Twice a Child

by Ann Elia Stewart

  “Never thought your big brother would be some scum bag has-been director, did you?” Eddie rooted through his liquor supply and came up with half a bottle of sloe gin. He eyed it for a second, its red syrup catching a beam of light from the one lamp lit in the living room, just the way the sun had caught the sparkle of those ruby shoes in Marty’s Shoe Store window on Cumberland Street so long ago.

  He sank back down into the sofa, holding the bottle out in front of him, twirling it in his hand. She couldn’t do that, twirl around like a little ballerina in the ruby shoes, but she could sit in her special wheelchair that Mom punched up with sheepskin-covered arms and big, downy cushions made with purple cotton covers. She was secured with a purple sash that protected her from falling when her body would be wracked with spasms, her ruby sparkle shoes dangling from her withered limbs so she’d look like a pigeon-toed ragdoll.

  Every Easter, their bellies filled with chocolate and marshmallow, ham and red beets, he and Rosemary would sit in front of the Zenith and watch The Wizard of Oz, and when Dorothy clicked her heels and recited, “There’s no place like home,” Eddie would bend down, grab Rosemary’s feet in his two hands, and knock them together to Mamie’s insistent, “Not too hard now, Eddie.”

  “Say it, Rose, you can say it: ‘There’s no place like home.’ You can do it, I know you can,” he’d goad her, and she would twist her mouth in funny ways, work her forehead into a frown, will her muscles to form the words for him.

  He took a pull from the sloe gin, wiped his mouth in disgust. Too sweet. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  Rosemary struggled for those words, lifting her head as if catching them right out of the air, until a tiny voice answered her brother’s call: “airs o peese a ome.”

  “You said it, Rose. I heard you,” Eddie said, the sloe gin now mixing with the bourbon in his empty stomach.

  He knew he owed it to Tina. She had a right to know about her Aunt Rosemary. What if she had more children? Cerebral palsy was genetic, wasn’t it?

  His stomach was really beginning to bother him. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything, the day a blur of pain, like a band-aid ripped off all at once. There was nothing in the kitchen to eat. And he certainly was in no shape to drive anywhere.

  The pain in his gut was now too fierce to ignore. He looked for the cell phone; Tina’s number must be in there. He’d have her pick up a few burgers at Sonic, get a break from the vigil at the hospital, give her directions to the bungalow, it wasn’t that hard to find. Maybe he’d invite her to stay the night; she could sleep on the sofa. Nobody coming over tonight, anyway.

  And Pop—

  The alcohol pushed him further into a fog. Sooner or later he knew he’d have to figure this shit out, but not now, not tonight.

  He searched the bedroom for the phone, found it tossed on his night table on top of the pink envelope he had forgotten about. His mother’s handwriting called to him like a beacon, and he wondered as he examined the envelope, turning it over in his hand, bringing it to his nose to discern the slightest hint of patchouli—the first scent anyone would notice when they entered Mom’s home—if perhaps she sensed it would one day come crashing down on him, the truth of their lives, the ache that left them all with vacant hearts. They never mentioned Rosemary again; it was as if she had never existed.

  He tried to talk his mother into letting Rosemary be buried in those red shoes. “She’s an angel,” she had said. “Angels don’t wear red shoes.” Mom wanted her buried in white slippers, but he argued that she never wore white slippers, only the red shoes. His mother wouldn’t give in, so he had to sneak out of the house and walk the ten blocks to the funeral home, carrying the red shoes in each of his blazer pockets. He wasn’t driving age yet, two years away, but she needed those shoes, it just would not have been right for her to dance in heaven without them.

  The funeral director frowned at him when he barged into a viewing, whisked him off to the office like he’d spread a virus.

  “I would like to see my sister,” he had asked him, polite, kind. He may have even been crying a little.

  “You will. Tomorrow night.” The funeral director crossed his hands over his chest.

