen hallway. When it is quiet, the families rise in unison and move towards the exit. We stand close together, in a civilized mass, but no one touches, all eyes are cast downward. Down the corridor, single file, to spill out into the afternoon sunshine.
Margaret sulks in the car, her dampened flip drooping sadly in the heat. I know she hopes Mother will look at her with pity, see her flushed face, sweaty hair, and swollen ear, and rush to apologize: “Oh, you poor dear, sitting out here in this hot car! And look at your ear! I didn’t realize you were hurt so badly! Quick, Maxwell, let’s find a place to stop and get ice!” But Mother doesn’t even look back at her.
So I slide in beside Margaret and whisper, “Sorry about your ear.” But it isn’t my apology she wants, and she turns pointedly away from me.
We drive back to town, passing farmland, houses… the Shell station, the Safeway. My father pulls into the Dairy Queen. He says his line: “Who’s up for ice cream?” And I shout mine: “Me!”
I ask for a swirled cone and Margaret succumbs to the lure of a butterscotch Dilly Bar. We sit together at a speckled Formica table, and the truce, like so much else between us, remains unspoken.