Jane wondered about the strange place Karen now occupied, between life and death: alive but not alive, sleeping but not sleeping.
Karen was seldom alone in that hospital room. Someone in the family remained with her almost all the time, except the late nighttime hours. Jane’s mother kept vigil in the morning and Jane often joined her in the afternoon after school. Her father and mother sat beside Karen’s bed in the evenings, sometimes together, sometimes alternating with each other. Jane dropped in at the hospital at odd hours, not only after school but on her way home from the Mall or from a movie and sometimes found her father, sometimes Artie, there. The family had no formal visiting plan. The ceaseless routine of visiting had developed naturally, became a habit around which the rest of their lives centered.
One day, Jane found herself alone in the hospital room and it seemed to her that Karen was sinking, deeper and deeper into that strange terrible sleep, her body slight and slender under the sheet. Occasionally, she moved, twitched, sudden involuntary movements that, for one split second, brought a flash of hope. Then, nothing, the stillness again.
The doctor had encouraged the family to talk to Karen but Jane found it hard to do that. Just as she had found it hard to communicate with Karen at home. Although Karen was two years younger, Jane did not feel like her older sister. Karen glided easily through life, popular at school, adjusting quickly to Burnside, the telephone ringing constantly for her only a few days after the family had moved from Monument. Secretly, Jane regarded Karen as a snob, immersed in her social life at school, ignoring her parents as well as Artie and Jane herself, acknowledging Jane’s existence only when she invaded her room to bor-
row, without asking, her clothes, her cologne, her jewelry. Which provided arguments and accusations.
“Why does she act like I don’t even exist and then borrows my things?” Jane had asked her mother.
“Maybe she envies you.”
“Me? She’s the one with a million friends, has such a flair for style . . .”
“Yes, but you have taste, Jane,” her mother said. “Remember, she’s younger, she looks up to you. That’s why she borrows your things. . . .”
“Then why doesn’t she just ask me? Instead of going behind my back …”
“She’s shy . . .”
Karen shy?
“People are not always what they seem to be,” her mother said, using one of those mysterious sayings parents rely on to end conversations at a convenient moment.
Regarding Karen in the bed, looking vulnerable and, yes, shy and unguarded, Jane said, “I’m sorry,” her voice too loud in the quiet room where the small beep of the monitor was the only other sound.
“If you envied me, maybe I was jealous of you,” Jane admitted, hoping that Karen could hear her words. “Please come out of this, Karen, so we can talk about it, do something about it . . .”
The echo of her voice died out, along with the odd but somehow comforting words she had spoken to her silent sister.
While Karen slept in that high hospital bed, the house underwent repairs. A sophisticated alarm system, connected with police headquarters, was installed. New furniture was purchased plus three television sets, a CD set, and two VCRs. Her mother also bought new bedding sheets and blankets to replace those that had been torn to shreds
by the invaders. Her mother, in fact, went on a sad kind of shopping spree, replacing things that she thought the trashers had even touched. Particularly clothes. She and Jane went to the Mall and bought tops and skirts—and she brought home new shirts and underwear for Jane’s father. Meanwhile, the repairs were completed in record time as the workmen performed with urgency, working overtime willingly, as if they knew it was important to obliterate all evidence of mischief as soon as possible. Mischief. That was the word used by a man named Stoddard, a friend of Jane’s father who was boss of the work crew. He kept muttering the word under his breath as he directed the repairs and performed along with the crew as they scrubbed and painted and replaced.
Within a week, the house was restored to what passed for normal. Everything bright and new. The old wallpaper had been removed from Jane’s room and she decided to have the walls painted, choosing white instead of her favorite blue. Blue was spoiled for her forever and so, in a way, was pink. She did not replace her posters but allowed the walls to remain uncluttered, untouched, pure. She wasn’t quite sure that pure was the right word but it suited the room somehow.
The smell of paint lingered in the air after the workmen’s departure, along with other smells Jane could not identify, probably turpentine or the liquid wax on the floors. But something else, too.
“The smell of newness,” her mother said, sniffing the air, making her voice light and bright.