  A set of double doors, closed and down the hall, caught Eddie’s eye. So did the men’s room.

  “I can’t let you in there without one of your parents, young man.” He put his arm around Eddie, and led him toward a back exit, halfway between the lavatory and the set of closed double doors. “Now you come back with one of your folks tomorrow, anytime after four, and you can say goodbye to little Rosemary. Fair enough?” He had sprung open the bar, the heat of the night pouring into the air-conditioned hallway. “Go on home now.”

  Eddie smiled and waited until the door shut behind him before walking around the funeral home and finding the men’s room. He had been to a classmate’s viewing here last summer—a thirteen-year-old boy who had met with a rather grisly death on his family’s farm—and knew that there had been a window propped open because the air conditioning units didn’t reach the lavatories. He looked up and down the alleyway before he jumped and hooked his fingers on the brick ledge outside the window, propped wide open by a stick. Hanging onto the ledge with one hand, his sneakered foot providing additional leverage against the rough brick wall, Eddie wedged himself close to the side of the window, careful not to dislodge the stick, and slithered into the men’s room, his head banging against the toilet. He was thankful the lid was down.

  He checked the stick, making sure its position was solid, and carefully opened the door. Organ music piped through the hallway, muffled voices and some shuffling of feet suggested activity in the viewing room. No sign of the funeral director, but the double doors at the end of the hallway were still closed, and he knew he was taking an awfully big chance going in there. What if the director was making last minute preparations? Still, he stepped closer, placing his ear on the door to determine any sounds coming from within.

  Satisfied that the only thing in there was his dead sister, Eddie turned the handle and slipped inside.

  Rosemary rested in a tiny casket, slightly larger than a child’s stroller, her dark hair strewn like Snow White against a purple satin pillow. She was covered to her waist by a white, downy blanket. Eddie tip-toed toward her, expecting any minute she’d open her eyes as if seeing him for the first time, just like when he’d come home from school.

  “I have ‘em, Rose,” he whispered as he rolled the blanket down over her legs. There they were: the white slippers. Eddie rolled them off first one foot, then the other, and replaced them with the sparkling ruby shoes. Her legs were so stiff, he felt any false move would break her, but the shoes, even after three years, easily slid over her withered feet. Before he covered her exactly as he had found her, he tapped the shoes together and said, “There’s no place like home, Rose.” He closed the split lid, hoping his mother would not lift it before the service.

  Eddie put the envelope down on the table once more, unopened. He went in search of the last dregs of sloe gin, allowing the red liquid to swirl in the glass against the dim light of the living room.

  “airs o peese a ome,” Eddie said, draining his glass.

  And, in a weird way, he had to agree with that.

  twenty one

  “Frank, please stay in line. We’re working on our upper body today. We’ll move around this afternoon.”

  What the hell is she talking about? Can’t she see I’m trying to get to Mamie? They put her way over there, across the room, but I’d know that smile anywhere.

  “Mr. Lillo, you need to put your hands on the bar here to steady the walker, that’s right. If you keep reaching out like that—what are you reaching for anyway?—it will tip. And we wouldn’t want that, would we? That’s it, on the bar, right in front of you.”

  If they’d let me out of this contraption, I’d get over to Mamie, help her lift those barbells. Why do they have her lifting
those things anyway? She has a bad shoulder.

  I hate Broadway tunes—

  Wait, where are they taking her?

  “Mamie—wait!” Damn this croaky voice. “Mamie—”

  This thing glides like it’s made of plastic. It’s a damn plastic cage. On wheels. How am I going to get through all these people? She went ahead of me, and now she’ll get lost. She always gets lost. I have to catch up.

  “Ow!”

  They’re all talking at once.

  Just get me out of this cage, my legs hurt.

  “Mr. Lillo, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Ow!”

  “Mr. Lillo—Frank—”

  “—will you please unbuckle him first? Careful with his legs, they’re twisted.”

