Blueberry Hill

by Bette Lee Crosby

  This is the biggest tree we have ever had, almost fifteen feet high with wide reaching branches that sweep into the center of the room. Most of the rooms in our house are small, but the add-on family room is huge and has rafters crossing beneath a cathedral ceiling. This is where we set the tree. It is so tall the top branches spiral up between the rafters and scrape the slanted side of the ceiling.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  From beneath a sweaty brow Dick smiles.

  After we’ve wound a dozen strands of little white lights through the branches, we start to add ornaments. This is the most enjoyable part of tree trimming. There are hundreds of ornaments, some of which date back to my childhood. Like a pack rat I have carried them with me from place to place year after year. There is a story attached to almost every ornament.

  “Debi made this when she was in kindergarten,” I say, holding up a Styrofoam ball covered with a tattered piece of lace and dotted with sparkles. I tuck it into a high branch near the back.

  Dick only half listens; he has heard these stories many times before. This doesn’t stop me. I continue to tell the story of each ornament as I unwrap them one by one. After we have found an appropriate place for each one, even those that are old and dented and scarred, Dick climbs down from the ladder and we step back to admire this work of art.

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  I respond with a sigh and say, “It’s the best tree we’ve ever had.”

  I am expecting this to be the best Christmas ever. We have much to celebrate. The days ahead are like the presents. They glitter and promise much, but they are yet to be unwrapped. Just as others anticipate what is in the boxes, I anticipate what is yet to come.

  Mama, Floyd, and Donna arrive on the evening of December twenty-third. I offer to make a late dinner, but they refuse.

  “We ate on the way up,” Mama says. “Floyd likes the Maryland-style crab cakes.”

  Donna says she’ll have a drink, so I fix her a rye and Coca Cola and serve it with chunks of cheese and crackers. She is still painfully thin, and this disappoints me. I had hoped that once she no longer had the taste of metal in her throat she would begin to eat more. But apparently that hasn’t happened.

  She finishes that drink and then pours herself another. The cheese and crackers remain untouched.

  On Christmas Eve I get out of bed at the crack of dawn. There are still a few presents left to wrap, but first I polish the silver, set the table, peel potatoes, cut slices of celery, and chop onions for the stuffing as I sing along with the carolers on the stereo. I keep the music low in the hope of not waking our guests, but when I lift my head Mama stands in the kitchen doorway.

  “What can I do to help?” she asks.

  “Grab a cup of coffee,” I say, nodding toward the Mister Coffee. “Then you can grate some carrots if you want.”

  She does as I ask and we sit across from each other at the kitchen table, sharing chores and conversation. This is the way Mama likes it to be.

  By this evening a crowd will have gathered around the dining room table and before the night ends sounds of laughter and song will echo through the house, but for now it is just the two of us and the kkrrsh, kkrrsh of carrots sliding along the old handheld grater.

  “You do have Miracle Whip?” Mama asks.

  “Mayonnaise,” I say.

  “It’s got to be Miracle Whip. Carrot salad needs Miracle Whip.”

  “Isn’t mayonnaise the same thing?”

  “Absolutely not,” she says. “It has to be Miracle Whip.”

  Mama doesn’t do a lot of cooking, and carrot salad is one of the few things she takes pride in doing. Rather than disrupt the harmony of the moment I suggest, “I’ll go to the store.”

  When I get to the supermarket there is not a parking space to be found. I circle the lot several times, then turn around and go home. In the garage I take an old boot and throw it into a brown paper bag. This is what I carry upstairs and clunk down on the side counter, acting as if I got the Miracle Whip.

  “I’ll finish up,” I say. “You can take a shower before Donna needs the bathroom.”

  “Good idea.” Mama nods.

  Once she leaves the kitchen I add several spoons of mayonnaise to the grated carrots and move to the next chore.

  A short while later Donna joins me in the kitchen. “Morning,” she says in the gravelly voice that is foreign to my ear.

  She is painfully thin. Her dry, colorless skin hangs loose over her bones like a garment on a wire hanger, yet she smiles as if nothing is wrong. I want to believe a smile means she is feeling better, so I tell myself it’s just a matter of time.

  “Would you like bacon and eggs?” I ask.

  She frowns and shakes her head. “Just coffee.”

  I pour the coffee, add extra cream, and hand it to her, along with a plate of still-warm biscuits. She ignores the biscuits and takes a single sip of the coffee.

  Although I have promised myself that I will make this a festive holiday for her, I can no longer hold back the question troubling my mind.

  “Have you seen the doctor lately?”

  She turns away and looks absently out the window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Maybe not, but—”

  “No buts. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I just thought—”

  She doesn’t raise another objection but gives me a look that indicates the conversation is over. Still determined to rebuild my sister, I pour a glass of orange juice and hand it to her. “Here, this is good for you.”

  She accepts it. I continue mixing fruit into the ambrosia, but I see her take the bottle of whiskey from the bottom cupboard and add a sizable measure to the juice.

  “Do you really need that?” I ask, my annoyance obvious.