“That’s right,” Jane said, forcing brightness into her own voice, wondering if her mother also was playacting, whether her mother could detect that other smell, the smell that persisted, rising to her nostrils on occasion, lurking under all the new smells. She was aware of the smell
when she entered her bedroom, a soiled scent just barely there, making her pause and sniff tentatively, wrinkling her nose. The smell of something spoiled and decayed, an under-the-surface odor, hinting of vomit and things gone bad. Faint, yes, but unmistakable, not always there but coming and going, elusive sometimes, but other times strong, overpowering. She avoided looking at the spot near the door where she had encountered that puddle of vomit. To her surprise—and horror—she began to detect that elusive smell elsewhere, catching a drifting whiff when she was on the bus going to school, on the sidewalk in front of the Mall, in the classroom once, the smell suddenly stronger than schoolroom chalk. She would sniff cautiously and sometimes the smell evaporated, disappeared at once or lingered for a while, tantalizing in a horrible way. She wondered, a bit panicky, if the odor came from herself, if somehow it was being manufactured by her body, created out of her own horror at what had happened. She began to douse herself with cologne, applied creams and salves, sought out the strongest deodorants to rub into her armpits. She began to hold herself aloof from people, not letting anyone come too close, leaning over awkwardly when she kissed her mother and father good night. Sometimes, she caught her mother looking at her peculiarly and quickly turned away or left the room or began to jabber like a madwoman. And sometimes she caught her mother’s own face lost in deep thought or sadness and wanted to reach out to her, cry out, touch her or fling herself in her arms. But could not, could not, always holding back.
And all the while Karen slept.
It wasn’t only that foul odor, that terrible smell, but the house itself that began to bother Jane. She started fleeing the place, finding excuses not to be there. After visiting the hospital, she sometimes took the bus to downtown
Wickburg and wandered the Mall, killing time, going in and out of the stores, trying on jackets and skirts, drinking a 7-Up. She did not stay too long in the stores or linger on the plastic benches near the fountain, did not want to give the appearance of being a stray, homeless. At home, she quickly changed and roamed the neighborhood or simply hung out in the backyard. She didn’t seek out the company of the other girls on the street because she wasn’t in a mood for polite conversation or talk about clothes or makeup or movies and television. She wished she were a writer or a painter or a musician so that she could lose herself in some form of creativity, express the emotions that stirred inside her. What emotions? She felt as though she were fooling herself because she felt no emotions, really. Felt dead inside. Empty. Like a vessel waiting to be filled. Filled with what? She didn’t know.
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Karen was seldom alone in that hospital room. Someone in the family remained with her almost all the time, except the late nighttime hours. Jane’s mother kept vigil in the morning and Jane often joined her in the afternoon after school. Her father and mother sat beside Karen’s bed in the evenings, sometimes together, sometimes alternating with each other. Jane dropped in at the hospital at odd hours, not only after school but on her way home from the Mall or from a movie and sometimes found her father, sometimes Artie, there. The family had no formal visiting plan. The ceaseless routine of visiting had developed naturally, became a habit around which the rest of their lives centered.
One day, Jane found herself alone in the hospital room and it seemed to her that Karen was sinking, deeper and deeper into that strange terrible sleep, her body slight and slender under the sheet. Occasionally, she moved, twitched, sudden involuntary movements that, for one split second, brought a flash of hope. Then, nothing, the stillness again.
The doctor had encouraged the family to talk to Karen but Jane found it hard to do that. Just as she had found it hard to communicate with Karen at home. Although Karen was two years younger, Jane did not feel like her older sister. Karen glided easily through life, popular at school, adjusting quickly to Burnside, the telephone ringing constantly for her only a few days after the family had moved from Monument. Secretly, Jane regarded Karen as a snob, immersed in her social life at school, ignoring her parents as well as Artie and Jane herself, acknowledging Jane’s existence only when she invaded her room to bor-
row, without asking, her clothes, her cologne, her jewelry. Which provided arguments and accusations.
“Why does she act like I don’t even exist and then borrows my things?” Jane had asked her mother.
“Maybe she envies you.”
“Me? She’s the one with a million friends, has such a flair for style . . .”
“Yes, but you have taste, Jane,” her mother said. “Remember, she’s younger, she looks up to you. That’s why she borrows your things. . . .”
“Then why doesn’t she just ask me? Instead of going behind my back …”
“She’s shy . . .”
Karen shy?
“People are not always what they seem to be,” her mother said, using one of those mysterious sayings parents rely on to end conversations at a convenient moment.
Regarding Karen in the bed, looking vulnerable and, yes, shy and unguarded, Jane said, “I’m sorry,” her voice too loud in the quiet room where the small beep of the monitor was the only other sound.
