Thelma's not good at looking after sick folk. If I get a cold, she panics. Don't you get sick," he warned. 'Those damn shows put all sorts of ideas in her head about this illness and that. Mention a pain, and she'll give you an episode on Community Hospital that fits it. No, don't worry about Grandpa. I'll see to him,' Karl promised. "With his insurance and retirement pension, he can afford something decent."
That didn't make me feel any better about it, but I didn't say anything else. When we entered the house, I saw a glow coming from the television set, yet as we drew closer, I didn't hear anything.
"We're back," Karl called, and stopped in the doorway.
Thelma was sitting in her favorite chair, staring at the silent television screen, her face streaked with tears. She looked up at me, and her shoulders shook.
"Poor Grandma!' she said. "She wanted to have a grandchild so much, and just when she had one, she goes and dies. It's so unfair. It's like. . . like the electricity going off just at an important part in one of my programs!'
"I'm sorry," I said, certain that her mother's death meant more to her than a power outage. She was just upset. "She was very nice. I was hoping to get to know her a lot more."
"You poor dear, Now you have no
grandmother," she cried.
I didn't know whether or not I should run to her side and hug her. She turned from me and stared at the television screen.
"Do you want something to eat, Thelma?" Karl asked. He turned to me. "She hasn't eaten a thing all day!'
"I'll make you something, Mom."
She smiled through her tears. "Maybe just some tea and toast with a little jelly," she said. "And then come and sit beside me for a while."
Karl and I went to the kitchen and got her tea and toast together on a tray that I started to bring back to her.
"Do you think you'll be all right here?" he asked me before I returned to Thelma. "I have to stop at the office for a few minutes."
"Yes, we'll be fine!' I said.
He told Thelma what he was doing, but she didn't respond. She didn't turn from the silent screen until I brought the tray to her and set it up on the coffee table. I watched her nibble the toast and sip the tea, her eyes shifting with the movements of the actors on the surface of the picture tube. Keeping the sound off appeared to be her gesture of mourning.
"The funeral is the day after tomorrow," she said during the commercial. Her eyes still remained fixed on the screen, as if she was afraid that if she didn't keep looking at it she would fall apart. "Karl has everything arranged."
"Where's Grandpa?" I asked.
"He's home with some of their friends. People about their age. He's more comfortable at home," she continued. She nibbled some more of her toast and sipped her tea. "When you lose someone you love, you're better off being where everything is familiar, doing the things you're accustomed to doing. Grandma wouldn't want me to miss my show," she added when the program continued.
I stared at her, and then I looked at the set. The characters were obviously screaming at each other in an argument of some kind. What good was it watching with the sound off? Thelma shook her head as if she could hear the words anyway.
"Isn't it better if we just talk, Mom?" I asked softly.
"Talk? About what? Not about Grandma," she said, shaking her head vigorously. "I don't want to talk about her dying. She wasn't supposed to die," she said firmly, as if someone had rewritten a script. "She wanted to watch her granddaughter grow up. I told Karl we should adopt a child a long time ago. We shouldn't have waited to get you. Now look at what's happened. It doesn't fit," she said. "It all doesn't fit."
"We can't plan our lives like a soap opera is planned, Mom. We don't have that power." I wanted to add "yet," because I believed that someday science would crack all the mysteries of genetics and a great deal about our lives would be predetermined, but this wasn't the time to bring that up, I thought.
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. "It's too sad." She looked at the television set. "You're never home for this one. I told you about it, though. This is the one with the daughter who has AIDS. Her parents are blaming each other. See?"
I looked down at the floor. I was far from an expert on mourning the death of a loved one. Until now, I had no loved ones. No death had ever touched me deeply. Even when I read about my real mother, it was more like reading a story about someone else. I didn't have her face in my mind, her voice in my memory. I couldn't recall her touching me, kissing me, speaking to me. I had no father, no grandparents, no relatives' deaths to mourn. I never even had a close friend or someone at one of the orphanages with whom I had grown so close that I was saddened by their passing or departure.
Being alone had its advantages, I thought. I could only mourn myself. I need only be sorry about myself.
Helga was right in a sense. I hadn't known my new grandmother long enough to feel as deeply about her death as most grandchildren would feel about the deaths of their beloved grandparents. Shouldn't I be crying? Shouldn't I be in a corner somewhere, sobbing? I wasn't sure about my own feelings and actions. I wasn't even sure I should be criticizing Thelma for what she was doing. Maybe it was wrong to take away her distractions. Maybe it was wrong to force her to face the reality of her mother's death.
She finished her toast and smiled at me. "I'm glad you're here with me," she said. "I'm sorry you're missing class, though."
"It's all right. I'll get the work sent home. Bernie will probably bring it over later," I
conjectured.
"That's nice. You can sit closer to me," she suggested.
I moved closer, and she reached out and took my hand. Then she turned back to the silent television screen. I watched her face. The shadows and the light bounced off it, leaving her with a smile and then with a look of pity or disgust. Occasionally, she sighed or smacked her lips in criticism. I widened my eyes in astonishment. It was truly as though she knew what they were saying.
