Aftermath
When I returned to the apartment, everything felt different. It was the middle of the day and I couldn’t stand how dark the room was. I went around turning on every light, including the one over the stove. Even so, it still felt dark and dismal.
Susan had cleaned the bathroom, washed my clothes and put new sheets on the bed. She bought extra pillows and it felt like I was crawling into some sort of childhood fort. I snuggled beneath the flannel sheets and tried to generate some warmth, but none would come. I had been freezing cold since the ambulance arrived, as though I had somehow lost my internal thermostat in the miscarriage. In spite of the flannel and the blankets, I shivered.
Susan and I had barely spoken a word to each other since I was admitted to the hospital. They kept me overnight for observation – not standard practice, it seemed – because they were afraid that the depressive woman would be a danger to herself after that sort of trauma. But they had nothing to worry about. I didn’t have the energy to harm myself. All I wanted to do was sleep. She watched me from across the room, as though she was afraid to approach. Standing and staring. I couldn’t close my eyes knowing that she was there.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I’m fine here.”
“Uh-huh. Do you realize you’re standing in my kitchen and just staring at me?”
She averted her eyes, as though I had just caught her doing something she shouldn’t do. She looked down at the floor and shifted her weight on her feet, wishing that she had worn something more comfortable than these worn-out flats.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Susan. What? What’s going on? Can you talk to me?” I had to break her out of this. I couldn’t have her just standing there.
“Nothing. I…” There was a moment of pause. “Nothing at all. Really. I’m sure of it..”
“Susan, do we need to talk about this?” I meant it sincerely. I had just reconnected with my sister, and I did not want something to break us apart so soon. It felt good to have someone in the apartment. Someone whose name I knew. Someone female.
“No. Not at all. Nothing. Nothing to discuss.” She said it too lightly.
I turned on the TV and found a handful of low-quality soap operas, as well as a few talk shows. It seemed that the station with the best reception was always Telemundo. I once again vowed to one day learn Spanish so I could appreciate this quirk of television.
She was staring at me again.
“Susan! Come here. Now.” I said it with authority, or so I thought. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“What are you, my mother?” she asked, and her eyes began to well with tears.
“Oh god, no crying. Is this about mom again? Jesus, Susan, I’m sorry about all of that, ok? Does it make you feel better?” I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong, but that was another story for another time.
“No,” she sniffled. “It’s not that.”
I was tired of playing this game. “Then what is it?”
“It’s not the right time.” She was shaking hear head repeatedly, the motion of denial.
“Of course it is. Just tell me. You’re acting so immaturely.”
“I’m trying to protect you!” she cried.
“From what?”
“Reality.” Susan could be so cryptic sometimes. I hated that.
“And just what about reality can’t I handle? Is there some sort of magical big sister power that prevents you from having any trouble handling things?”
She was mumbling under her breath. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. And then it struck me as to how odd this was. Susan never mumbled. She was a public speaker, and I’d never known her to talk in a voice low enough that neighbors on all sides couldn’t hear. She was theatrical and outgoing; she did not have what parents like to call an “inside voice”. So as you might expect, this behavior had me really freaked out.
“Susan, if you don’t get your ass over here to talk to me, I’m going to beat you senseless with my one good arm.”
“I can’t,” she said softly, almost cowering in the corner. “I can’t.”
“Susan, is this about the appointment I scheduled?”
“No.” Her voice was almost a whisper now.
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t handle it.”
I thought about this for a moment before speaking. “You know something? A week ago, I would have thought you were right. But after two hospital visits in a week, I’m thinking that I can handle more than I thought I could.”
She turned her back to me. “Ok, but I don’t want you to freak out.”
“You’re freaking me out now. Is it worse than this?”
She stared ahead, silent for a moment. “Ahm megmap,” she mumbled.
“What the hell was that? Speak English.”
“I’m pregnant, Angela.”
I sat up in bed. “That’s great, Susan!” I hoped that my sincerity resonated in my voice. “Come here. Let me give you a hiug. That’s great! When are you due?”