  “Frank? How many fingers?”

  “Jesus Christ, two! Where did she go? Where do you have her, you can’t keep her from me, we’re married. You can’t keep us apart.”

  They got me under my arms, one on each side, pick me up and plunk me down on that damn hard seat. That little girl with two shades of hair looks like a rat’s nest dipped in ink is in my face; I can smell the pizza she had for lunch.

  “Mr. Lillo, do you know where you are?” I’m trying to stay calm, I really am, considering I know Mamie’s waiting for me, but if these yahoos keep asking me stupid questions, I swear I’m going to haul off and sock one of them in the teeth.

  “Let me catch up to Mamie. That’s all I was trying to do.” These words fly away as soon as they form in my head. I don’t like this. “She knows what’s going on here.”

  Sure, look at me like that. Hell, she’s not going to wait for me anymore. I bet she’s already walking home, thinking I’ve gotten distracted. I’m just going to sit here, the hell with them.

  “Mr. Lillo, please listen to me now. Focus, right here.”

  At least her eyes are blue, not as pretty as Mamie’s, a little cloudier. Mamie’s I could stare into all day long.

  “You are at Cedars-Sinai Rehabilitation in Los Angeles, California. You suffered a small stroke, and were brought here, to the hospital, by paramedics. We’re hoping to get you back up and walking, but for now, you need this Durawalker.”

  What I need is Mamie to help me out here.

  “You’re making me miss something very important, girlie.”

  “Now there’s no need to get angry, Mr. Lillo. Why don’t we walk back to your room together, I believe supper will be coming soon. You may even wish to take a nap . . .”

  I am tired. When I catch sight of that bed, that’s all I want to do: lie down.

  “How’s that, Mr. Lillo? Are you warm enough?”

  I don’t know who this one is now, but she’s a bit more reasonable with her short hair and glasses. Someone I can trust.

  The blanket’s warm, that’s nice. Must have been sitting out in the sun most of the day. I should have known Mamie would take care of it. I don’t know what I was so worried about.

  twenty two

  Tina was growing increasingly uneasy about this neighborhood. In the middle of the day, the neighbor above her entertained all manner of people, cars streaming in and out of the parking lot, feet running up and down the stairs all day long.

  Today, when she was bringing in groceries, Joshua in his backpack on her back, she nearly lost her balance when one of them rushed beside her and up the steps. His wide shoulders clipped the pack off balance, and Joshua, had it not been for his safety belt, almost tumbled down a flight of stairs.

  No, she had to find another place to live, soon. Somewhere unscarred by Sotel 13 tags.

  She’d bring up the subject with Eddie tonight.

  He had called as she was leaving the hospital today, knowing Grandpa would be taken to rehab to strengthen his upper body. They had stabilized him, put him on Aricept, a drug she knew was supposed to slow down the loss of memory and help him understand his surroundings better. But Aricept was used for Alzheimer patients.

  It would explain a lot that had happened since Grandma died, the wandering at night, mistaking her for Mamie, or some days not recognizing her at all.

  And that school incident.

  Tina sat down at the dining room table, glanced at Joshua, sound asleep in his carrier. How Grandpa had ever made it through that area in the heat of the day . . . it made her sick to think of what could have happened. Life had been spiraling out of control from the moment they buckled their seatbelts and began this journey. Then again, it seemed nothing in her life ever came easily, always some obstacle to overcome to get to where she meant to go.

  Did other people’s lives work like that, too?

  She got up to check on Joshua, so peaceful, so beautiful and entirely trusting that his world would remain as it is: his needs met at all times. Would the world treat him kindly? In his adult life, would prejudice—indeed, hatred—be a sordid, distant memory of an unenlightened time in our history?

  A tear rolled down Tina’s cheek and she couldn’t say why, but the feeling in her gut reminded her of high school graduation, sitting in the heat of a late afternoon in early June, waiting for her reward at working her ass off all four years so she could get scholarships and grants for college. Straight As, President of the National Honor Society and Future Nurses Club, and Chess Club, star pitcher for girls’ softball.

