by Meg Wolitzer
—
Sal the doorman didn’t recognize her at first. She had to pull off her parka hood and stand right in front of him, before he said, “Erica! Hey, where have you been? We missed you.” He stopped himself. “We’re all really sorry about your mother,” he said.
She thanked him and walked slowly through the lobby. It had been ages since she had been here, and yet she felt a remarkable tinge of nostalgia. The floor was as highly polished as a ballroom, and the same armless statues stood in niches in the wall. There, across the lobby, was the bank of elevators, which she had ridden in unhappy silence for so many years, standing between her mother and sister. It hadn’t always been like that; when they first moved in, Erica had loved the apartment. She used to wander around while the painters were working, inhaling the heady latex fumes and fingering the drop cloths thrown over all the furniture.
Erica still had keys to the apartment, but she thought it was better to have Opal let her in. She pressed the bell and first heard footsteps, then her sister’s nervous voice. “Who is it?” Opal asked.
“Erica,” she answered.
There was silence for a moment, and then Erica could hear the locks sliding, one by one. The door opened, and Opal stood there wearing a bathrobe and clutching the TV Guide. She looked quizzically at Erica.
“I left Jordan,” Erica said. Opal just stared. “I thought I should be here,” she continued. “We have to talk about this.”
Opal nodded and didn’t say anything, and Erica took it as an invitation in, at least the best invitation she was going to get. The apartment was quiet, and perfectly neat. Erica walked down the hall to her old room, and was surprised to find it exactly as she had left it. There was still an ancient Reva and Jamie poster on the wall, and the same coffee can of Magic Markers still stood on her desk. She thought of how she used to sit there and write bad poetry, then illustrate it with rainbows and those cartoon dog heads that every thirteen-year-old girl knew how to draw. Erica uncapped a magenta Magic Marker and tested it on the desk blotter, but the tip was dry as a candlewick.
Twenty-one
Erica had been home less than an hour, when she came to Opal’s doorway and said, “Come into my room.”
My room. How easy the territory was to reclaim. You didn’t have to do a thing; the linens on the bed were clean, the drawers of the bureau waited to receive your clothes. Everything had been left intact, and all you had to do was show up and it was yours again. Even though Erica probably hated this place, she was already inhabiting it fully, walking barefoot in the lawn of beige carpeting.
So Opal followed her into the bedroom, remembering how thrilling such an invitation had once been. Now she felt only uneasy as Erica pushed open the door. As they settled themselves back on the bed, taking their places at the head and foot, Opal thought of how they had only one fact in common now: Their mother was dying.
She leaned back, resting her shoulders against the familiar curve of wood. They would discuss specifics, Opal thought; they would say how upsetting it all was, how unexpected, and Opal might even start to cry. Erica would look embarrassed, and would try to comfort her, moving closer and patting a big bear-paw on Opal’s back.
But what Erica said was, “We should do something.”
Opal looked blandly at her. “Such as?” she asked.
“You know,” Erica said. “Give her reasons.”
Beneath the wild wreath of hair, Erica’s eyes were narrowed with intent. Opal wasn’t used to the idea of Erica taking charge; it hadn’t happened in years and years, not since Erica had swung a flashlight around the room and Opal had sat in wonder, watching.
“But I don’t know any,” Opal finally said. “You never think about whether you want to be alive; you just wake up every day and you are. I can’t imagine what it would be like if it were a decision.”
“I can,” said Erica.
Opal watched Erica across the bed, saw the way she sat with her arms crossed awkwardly over her breasts. “Is it so bad?” Opal finally asked. “Have you really been that miserable?”
Erica nodded. “I used to be,” she said, and then she paused. “But I’m not now,” she added. “You have this view of me, that I’m right out of Panic in Needle Park or something. That I live like an animal.”