She turned from the wall, tears staining her cheeks. “You’re not angry? I was so sure that you would be angry.”
“Angry? Why on earth would I be angry?”
She sniffled. “Because you couldn’t keep yours.”
“Oh god, that’s not even the same situation. You’re married. You have a good life. You have stability. You aren’t on a cocktail of psychologically-altering medications or living on a minimum-wage salary.”
“I thought you would be mad,” she said as she approached the bed. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid of your reaction.”
“You have to tell me. I have to know that I’m going to be an aunt. Besides,” I said, “You’ll be a great mother. You did ok raising me.”
She burst out crying. “Oh god, no! I did a terrible job with you. That’s what I’m afraid of!”
I started to giggle at the thought of it, which burst into a full-blown belly laugh. It was true. Look at me. What had I done with my life? And as a teenager, I was such a terror. “I am so sorry,” I said as I gasped for breath. “I didn’t mean to upset you with that comment. I meant well!”
Her cries gave way to giggles. “’You did ok raising me,’” she said in her best mimicking voice. “If that’s the best I can do, this kid is fucked.”
I laughed even harder, and the feeling was contagious. Before I knew it we were both on the bed howling, with the cat sitting on the floor wondering what was wrong with these people. But then again, isn’t that the cat’s perspective 90% of the time? She struggled to her feet. “Stop it,” she cried. “I have to pee!” There was nothing funny about that, but it made me laugh even harder. “Stop!” she cried as she ran for safety. I could still hear her laughing behind the bathroom door. It felt good to laugh. I hadn’t had a good laugh like that in a really long time.
When she emerged, and things were calm once again I told her to sit down next to me.
“I’m scared, Susan.”
She put her arm around me and stroked my hair. “I know you are.”
I was overcome with a wave of self-pity. “Why do I have to feel like this? Why can’t I be normal?”
“Oh sweetie,” she said, continuing to play with my hair. “What you don’t seem to realize is that you are normal.”
“No I’m not,” I said, indignant. “If I was normal, I wouldn’t have eleven prescriptions for drugs to straighten out my brain.”
She stopped for a moment, and left her hand resting on the crown of my head. “No, that’s not true. Everyone feels the same things. It’s all about how we deal with them from there. Some of us tackle them head-on. Some of us need meds.”
I thought about that. “So are you saying that I might actually be like everyone else if I got off the meds?”
I felt her shrug. “Maybe. When was the last time you were drug-free?”
“Prescription or street.”
“Ugh, Angela! I don’t like to think about the street drugs. But ok, give me both.”
I thought for a minute. “Prescription drugs have been for six years or less. I started with the Prozac and worked my way up from there. Street drugs… I think I was 13 or 14 when I started that.”
She took a deep breath when I said 13. I didn’t know if I should apologize for it or not. I decided against it. What’s done is done. And it wasn’t her fault that I was a screwed-up kid. As I’ve said before, I blame that on my mother.
“See, here’s what I’m afraid of: it’s been, like, a decade since my brain was on its own, functioning without chemical assistance. Maybe that’s a bad thing, or maybe I sought to self-medicate myself because there was a real need for it. Maybe it’s entirely possible that I really couldn’t deal with reality.”
“By that logic, I should be an alcoholic,” Susan said.
“No heroin for you?” I asked.
“Good lord, please don’t tell me that you ever did needle drugs.”
“No,” I lied. It had been years, but I’d done more than my share when I was younger. The prescriptions took away the desire for the high, though, and I’d been basically street-clean for about six years.
She didn’t believe me, but kept her opinion to herself. “I prefer to use legal drugs to self-medicate.”
“Oh, right. Hence the alcohol. Couldn’t have Ms. Volvo-driving Suburbia visiting her dealer in the projects.”
Her body stiffened. She was offended, but I thought it would pass quickly.
“Oh, come on, Susan. I was only kidding.”
“It wasn’t funny,” she said sharply.
“You need to lighten up about it,” I said.