I wanted to ask her how she could watch the show this way. I wanted to point out that the sound was off, but I couldn't get myself to do it. It was like telling someone what they saw wasn't real, that it was only make-believe.
Thelma needed make-believe, I thought. Who was I to tell her she couldn't have it or she shouldn't believe?
I let her hold my hand tighter and sat beside her in silence.
It was the way Karl found us when he returned.
8 Truth or Dare
After dinner, Ashley and her mother, Vera, came to offer condolences to Thelma. Ashley had all the homework I had missed at the end of the day, even from the classes Bernie and I shared. She told me he had given it to her on the bus. I felt let down because I had hoped he would bring it over himself. Sometimes my eyes were like windows with the shades up. Ashley took one look at me and saw the disappointment.
"Bernie's really very shy," she said. "I'm probably one of the few people he speaks to once in a while, and that's only because I never make fun of him. I think he's brilliant?'
"He is brilliant," I said. I took Ashley to my room while her mother visited with Thelma and Karl.
"What was it like living in an orphanage?" she asked as soon as we were alone. Was there anyone who looked at me and didn't wonder about that? "Were the adults cruel to you?"
"It's not like an orphanage in a Dickens novel," I said.
"What's a Dickens novel?"
"Charles Dickens? A Christmas Carol? Tale of Two Cities? Hard Times? Doesn't any of that ring a bell?" I followed with a frown.
"Oh yeah," she said, but she still had a blank look on her face.
"What I mean is, it isn't like living with your own family, having your own room, but you're not made to shovel coal or wash floors, and you don't have to wear rags and eat gruel."
"Gruel? Ugh."
"You don't have to eat it," I emphasized. "I wasn't happy there, but I wasn't being tortured."
She nodded. "Helga says girls who live in orphanages lose their virgini
ty faster," she
commented.
"What? Where does she get the right to make such a stupid statement? How does, she know about girls who live in orphanages?" I demanded.
Ashley shrugged. "It's just what she says."
"Well, for your information and for hers, it isn't so." I saw the way Ashley was staring at me. "I haven't lost mine," I added. "It sounds to me like Helga's lost hers."
Ashley laughed. "Sometimes I think she wishes she did. The way she chases after some of the boys, I mean. She told me she would let Todd Philips do anything he wanted if he took her out."
"She said that?"
"Uh-huh." Ashley nodded, those big eyes even bigger.
"She might be disappointed," I muttered.
"Why?" Ashley asked quickly. "I thought that was the most wonderful thing that could happen."
"Who told you that?"
She shrugged again. "I just listen to what the others say, especially those who've had sex and brag about it in the girls' room. They make it sound wonderful."
"Well, I wouldn't really know . . . I've never . ." I was about to tell Ashley I'd never even been kissed, but I didn't really trust that she would keep that information to herself. "I've never been one to kiss and tell," I said instead.
We talked a while about movie star kisses and who we thought kissed best, and I could tell that Ashley was as curious about what it would be like to kiss a boy as I was.
After Ashley left, I began my homework, eager to think about something other than boys. Before Thelma and Karl went to sleep, he returned to my room.
"Maybe you should go to school tomorrow, Crystal. There's really no point in your sitting around here all day."
"Won't Thelma need me?" I asked.
He thought a moment. "She'll sleep a lot," he said. "Just the same, I think stay nearby," I offered. He smiled. "Okay. You're probably right. It's nice to have someone else in the house who cares about her," he added. I thought he might come farther into my room and kiss me good night, but he stood there, nodding a moment longer, and then he said good night and closed the door.
It takes time to become father and daughter, I thought, and with some it takes a lot longer.
Thelma didn't rise as early as she ordinarily did the next morning. Karl brought her some breakfast and then asked me to look in on her after a while. He said he was off to check on Grandpa before going to work. I offered to go along, but he said he would have to bring me home afterward and that would add too much time to his being away from his office.
"You'd be surprised how the work piles up on me," he said.
"Won't they understand at the company?" I asked him.
"No one supervises me more than I supervise myself," Karl replied. He nodded, his eyes intense. "That's the secret to being successful, Crystal: demand more of yourself than others do. You're your own best critic, understand?"
"Yes," I said.
He left, and I sat quietly, reading ahead in my history book, imagining what the next assignment would be. A little over an hour later, Thelma appeared in the living-room doorway. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes bloodshot. Her skin was ashen. She looked as if she had aged years in one night. She had a half dozen tissues clutched in her hand. Still in her nightgown, she shuffled across the room in what looked like Karl's slippers and plopped with a deep sigh into her favorite chair.
"Would you like something, Mom'?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't like thinking about my mother," she said softly. "It hurts. I wanted to go to the phone to call her this morning like I usually do before Shadows at Dawn. I actually lifted the receiver before I remembered she was gone."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "What can I do?" she cried.
"We could talk, Mom. Sometimes it feels better when you talk about what's bothering you," I said. My counselors always used that line on me when I was at the orphanages. There really was some truth to it, however.
Thelma stared at me a moment. "I can't," she said, shaking her head. "Every time I think about her, I start to cry. I can't. It's better not to think" She snapped up the television remote as if it were a bottle of pills promising relief.
