not.
Empty water bottles … recycling. Chip bags, salsa jar with fungus, apple cores, orange peels, frosted donut wrappers … garbage.
I'm getting carried away, using tissues to
dust
the dresser, lifting the lotions and scents and replacing them exactly. I spray Vanilla Musk into the air and breathe in Claire with a catch in my throat. There are movie ticket stubs, receipts from Beanie's, a few quarters, hair elastics, feathers collected on the beach at the lake. There are a dozen photos stuck in the frame of her mirror, scribbled notes, old birthday cards, the fortunes from about twenty cookies taped to the glass.
A lifetime friend shall soon be made.
A show of confidence can be as good as the real thing.
Alas, the onion you are eating is someone else's water lily.
I scoop her hoop earrings into the music box that tinkles a bar of “You Are My Sunshine” before I moan and slam it shut.
Life with Claire surrounds me, whichever way I turn. Every object has its own little story.
Graduation Present
Right in the middle of Claire's desk is her new computer. Uncle Denny and Aunt Jeanie pitched in to buy a laptop for her to take to college, since the TV-sized hulk we have in our room is not going anywhere without a team of mules. I almost cried with jealousy when her new one came: a baby Mac so sleek and silvery it begs to be stroked.
I have this icy hot rush from my temples on down. It's going to be mine now. And then I slap my own mouth in case I said it out loud, and the tears gush out like scalding tea.
How could I think such a thing? My sister's not dead and here I am looking at her prize possession, licking my lips. How sick is that? I cram her pillow against my face and scream into it. I'm sorry, Claire! I'm sorry! Ohgod, sorry, sorry!
New Scenery in a Small Town
I glance at Dad as we're driving along. He thinks he looks younger when he doesn't shave for a day or two, buthe doesn't realize the whiskers are coming in silver. I reach over and pat his shoulder. He looks at me and winks. I suddenly realize where we are.
“Why did we come this way?” I ask him. “Look.”
He slows down so we can peer over at the stuff piled on the lawn in front of the Dietrich Insurance building. I knew it was here because Zack has already been and read all the notes. It's like a garage sale spread out to tempt the passersby. There are bouquets of flowers lying there in paper cones. A sign lettered in glitter says CLAIRE. The hydrant sticks up like the Virgin Mary at a roadside shrine, surrounded by teddy bears and Mylar balloons and letters and candles and garlands….
“Wow.”
Dad picks up speed. “So, that's the spot.”
He drops me off in front of the hospital.
“I'll be there in a bit,” he says, and drives away. He's going to tell his client in person that the walnut case with beveled glass doors will be late.
Washing Her Feet
Mom's not here and the nurse is washing Claire when I get inside the hospital. It's Florence, the older lady, dark skin with springy white hair. She wears photos of her grandchildren in a locket around her neck. She's got abasin and cloths and she's giving Claire what she calls a sponge bath, without a sponge in sight.
“Hello, dear,” she says. “How are we today?”
“Well, okay, I guess, you know.”
“It's a tough thing to get used to, isn't it?”
“ Um-hmm.”
“You want to help me out? You could give your sister's feet a little massage. Keep the circulation going.”
I don't expect disgust, but it jabs me like an elbow.
“Uh, I, that's okay, I…”
I don't like touching her, my own sister. Except of course she's not really Claire. She's changed shape, like in a science-fiction movie. She's swollen and pale and clammy-looking, as if her skin might peel back and reveal a subterranean insect tribe scuttling back and forth along her muscle fibers….
Oh god, that's hideous. Why does my brain take me places like that?
“Come on over here, dear. There's nothing to be
Empty water bottles … recycling. Chip bags, salsa jar with fungus, apple cores, orange peels, frosted donut wrappers … garbage.
I'm getting carried away, using tissues to
dust
the dresser, lifting the lotions and scents and replacing them exactly. I spray Vanilla Musk into the air and breathe in Claire with a catch in my throat. There are movie ticket stubs, receipts from Beanie's, a few quarters, hair elastics, feathers collected on the beach at the lake. There are a dozen photos stuck in the frame of her mirror, scribbled notes, old birthday cards, the fortunes from about twenty cookies taped to the glass.
A lifetime friend shall soon be made.
A show of confidence can be as good as the real thing.
Alas, the onion you are eating is someone else's water lily.
I scoop her hoop earrings into the music box that tinkles a bar of “You Are My Sunshine” before I moan and slam it shut.
Life with Claire surrounds me, whichever way I turn. Every object has its own little story.
Graduation Present
Right in the middle of Claire's desk is her new computer. Uncle Denny and Aunt Jeanie pitched in to buy a laptop for her to take to college, since the TV-sized hulk we have in our room is not going anywhere without a team of mules. I almost cried with jealousy when her new one came: a baby Mac so sleek and silvery it begs to be stroked.
I have this icy hot rush from my temples on down. It's going to be mine now. And then I slap my own mouth in case I said it out loud, and the tears gush out like scalding tea.
How could I think such a thing? My sister's not dead and here I am looking at her prize possession, licking my lips. How sick is that? I cram her pillow against my face and scream into it. I'm sorry, Claire! I'm sorry! Ohgod, sorry, sorry!
New Scenery in a Small Town
I glance at Dad as we're driving along. He thinks he looks younger when he doesn't shave for a day or two, buthe doesn't realize the whiskers are coming in silver. I reach over and pat his shoulder. He looks at me and winks. I suddenly realize where we are.
“Why did we come this way?” I ask him. “Look.”
He slows down so we can peer over at the stuff piled on the lawn in front of the Dietrich Insurance building. I knew it was here because Zack has already been and read all the notes. It's like a garage sale spread out to tempt the passersby. There are bouquets of flowers lying there in paper cones. A sign lettered in glitter says CLAIRE. The hydrant sticks up like the Virgin Mary at a roadside shrine, surrounded by teddy bears and Mylar balloons and letters and candles and garlands….
“Wow.”
Dad picks up speed. “So, that's the spot.”
He drops me off in front of the hospital.
“I'll be there in a bit,” he says, and drives away. He's going to tell his client in person that the walnut case with beveled glass doors will be late.
Washing Her Feet
Mom's not here and the nurse is washing Claire when I get inside the hospital. It's Florence, the older lady, dark skin with springy white hair. She wears photos of her grandchildren in a locket around her neck. She's got abasin and cloths and she's giving Claire what she calls a sponge bath, without a sponge in sight.
“Hello, dear,” she says. “How are we today?”
“Well, okay, I guess, you know.”
“It's a tough thing to get used to, isn't it?”
“ Um-hmm.”
“You want to help me out? You could give your sister's feet a little massage. Keep the circulation going.”
I don't expect disgust, but it jabs me like an elbow.
“Uh, I, that's okay, I…”
I don't like touching her, my own sister. Except of course she's not really Claire. She's changed shape, like in a science-fiction movie. She's swollen and pale and clammy-looking, as if her skin might peel back and reveal a subterranean insect tribe scuttling back and forth along her muscle fibers….
Oh god, that's hideous. Why does my brain take me places like that?
“Come on over here, dear. There's nothing to be
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