“If you envied me, maybe I was jealous of you,” Jane admitted, hoping that Karen could hear her words. “Please come out of this, Karen, so we can talk about it, do something about it . . .”
The echo of her voice died out, along with the odd but somehow comforting words she had spoken to her silent sister.
While Karen slept in that high hospital bed, the house underwent repairs. A sophisticated alarm system, connected with police headquarters, was installed. New furniture was purchased plus three television sets, a CD set, and two VCRs. Her mother also bought new bedding sheets and blankets to replace those that had been torn to shreds
by the invaders. Her mother, in fact, went on a sad kind of shopping spree, replacing things that she thought the trashers had even touched. Particularly clothes. She and Jane went to the Mall and bought tops and skirts—and she brought home new shirts and underwear for Jane’s father. Meanwhile, the repairs were completed in record time as the workmen performed with urgency, working overtime willingly, as if they knew it was important to obliterate all evidence of mischief as soon as possible. Mischief. That was the word used by a man named Stoddard, a friend of Jane’s father who was boss of the work crew. He kept muttering the word under his breath as he directed the repairs and performed along with the crew as they scrubbed and painted and replaced.
Within a week, the house was restored to what passed for normal. Everything bright and new. The old wallpaper had been removed from Jane’s room and she decided to have the walls painted, choosing white instead of her favorite blue. Blue was spoiled for her forever and so, in a way, was pink. She did not replace her posters but allowed the walls to remain uncluttered, untouched, pure. She wasn’t quite sure that pure was the right word but it suited the room somehow.
The smell of paint lingered in the air after the workmen’s departure, along with other smells Jane could not identify, probably turpentine or the liquid wax on the floors. But something else, too.
“The smell of newness,” her mother said, sniffing the air, making her voice light and bright.
“That’s right,” Jane said, forcing brightness into her own voice, wondering if her mother also was playacting, whether her mother could detect that other smell, the smell that persisted, rising to her nostrils on occasion, lurking under all the new smells. She was aware of the smell
when she entered her bedroom, a soiled scent just barely there, making her pause and sniff tentatively, wrinkling her nose. The smell of something spoiled and decayed, an under-the-surface odor, hinting of vomit and things gone bad. Faint, yes, but unmistakable, not always there but coming and going, elusive sometimes, but other times strong, overpowering. She avoided looking at the spot near the door where she had encountered that puddle of vomit. To her surprise—and horror—she began to detect that elusive smell elsewhere, catching a drifting whiff when she was on the bus going to school, on the sidewalk in front of the Mall, in the classroom once, the smell suddenly stronger than schoolroom chalk. She would sniff cautiously and sometimes the smell evaporated, disappeared at once or lingered for a while, tantalizing in a horrible way. She wondered, a bit panicky, if the odor came from herself, if somehow it was being manufactured by her body, created out of her own horror at what had happened. She began to douse herself with cologne, applied creams and salves, sought out the strongest deodorants to rub into her armpits. She began to hold herself aloof from people, not letting anyone come too close, leaning over awkwardly when she kissed her mother and father good night. Sometimes, she caught her mother looking at her peculiarly and quickly turned away or left the room or began to jabber like a madwoman. And sometimes she caught her mother’s own face lost in deep thought or sadness and wanted to reach out to her, cry out, touch her or fling herself in her arms. But could not, could not, always holding back.
And all the while Karen slept.
It wasn’t only that foul odor, that terrible smell, but the house itself that began to bother Jane. She started fleeing the place, finding excuses not to be there. After visiting the hospital, she sometimes took the bus to downtown
Wickburg and wandered the Mall, killing time, going in and out of the stores, trying on jackets and skirts, drinking a 7-Up. She did not stay too long in the stores or linger on the plastic benches near the fountain, did not want to give the appearance of being a stray, homeless. At home, she quickly changed and roamed the neighborhood or simply hung out in the backyard. She didn’t seek out the company of the other girls on the street because she wasn’t in a mood for polite conversation or talk about clothes or makeup or movies and television. She wished she were a writer or a painter or a musician so that she could lose herself in some form of creativity, express the emotions that stirred inside her. What emotions? She felt as though she were fooling herself because she felt no emotions, really. Felt dead inside. Empty. Like a vessel waiting to be filled. Filled with what? She didn’t know.
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