  She nods. “I need something to get started this morning.” She acts as if there is nothing unusual about drinking whiskey at ten o’clock in the morning.

  When I give her a disapproving frown, she says, “Lighten up.”

  Before she has time to add anything else, I speak my mind.

  “You’re not eating enough, and you’re drinking way too much!”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Donna answers angrily.

  “No, you don’t! You’re killing yourself! Is that what you’re trying to do? Kill yourself?”

  For a moment she looks at me and says nothing. I have crossed the line that forbids us to speak of this possibility, and I am sorry. Were it possible to stuff the words back into my mouth and swallow them whole I would, but it is too late. All I can do is stand there in the naked glare of my mistake.

  Donna takes a slow drink of the whiskey-laden juice then speaks. “You’re wrong. I’m not trying to kill myself. I’m trying to enjoy the life I have left, and it’s not easy.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I say, but by then she’s caught by a coughing spell and waves me off.

  Although we leave the conversation there, the thought remains in my head.

  At three o’clock the rest of the family starts arriving. Donna spends most of the day in the recliner with Jason by her side and Anthony in her arms. She moves her hand back and forth in a slow gentle motion, first talking to Anthony then stroking the dog. She has enough love to satisfy both.

  After the dinner dishes have been cleared away, I notice Donna no longer sits in the recliner. She has been gone for some time and I am concerned, so I go in search of her. It is easy to track her; I simply follow the plastic tubing that comes from the large oxygen tank. The trail leads to the bathroom, but the plastic clip that should be in my sister’s nose is outside the door.

  I rap loudly on the door. “Donna, are you in there?”

  “Yeah.” The word is broken by a hacking cough before it is completed and sounds more like, “Yearrkkk, arrkkk.”

  “Are you okay?” I rattle the knob, but the door is locked. “Let me in.”

  “No, I’m on the john.” She gives another hard cough then says
, “Go away. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “You need help?”

  This time her answer sounds impatient. “No. Go away.”

  I turn to walk away, but at the end of the hall I stop. I want to make certain she is all right. When the door finally clicks open, I slip around the corner so Donna won’t know I have been watching and waiting. She walks slowly and holds to the furniture as she moves. The oxygen clip is back in her nose.

  The line between being helpful and suffocating someone with unwanted care is a fine one and easy to cross when it’s a person you love. I wait and give Donna time to make her way across the room. When she settles into the recliner I go to her and squat beside the chair. My intent is to ask if she needs anything, but before I get the chance I get a whiff of it.

  It’s the unmistakable odor of cigarette smoke.

  Although such a thought seems incredulous, I lean close and whisper, “Have you been smoking?”

  She turns her head and looks square into my face, dismissing the question with an indignant glare and a shake of her head. It is not convincing.

  I leave her and return to the hall bathroom. The window is open and cold air is rushing in, but the odor of tobacco still lingers. Once you’ve been a smoker, you know the smell. Regardless of how long ago you gave it up, that odor is forever recognizable. It’s like a song that brings the memory of a long-ago love.

  There is no longer a question; I know Donna was smoking in here. Everyone else had been warned not to smoke inside the house.

  “Donna is on oxygen,” I explained. “A cigarette spark can cause an explosion.”

  That’s why the oxygen clip was left in the hall.

  Truth is an unrelenting thing. When it comes and slaps you in the face, you have no choice but to see it for what it is. Why? I ask myself. Why?

  Inside I feel the rage of a thousand bulls. I want to scream and smack my sister’s face until I shake some sense into her. But I do nothing, because it is Christmas Eve and she is happy with her children and new grandson. During the past two years there have been few times of such happiness, so I hold back my anger and say nothing. For now.

  I pass the remainder of the evening doing as I have always done: handing out presents, passing around desserts, wishing those who depart a safe journey and finding those who stay clean sheets and a comfortable place to sleep. When the house is quiet and Dick and I are alone in our room, I tell him what I have discovered. He listens with his eyes riveted to my face as I speak.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say.

  “What can you do?” he answers. “I know you love your sister, but she’s the one who’s in charge of her life. You can’t make these decisions for her.”

  Ignoring this logic, I say, “This could kill her.”

  “Maybe, but it’s still her choice.” As he folds his sweater and slips it into the drawer, he shakes his head sadly.

  Far into the night I lie awake thinking about what I now know and wondering what to do. As the faint light of Christmas morning breaks across the sky, I vow not to ruin Donna’s day. After the holiday is over, I will visit her alone and we can talk about this.

  I close my eyes and pray that I’m wrong. Maybe the smell was only of drinks and sweat and printed gift-wrap. Perhaps my mind has focused too hard on a problem where none exists.

  “Please, God,” I pray, “let it be that I am wrong.”

  The Truth

  January is a mean month. It’s cold, blustery, and eventless. Nothing good can come of January. Today it is too cold to snow, but dark gray clouds hang low across the horizon erasing any definition between the earth and sky. This is January, a colorless sky, remnants of leftover snow and leafless trees.

  I am on my way to Baltimore. Alone. Donna is not expecting me, and when she hears what I have to say she most likely will wish I hadn’t come.