  Who was she doing all this for?

  A bug scurried under the sofa. She lifted the baby carrier to the tiny tabletop, not wanting to take any chances. Joshua moved his body and settled back in, smacking his lips. Her breasts began to tingle, but she hoped for a few more minutes before he’d wake, a few more moments to think.

  Anxiety. That was the name of the feeling in her gut, a restless anticipation of . . . something. If she were to compare this feeling to that hot June afternoon she’d fool herself into thinking that what was just around the corner was a heaping reward.

  Tina sipped her ice water. The baby stirred again, more agitated by his growing hunger. Soon his eyes would open and that beatific grin would become a demanding howl when his belly pains seized him.

  Maybe that’s what was happening with Grandpa: the signals weren’t reaching his brain anymore, or they acted like shrapnel, shards of memory that surfaced, randomly, promising only unpredictability. Lewy body dementia. Until now, she had never heard of it.

  She returned her focus to the phone book: nursing homes. Golden Acres. Oak View. Pleasant Lawn. Stars and Stripes. Words blurred on the page and her tears now flowed, full force. What was happening? Could someone please make sense of it? Could someone please take care of all this?

  Yes, that someone would be her.

  There were no awards at the end of this, no principal in a long black robe smiling with authoritative approval, no articles in the local newspaper proclaiming her among the Best and the Brightest.

  Death?

  Well, wasn’t that at the end of everything?

  She rose and followed the sound of children at play, the same concrete playground that must have drawn Grandpa the day she had found him unable to extract himself from behind the vertical blinds. They hopped in and out of plastic pools, splashing themselves with murky water.

  This was supposed to be the beginning of her life. She hadn’t cared if they had ever found Eddie out here, because she knew even if they had, he would treat them exactly the way he had been: like intruders. No, when Grandpa wanted to visit his son in California, she figured, why not? A new start, better opportunity for Joshua, certainly more jobs for her to choose from, given the sheer size of Los Angeles alone. When she allowed herself to really think about it, get a little excited over it, she could see a man in her life, someone who would accept Joshua as his own to help him become a man in his own right.

  Someone like Grandpa: a man who did what had to be done for the sake of his family. A man with whom you knew where you stood. An honest man.

  “You sure don’t deserve this, Grandpa.” Her voice cracked, the words sputtering between gulps of air, pierc
ing the still of the small apartment.

  Joshua’s whimpers escalated, baby demands that touched off her leaking breasts. She wiped away her tears and automatically began unhooking one of her bra cushions, all the while speaking to him in hushed tones that calmed him, letting him know someone would be there. Someone who could take away his pain.

  twenty three

  “Yeah?”

  There was crackling on the other end, then a bell—a gong-like bell—and a woman’s voice drifting over a distant loudspeaker.

  “Who’s this?”

  “You’re setting me up.”

  Eddie shot up from the sofa, his head pounding. The empty bottle of sloe gin had rolled beneath the dining room table and a rise of sick began in the pit of his stomach. Storm clouds hovered over the ocean, thick and puffy, the sky Confederate blue. He walked to the sliding doors, the ocean a swirl of tea-stained water, algae sweeping beneath the water, changing the face of it as quickly as the opening or closing of a blind.

  “What—setting you up?”

  “There’s no bed here for me. I don’t know where they put it.” His father’s voice sounded wet.

  “Pop, where are you . . .where are you calling from?” That’s all he needed right now, his confused father out on the street, tooling around L.A.—which could mean anywhere. Maybe he was standing at a pay phone with his hospital robe flapping in the breeze, his patootie exposed for anyone to see. The image made him chuckle.

  “So this is funny to you?”

  “No—”

  “They’ve got me close to the windows. I’m a sitting duck.”