Opal started to object, but her voice died out quickly. It was really an accident, she thought, how each of them had ended up; it was only a question of where the hammer had struck. It was that way in most families, she knew: There was always someone who nobody spoke about. The older sibling at a special school upstate, or the one who stayed in his room during family dinners, or who had only a post office box somewhere in the Midwest for an address. It was easy to lose people along the way.
“I’m sorry,” Opal said, suddenly embarrassed.
“Oh,” Erica said lightly, “I didn’t mean to start anything. We’ve got enough to deal with.” She paused. “You’ve got to tell me things,” she said. “I’ve been gone so long, I don’t know anything.”
“Things?” Opal said. “Like what?”
“Well, tell me about Sy, for a start,” Erica said.
Opal nodded. “He and Mom have been involved for a while,” she said. “He’s sort of like her. They go out to eat all the time, they drink a lot.” She shook her head. “He’s very upset about all of this too, but I don’t think he’ll be able to do anything. I don’t think anyone will.” Opal thought of Dottie lying flat on her back, like a whale that has been speared and landed. Then she felt something stirring in her, and she placed one hand across her eyes.
“Opal,” said Erica. “Hey.”
Opal looked up; for a moment, staring into the wide plate-face of her sister, it might almost have been Dottie sitting there. Dottie at a simpler time, Dottie Breitburg as a girl in Brooklyn, making her relatives laugh. “We always had people around when I was a girl,” she used to tell Opal and Erica. “It made up for my being an only child. I always loved the way our house was filled with visitors.”
Visitors. Opal wondered if it would help her mother to have a few other people come see her in the hospital. Dr. Hammer had said that she would probably be up to it in about a week, although Dottie insisted she didn’t want to see anyone. Opal imagined an endless stream of guests filing into her mother’s room. She could picture Dottie slowly looking up from the bed and coming back to life. The influx of people would remind her of her populated childhood, and of all the years when her dressing room was always packed with friends and fans after a show.
“I wonder,” Opal slowly said, “about bringing some people in to see her. What would you think of that?”
“It depends on what you mean,” Erica said.
“Friends,” Opal said. “People she’s worked with. Something to buoy her up. She always had a lot of people around her, and I know she misses it.”
“Well,” Erica said after a moment, “it’s a start. It’s something. Sure, we could try that if you want.”
They were both silent. “Can I ask you something?” Opal finally said, and Erica nodded. “Please don’t take this wrong,” she went on. “I just want to know why you’ve suddenly become so involved. Why you want to help like this. I mean, I appreciate it and everything, but it comes out of the blue.”
Erica looked surprised, but she responded quickly. “Sometimes you just do things,” she said. “I mean, she’s dying. For that matter,” she went on, “why did you call me in the first place?”
Opal thought about how she had stood at the telephone outside the emergency room and found Erica’s number in the frayed Manhattan White Pages hanging from a piece of wire. At first she had made the call only because she thought Erica had every right to know. At first it had nothing to do with need. And yet, when Erica stood in the door of the waiting room twenty minutes later, Opal had felt a rush of relief—for here, she thought, was someo
ne who might split this wealth of grief down the middle. But grief didn’t work like that. When it had to, she saw, it doubled in size so there was enough to go around, and only then did it split itself in two like a cell undergoing mitosis.
“I’m not sure why I called,” she said. “I just did.”
“Exactly,” said Erica.
They might have been children then, Opal thought; they might have been sitting together in the wonderful peace of an early evening, with the TV babbling safely down the hall, and a babysitter hovering somewhere nearby.
“They said she has a heart like a ham,” Opal suddenly said. “What a funny way to put it. Isn’t that a song?” She began to sing. “Some say the heart is just like a ham . . .”