  After what seems to be a longer-than-ever drive, I pull into the parking lot in front of her apartment complex. I climb from the car, walk to the entrance, and ring the doorbell. She is slow in answering, so I stand and shuffle my feet to keep warm. After a long while the curtain parts, and she peeks out to see who is at the door. As the buzzer sounds, I hear her throaty voice say, “Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”

  Doing what? I wonder.

  As soon as she opens the door I hug her and sniff her clothing. It is a musty smell, maybe smoke, maybe not. Right away I say, “I’ve got to use the toilet,” and hurry down the hall.

  There is only one bathroom in her apartment, and I need to see if it smells of tobacco. As the door clicks shut, I take a deep breath. I am looking for the scent of cigarettes, but there is none. I sniff the air again and again, but all I get is the fragrance of rose petals. It is an overly sweet scent that makes me suspicious, so I start to poke around.

  First I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing but vials of prescription drugs, a thermometer, and a bottle of aspirin. Next I turn to the storage cabinet and riffle through boxes of saline solution, gauze pads, plastic hoses, and clamps of one kind or another, but there are no cigarettes. I am almost ready to admit my error when I remember the built-in hamper and pull down the door.

  One by one I go through soiled pajamas, socks, and panties; then I find it. Halfway down there is a plastic bag that contains three packs of cigarettes. Two unopened, the third half-empty.

  I remove the cigarettes from their hiding place and head for the living room. “What the hell is this?” I say, angrily waving the bag at her.

  Donna doesn’t even blink an eye. She adjusts the oxygen clip in her nose and pushes the footrest of her recliner into position.

  “Well?”

  She looks at me defiantly and says, “I’d call it cigarettes. What would you call it?”

  This is the same girl who ran away from home and hitchhiked to Virginia because Mama wouldn’t allow her to wear jeans to school. I am no threat. The truth is Donna answers only to Donna. You can love her or hate her, but you will never control her. I know this, and tears well in my eyes.

  “How could you?”

  “It isn’t like there’s a lot else I can do.” She shrugs.

  “Yes, there is. You could at least try to get well.”

  She narrows her eyes and gives me a look as hard-edged as a knife. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

  “You’ve got to keep trying.” I try to sound positive, but my words sound thin and desperate. “You’ve got emphysema! You shouldn’t even be in a room where somebody is smoking, never mind doing it yourself.”

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” Donna lowers the footrest and sits upright, looking me square in the face. It’s almost as if she has zeroed in on the bridge of my nose the way a bomber pilot locks a target in his sights, but there is no contact because I blink and look away.

  I cannot make myself look into her eyes, for I know the truth is there. She is still the sister I grew up with, the one who was tough and strong. Wonder Woman.

  “Look at me,” she commands.

  “Let’s not go there,” I say. The sound of her voice tells me she has a comeback, but I don’t want to hear it. The only thing I want to hear is that she will let go of these poisonous nicotine sticks.

  “Look at me,” she repeats. “Look at my face, because you need to understand what I am saying.”

  Several silent minutes pass before I allow my eyes to meet hers. In that single moment the years fall away. There is no sickness; we are simply two sisters, and she is the stronger one. Although every part of her body has failed her, Donna’s rebellious spirit and determination have grown stronger.

  There is no flippancy in her voice, no smile on her face. “Did you ever see a fish in a dried-up stream?”

  “That has nothing to do with…”

  “Did you?”

  I reluctantly shake my head.

  “I have! When a stream dries up, the fish suffocate on air. Their body flip-flops around looking for one more puddle, any little wet spot that will keep the
m alive for a few minutes longer. It doesn’t matter how muddy or contaminated that water is, it’s their only hope. Those fish are as good as dead, but they keep trying to hang onto the little bit of life they’re got left.”

  “Donna, don’t—”

  “For once in your life, Bette, shut up. It’s important that you understand this.”

  Donna blinks back what could be the start of tears, then continues. “Even when the stream is dry as a bone the fish keep sucking in air. There are no more puddles, but the poor dumb fish don’t know that so they prolong the suffering, hoping against hope that they’ll find another puddle.

  “Eventually their eyes bulge out of their heads, and they die. It’s slow and it’s painful.”

  “But, Donna…”

  She holds up a bony hand to stop me. “I don’t have a lot of time; Doctor Craig has already said that. And I’m not going to use whatever time I do have flopping around like a half-dead fish.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” I plead. “Now that the tracheostomy has been reversed, you’ll get better.”

  She gives me a cackle-like laugh. “You know that’s not true.”

  “Doctor Craig would have—”

  Again she laughs. It’s not a real laugh but more the sound of sarcasm pushed into what once was a laugh. “He reversed the tracheostomy because I insisted on it. He wanted to keep it in because he thought it in would prolong my life expectancy.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No,” she answers and gives me another corkscrew look of disdain. “Doctors don’t say, ‘You’ve got three months to live and then it’s sayonara.’ But I feel the different parts of my body shutting down. I’m dying piece by piece.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do,” she says without batting an eye. “I don’t want to live like this. It takes every ounce of energy I have just to breathe enough air to survive.”