1
Hannah
It was Jenny’s death that killed my
mother. Killed her as good as if she’d been shot in the chest with a
twelve-gauge shotgun. The doctor said it was the cancer. But I saw the will to
live drain out of her the moment the policeman knocked on our screen door.
“It’s Jenny, isn’t it?” Mom rasped,
clutching the lapel of her faded dressing gown.
“Ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you
other than to say it straight.” The policeman spoke in the low-pitched
melancholic tone he’d used moments earlier when he’d pulled up and told me to
wait in the patrol car as its siren lights painted our house streaks of red and
blue.
Despite his request, I’d slipped out of
the back seat and rushed to Mom’s side as she turned on the front porch light
and stepped onto the stoop, dazed from being woken late at night. I hugged her
withered waist as he told her what he had to say. Her body shuddered at each
word.
His jaw was tight under strawberry
blond stubble and his light eyes were watery by the time he was done. He was a
young cop. Visibly inexperienced in dealing with tragedy. He ran his knuckles
across the corners of his glistening eyes and swallowed hard.
“I’m s-s-sorry for your loss, ma’am,”
he stammered when there was nothing left to say. The finality of those words
would reverberate through the years that followed.
But at that moment, as the platitudes
still hung in the air, we stood on the stoop, staring at each other, uncertain
what to do as we contemplated the etiquette of death.
I tightened my small, girlish arms around
Mom’s waist as she lurched blindly into the house. Overcome by grief. I moved
along with her. My arms locked around her. My face pressed against her hollow
stomach. I wouldn’t let go. I was certain that I was all that was holding her
up.
She collapsed into the lumpy cushion of
the armchair. Her face hidden in her clawed-up hands and her shoulders shaking
from soundless sobs.
I limped to the kitchen and poured her
a glass of lemonade. It was all I could think to do. In our family, lemonade
was the Band-Aid to fix life’s troubles. Mom’s teeth chattered against the
glass as she tilted it to her mouth. She took a sip and left the glass
teetering on the worn upholstery of her armchair as she wrapped her arms around
herself.
I grabbed the glass before it fell and
stumbled toward the kitchen. Halfway there, I realized the policeman was still
standing at the doorway. He was staring at the floor. I followed his gaze. A
track of bloody footprints in the shape of my small feet was smeared across the
linoleum floor.
He looked at me expectantly. It was
time for me to go to the hospital like I’d agreed when I’d begged him to take
me home first so that I could be with Mom when she found out about Jenny. I
glared at him defiantly. I would not leave my mother alone that night. Not even
to get medical treatment for the cuts on my feet. He was about to argue the
point when a garbled message came through on his patrol car radio. He squatted
down so that he was at the level of my eyes and told me that he’d arrange for a
nurse to come to the house as soon as possible to attend to my injured feet. I
watched through the mesh of the screen door as he sped away. The blare of his
police siren echoed long after his car disappeared in the dark.
The nurse arrived the following
morning. She wore hospital scrubs and carried an oversized medical bag. She
apologized for the delay, telling me that the ER had been overwhelmed by an
emergency the previous night and nobody could get away to attend to me. She
sewed me up with black sutures and wrapped thick bandages around my feet.
Before she left, she warned me not to walk, because the sutures would pop. She
was right. They did.
Jenny was barely sixteen when she died.
I was five weeks short of my tenth birthday. Old enough to know that my life
would never be the same. Too young to understand why.
I never told my mother that I’d held
Jenny’s cold body in my arms until police officers swarmed over her like
buzzards and pulled me away. I never told her a single thing about that night.
Even if I had, I doubt she would have heard. Her mind was in another place.
We buried my sister in a private
funeral. The two of us and a local minister, and a couple of Mom’s old
colleagues who came during their lunch break, wearing their supermarket cashier
uniforms. At least they’re the ones that I remember. Maybe there were others. I
can’t recall. I was so young.
The only part of the funeral that I
remember clearly was Jenny’s simple coffin resting on a patch of grass
alongside a freshly dug grave. I took off my hand-knitted sweater and laid it
out on top of the polished casket. “Jenny will need it,” I told Mom. “It’ll be
cold for her in the ground.”
We both knew how much Jenny hated the
cold. On winter days when bitter drafts tore through gaps in the patched-up
walls of our house, Jenny would beg Mom to move us to a place where summer
never ended.
A few days after Jenny’s funeral, a
stone-faced man from the police department arrived in a creased gabardine suit.
He pulled a flip-top notebook from his jacket and asked me if I knew what had
happened the night that Jenny died.
My eyes were downcast while I studied
each errant thread in the soiled bandages wrapped around my feet. I sensed his
relief when after going through the motions of asking more questions and
getting no response he tucked his empty notebook into his jacket pocket and
headed back to his car.
I hated myself for my stubborn silence
as he drove away. Sometimes when the guilt overwhelms me, I remind myself that
it was not my fault. He didn’t ask the right questions and I didn’t know how to
explain things that I was too young to understand.
This year we mark a milestone.
Twenty-five years since Jenny died. A quarter of a century and nothing has
changed. Her death is as raw as it was the day we buried her. The only
difference is that I won’t be silent anymore.
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