Erica cleared the hair from her face, and Opal saw that she was smiling. She also saw, once again, how little they resembled each other. There was nothing to mark them as sisters. Only the joint history that kept rearing up once in a while: a shared father and mother, the protoplasm in which everything floated. They had a father living on Coconut Court, and a mother whose every heartbeat moved in dramatic peaks and valleys across a screen, like a drawing done on an Etch-a-Sketch. All sharp points, no sloping curves. There weren’t any subtleties here; just the rhythm of life, which was in itself unsubtle. You were either alive or dead; there wasn’t a third choice. You couldn’t stay suspended forever. Eventually, you had to land.
—
The next day at the hospital, Sy was busy unwrapping the gifts for Dottie he had brought back from Hong Kong. “Here’s something I thought you’d like,” he said, holding up a scarlet silk kimono with black calligraphy sewn across the back. “I thought it would look nice with your coloring, Dot. After I bought it, I asked a fellow I know to translate the writing on the back, and he told me it means ‘Eat the American Capitalists.’ Go figure.”
“Sy,” said Dottie. “I’m not in a very good mood. I ache all over. I just want some quiet in here.”
He put down the kimono. “All right,” he said. “Quiet you’ll get. I’m going to go downstairs and get some ptomaine on rye.” He left the room quickly, leaving the gifts scattered across Dottie’s bed.
When he was gone, Dottie said, “What’s with him?”
Opal stared at her. “We’re all upset with you,” she said. “It isn’t just Sy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dottie said. “I don’t mean to interfere with your lives. I want you to go back to work, Opal. You don’t have to spend every day here with me; it can’t be too interesting. You have better things to do.”
“It’s all right here,” said Opal. “I’m going to stay until you’re feeling better. Less depressed. Until you talk about getting well.”
Dottie smiled grimly. “Don’t hold your breath,” she said. “Hammer sent a social worker up here, and she told me about some weight-loss clinic in California. The Lexington Clinic. You live there and lose weight, she said. She really was pushing me to go, but of course I told her I was not interested.”
“Why not?” Opal asked.
“I’m just not interested,” said Dottie. “Please.” She closed her eyes and shifted in the bed. “Oh, when is Mrs. Ramsay coming back?” she asked. “She went out to some store called Yarn ’n’ Things, and I haven’t seen her since. She told me she would be back in time to wash me. I feel like I’ve been sleeping in sand.”
“Do you want me to wash you?” Opal said, and even as she spoke she was afraid her mother would say yes.
“That would be very nice,” Dottie said, her voice suddenly soft and grateful. “I would like that very much.”
So Opal found herself dipping a washcloth into a plastic basin of soapy water, and running it along her mother’s face and arms and neck. The skin flowered as it was touched by heat. Everything white spread to pink.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Dottie said, closing her eyes. “Lovely.”
Opal was careful not to go near the tubes and wires that were taped to Dottie’s chest. She lifted the gown carefully, realizing that she did not remember the last time she had seen her mother’s body. Opal had nearly forgotten there was something underneath the clothes. But now she drew the thin fabric up above Dottie’s thighs, and her breath caught for a second. She had to stay in motion, had to keep dipping and wringing the cloth until she was done. Her hand moved along the thick band of flesh. Imagine owning this body, she thought, picturing herself suddenly encased in this unlikely shell of fat.
Dottie purred as the warm cloth traveled the width of her stomach, and Opal felt ashamed at her own disgust. She was making her mother happy for a moment; she was giving her pleasure. This, she realized with shock, had always been her goal.
“Thank you, honey,” Dottie said when she was finished. Opal moved back to the windowsill and watched for a while as her mother eased back into sleep. It was a peaceful scene, but still troubling. Dottie was letting herself fall, Opal thought. Even now, fast asleep, Dottie was probably dreaming of tumbling down a rabbit hole, dropping slowly through a dark well, impatient to get to the bottom. In a way, Opal was grateful lately when Dottie slept. Sometimes, when she was awake, Opal couldn’t stand to be in the room. She would excuse herself and walk down to the fire doors at the end of the hall, and there she would light a cigarette, smoking fiercely and guiltily, inhaling so hard it charred her throat.
