Читать книгу Cumberland - Megan Gannon - Страница 9

Two

Since there’s no shore to comb and won’t be still for hours, I walk around to the other side of the house. The air feels still, poised on the brink of storm, and then a high quick wind twirls the ends of my hair and ruffles water the color of a mirror-back as I follow the cliff-edge out.

A lot of the old timers in town know about Izzy, but I’m not supposed to talk about her, not to out-of-towners, and especially not at school. After the accident, Izzy was in the hospital for so long no one at school over in Fort Harmon even knew I had a sister, and when the hospital released her and she still wouldn’t talk, Grand decided it was easier for Izzy to just stay home and every night I’d teach her what I learned that day in class. It’s gotten harder and harder. Once I know something it’s impossible to trace my brain back through the dark of not knowing, the murk of beginning to understand, then the bright knowing. Most of the time she already knows the things I’m supposed to teach her—I don’t know how. But sometimes she doesn’t, and these are the things I wait to tell her. She still had a baby’s handwriting at the beginning of seventh grade, but when I finally taught her cursive, it didn’t take more than a few days for the tilted fence-posts of H’s and N’s to bloom looping tendrils of climbing vines.

Many other decisions were made by Grand, and by the Carson brothers who live on the other side of town. At first they’d arrive every Friday night under the porch light, hats in hand, shirtsleeves rolled, ready to lift Izzy into the tub so I could scrub her down. Then every two weeks, then less, once I was old enough and strong enough to lift my sister myself. Sometimes I let the tub fill a little, making sure the water level isn’t high enough to reach her stoma. She laughs to watch her feet float up and turn out like a ballerina’s first position, and we play battleship, sinking her feet with shampoo bottles and big bars of soap. When her feet bob back up we both laugh. “Unbelievable! Certified indestructible Mackenzie craftsmanship! The Navy wants to know, Ms. Izzy, what’s your secret ingredient?”

It was Grand’s turn to mind Izzy when I was at school, but that didn’t last long. I try to imagine Grand tearing herself away from the TV in regular intervals to climb upstairs. One day after a few months, Grand said Izzy must have rung her little bell twenty times an hour, sometimes before Grand was halfway back down the stairs, sometimes when she’d just gotten settled back on the sofa. Izzy got a bladder infection and had to go back in the hospital for a month. After that the little brass bell with the flat-cast canary on top disappeared, and the next time she had an infection the doctor gave me lessons on how to change Izzy’s catheter and diaper and how often. Now sometimes I just have to change Izzy’s sheets when I get home. If it’s only a matter of the bag leaking, Izzy and I make a game of that, too. I lift one edge of the sheet, then the other, rolling her back and forth. “Isabel Ailene! Have you been drinking? Where do you get off rolling around like a drunken sailor?” When the sheets are more than wet, we can’t play that game.

I follow the C-shaped cliff around to an outcropping of rocks, then turn for the flat straight-away crowded by big-leafed trees, live oaks and magnolias that drop scorched petals and grenade-shaped cones in the ocean. It’s a fifteen-minute walk if I’m walking fast, but I take my time, remembering what it felt like to have a pair of white-blue eyes centered on me and everything outside of me blurring. The other girls at school stand in quiet clumps by their lockers as Everett walks by, oblivious to their stares, and they burst into giggles when he’s past. Most of the time they laugh loudly, convincing themselves, ha ha, he’s so weird, ha ha, but sometimes they stop giggling too soon and keep watching. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen him with a girl, a girlfriend, and then the trees open and I start down the sand dunes on a diagonal towards the hotel.

The air is still sulfurous from last night’s fireworks, the sand littered with the paper casings of the bottle rockets Izzy and I could just barely see exploding from the vantage of our bedroom window. Behind the hotel, the wooden pier is swarming with people, some spilling onto the stretch of beach where young mothers sit under umbrellas. Their children wade at tide line or throw sandwich bits to the gulls that float overhead on updrafts, their shrieks loud in the still air. On really hot days the older kids lie across inner tubes, a rope around one foot tethering them to the dock, but today there’s a breeze and the few teenagers are tan, slack bodies laid out on towels, one girl furtively checking the white stripe of skin under her shoulder strap.

I keep walking, up the front stairs to the wide white porch clustered with wicker chairs and low tables where waiters whisk in and out of a propped open, leaded glass door, their trays ting-ing. I find a table that hasn’t been cleared yet, pour the teacup dregs out and wipe the rim and insides with a jam-smeared napkin, then top off from the still-warm teapot and loop my legs over one arm of the chair. I make sure I’m laughing loudly behind the comics when a waiter walks up beside me, pauses, then briskly turns back towards the door. I laugh showily the way the only child of rich tourists would laugh. Like any minute my parents will be back from couples’ tennis, and dad will have the bill charged to our suite. Like it’s just me, just me, and two parents revolving around me, real and dependable as planets.

Violet she calls the nearly magenta rhododendron she must have just plucked on her way home. I was waiting, holding myself inside breathing and willing her coming. I don’t say what I know—how nothing can be violet while the sun’s still up. How it must have coolness and the scent of dusky corners clinging to petals. Go to the same rhododendron now as the shadows lengthen and bring me a blossom—that’s violet. Timing. Like her gaze. I can’t make her stay.