She turned on the television set and flipped through the channels until she found a program she liked this time, she left the sound on, too. She began to react to what she was watching, smiling, laughing, looking concerned. I had begun to read again when I suddenly heard her say, "I dread going to the funeral tomorrow. Why do we have to have funerals?"
"It's our last chance to say good-bye," I said, even though I had never been to a funeral before and the very thought of going put almost as much apprehension in me.
"I don't want to say good-bye." She moaned. "I hate good-byes. I wish I could just sit here and watch it on television. That way, if it got too sad, I could turn it off, turn to something else."
"My psychologist at the orphanage always told me it's worse to avoid your problems, Mom. It's better to face them and deal with them," I said softly.
She stared at me a moment and then smiled "You're so smart," she said. "We're lucky to have you. I will have something to eat. Could you make me some scrambled eggs and toast?"
"Sure," I said, getting up quickly.
"And some coffee," she called as I started out. Then she turned back to her program.
Thelma remained there most of the day, getting up only to go to the bathroom. I made her lunch as well. She didn't talk unless she had a comment to make about something she was watching. The highlight of her day began when her first soap was on. After that, I might as well have gone to school. Karl called to see how she was and to tell me that he had someone taking care of Grandpa. I told him what Thelma was doing.
"Maybe she's better off," he said.
"I'm not doing much," I complained I wanted to add that he'd been right. I should have gone to school.
"You're there. That's something," he said. "She probably wouldn't eat anything otherwise."
He was right about that, but I still felt more like a maid than a daughter. I wanted to talk. I wanted to hear Thelma tell stories about her mother, about what it was like being her daughter, the things they had shared, their precious moments, all that she would miss. I wanted to feel that I was part of a family and not back in the orphanage with strangers.
When Thelma started to cry about what was happening to a character on her program, I got up and went to my room. How could she care so much more about make-believe people? Was it because it felt safer? The program ended, and you didn't have to think about them anymore? Was that it? But Thelma seemed to think about the characters constantly, not just when the show was on. I couldn't make any sense of it.
A little while later, the doorbell rang. It was Ashley and her mother again, only this time Bernie was with them.
"Hi," I said, smiling mostly for Bernie's benefit.
"How's she doing?" Mrs. Raymond asked.
"She's been watching television, trying not to think about it," I said.
"I don't blame her," Mrs. Raymond said.
"We brought all your homework," Ashley said. "And Bernie came along to help explain anything new."
"Thanks."
I stepped back, and everyone entered. Mrs. Raymond went to see Thelma, and I took Ashley and Bernie to my room. Bernie opened the math book and began to talk about the new problems immediately. I listened and nodded when he asked if I understood.
Ashley sat on my bed and watched us work. When his explanations ended, Bernie sat at my computer.
"So when is the funeral?" he asked.
"In the morning. There won't be many people there. Karl's father isn't able to travel, and his brother in Albany can't get away. His younger brother is at sea. None of Thelma's cousins are coming Some of my grandparents' older friends will be there."
"And my mother will be there," Ashley said quickly. "She won't let me. She says I have to go to school."
"She's right," Bernie said. "School is more important. Funerals are really unnec
essary."
"Unnecessary? How can you say that?" Ashley asked.
"When someone dies, it's over. There's no point in wasting any more time about it."
"That's a horrible thing to say," Ashley declared. "You have to pay respect."
"To what? The person's gone. You're better off saying good-bye to a picture," he remarked. "I hated going to my grandfather's funeral. There was a big party afterward, full of people who really never knew him It was just an excuse for a party."
"We're not having anything afterward," I said. "Good," Bernie said.
"That's cruel, Bernie Felder," Ashley charged.
"I'm just being realistic," he said. "When you die, you return to some form of energy, and that energy goes into something else. That's it."
"What else?" Ashley asked, her eyebrows hoisted so high they were practically in the middle of her forehead.
"I don't know. Maybe. . . a plant or a bug."
"A bug! Crystal, you don't believe that, do you?"
"I don't know what I believe," I said. "Sometimes I imagine my real mother is with me, her spirit, but then I think that's silly."
"It's not silly. It's beautiful," Ashley said. "I'm not going to be any bug, Bernie Felder. Maybe you are."
"Maybe," Bernie said casually.
"You don't care?"
"Why should I care? I won't know anything different," he said, and Ashley groaned.
"I swear," she said. "Scientists are the most boring people. I hate the subject, especially
experiments with all those smelly chemicals and dead worms. Experiments make me sick."
"I bet I can think of an experiment you'd like. How about an experiment to find out what kind of kisses we like best?" I asked her, thinking she'd call my bluff.
"Crystal!" she said, shifting her eyes to Bernie.
"What kind of experiment?" he asked excitedly.
I made up an experiment that was almost like a contest--judging the best kiss. He listened and nodded without laughing. Ashley's face turned pink when I turned to ask if she was willing to join in.
"Interesting," Bernie said. "I don't see how it's really scientific . . ." He thought a moment and then nodded at me. "But I'd like to be part of it."
Orphans 02 Crystal Page 8