It went on like this for days. Every afternoon, Opal and Erica took turns visiting. Sy came in the evenings after work, and each night he seemed more and more beaten down.
“She just insults me,” he told Opal. “Tells me I’d better start looking for a new girlfriend, that I’d better face the facts.” He fingered his beautiful plum tie. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m very worried. She seems worse every day. But she’s very difficult to deal with. It gets to you.”
It had gotten to all of them. No one wanted to stay very long in Dottie’s room, and they couldn’t wait for the moment when the next shift started. Opal, looking up to see Erica in the doorway, would quickly put on her coat. “Good luck,” Opal would whisper as she hurried from the room.
Downstairs, pushing through the revolving door, Opal was always surprised at the sensation of being outside. When you spent the entire day inside a hospital, the outside seemed a dream from an earlier life. There was an abundance of natural light, and air that actually moved against your face and hair: How different this was from the overheated, linoleum glow of the hospital.
At home, Opal began making calls. She and Erica had put together a list of several people they thought Dottie might want to see, and now Opal was inviting them to come visit Wednesday night. Dottie claimed she still didn’t want to see anyone, said she still wasn’t up to it, but Dr. Hammer had told her that visitors might be helpful. No one quite knew what to do with Dottie. She could not stay in the hospital forever. Soon she would be well enough to leave, but then, Dr. Hammer had assured her, she would just be returning home to die.
“That’s fine with me,” Dottie answered. “Better there than here.” At that, the doctor scratched something on her chart and made a quick departure.
Now Opal called Aunt Harriet, and had a brief, emotional talk with her frail great-aunt, explaining the situation. Aunt Harriet said that she barely got out of the house, but would make an exception to see Dottie, whom she loved. Everyone talked carelessly of love during these conversations. “I love your mom,” Ross Needler said. “I love Dottie,” Mia Jablon said. Their voices were earnest and grave, and Opal didn’t think she could take much more of this. As usual, she realized, her mother had eclipsed all else. College seemed a long time ago. Opal vaguely remembered her room in Silliman, its narrow bed and metal shelves, its walls that had been punctured with thumbtacks for years and years—punctured and painted over—as generations of students left and new ones arrived. Opal had once been in that tide of students, but now she had slipped away. Now her li
fe was spent in a hospital room, with a dying woman who would not listen to anyone.
At least there was Erica. It was astonishing that she thought this, but there it was; Erica’s presence was the best thing that had happened all winter. At night, the two sisters convened in the kitchen and cooked for themselves. They would never have to go food shopping again, Opal thought, for Dottie kept the kitchen as well-stocked as a bomb shelter. They settled in at the large table and ate dinner. Sometimes they wheeled the TV up close and watched the news or an old sitcom, and sometimes they just talked, their conversation clumsy at first, easing up after a while.
Erica talked about Jordan, and why she had finally left him. “There’s someone else,” Erica said shyly, poking at her dinner as she spoke.
“Who?” Opal asked. This amazed her: Ungainly Erica had two lovers, two men. She existed in the world of sex in a way that Opal did not. Was there some secret to being so large? Was this why Dottie did not want to give it up? Maybe if you were heavy you experienced touch differently; maybe it really moved you when a man placed a burning hand on your breast.
Erica told her about this man Mitchell, and the quality of her voice changed a little, lowered to nearly a whisper. “I’m trying to figure out what to do,” Erica said. “I’m not done with him.”
Opal understood well the idea of unfinished business, of walking around knowing that there was something else that had to be done. Sometimes you weren’t sure what it was, and it plagued you until you figured it out.
Thoughts left you without warning, and suddenly, much later, came tumbling back in pieces, like Skylab. Opal thought of all the people who would be showing up at Dottie’s hospital room Wednesday night, and she wondered if there was anyone she had forgotten. Sitting at the kitchen table, she looked across at Erica, who seemed deep in thought. Erica was holding her fork lightly, balancing it on one tine.