She stood up, pushing my upper body out of her way. She grabbed her sweater and purse and headed for the door.
“What, no goodbye? Just walking out?”
“I don’t even know you anymore,” my sister said.
“Why should that bother you now?” I asked. “You never did.”
She flung the door open so quickly that I expected the knob to blow a hole in the plaster. Instead, it merely left a knob-shaped impression in the wall.
“Susan!” But she was gone, out the door and down the steps. Damn her! This time I was the one swearing that we would never speak again. I’m not going to let her get away with making me feel guilty.
Susan had cleaned the bathroom, washed my clothes and put new sheets on the bed. She bought extra pillows and it felt like I was crawling into some sort of childhood fort. I snuggled beneath the flannel sheets and tried to generate some warmth, but none would come. I had been freezing cold since the ambulance arrived, as though I had somehow lost my internal thermostat in the miscarriage. In spite of the flannel and the blankets, I shivered.
Susan and I had barely spoken a word to each other since I was admitted to the hospital. They kept me overnight for observation – not standard practice, it seemed – because they were afraid that the depressive woman would be a danger to herself after that sort of trauma. But they had nothing to worry about. I didn’t have the energy to harm myself. All I wanted to do was sleep. She watched me from across the room, as though she was afraid to approach. Standing and staring. I couldn’t close my eyes knowing that she was there.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I’m fine here.”
“Uh-huh. Do you realize you’re standing in my kitchen and just staring at me?”
She averted her eyes, as though I had just caught her doing something she shouldn’t do. She looked down at the floor and shifted her weight on her feet, wishing that she had worn something more comfortable than these worn-out flats.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Susan. What? What’s going on? Can you talk to me?” I had to break her out of this. I couldn’t have her just standing there.
“Nothing. I…” There was a moment of pause. “Nothing at all. Really. I’m sure of it..”
“Susan, do we need to talk about this?” I meant it sincerely. I had just reconnected with my sister, and I did not want something to break us apart so soon. It felt good to have someone in the apartment. Someone whose name I knew. Someone female.
“No. Not at all. Nothing. Nothing to discuss.” She said it too lightly.
I turned on the TV and found a handful of low-quality soap operas, as well as a few talk shows. It seemed that the station with the best reception was always Telemundo. I once again vowed to one day learn Spanish so I could appreciate this quirk of television.
She was staring at me again.
“Susan! Come here. Now.” I said it with authority, or so I thought. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“What are you, my mother?” she asked, and her eyes began to well with tears.
“Oh god, no crying. Is this about mom again? Jesus, Susan, I’m sorry about all of that, ok? Does it make you feel better?” I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong, but that was another story for another time.
“No,” she sniffled. “It’s not that.”
I was tired of playing this game. “Then what is it?”
“It’s not the right time.” She was shaking hear head repeatedly, the motion of denial.
“Of course it is. Just tell me. You’re acting so immaturely.”
“I’m trying to protect you!” she cried.
“From what?”
“Reality.” Susan could be so cryptic sometimes. I hated that.
“And just what about reality can’t I handle? Is there some sort of magical big sister power that prevents you from having any trouble handling things?”
She was mumbling under her breath. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. And then it struck me as to how odd this was. Susan never mumbled. She was a public speaker, and I’d never known her to talk in a voice low enough that neighbors on all sides couldn’t hear. She was theatrical and outgoing; she did not have what parents like to call an “inside voice”. So as you might expect, this behavior had me really freaked out.
“Susan, if you don’t get your ass over here to talk to me, I’m going to beat you senseless with my one good arm.”
“I can’t,” she said softly, almost cowering in the corner. “I can’t.”
“Susan, is this about the appointment I scheduled?”
“No.” Her voice was almost a whisper now.
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t handle it.”
I thought about this for a moment before speaking. “You know something? A week ago, I would have thought you were right. But after two hospital visits in a week, I’m thinking that I can handle more than I thought I could.”
She turned her back to me. “Ok, but I don’t want you to freak out.”
“You’re freaking me out now. Is it worse than this?”
She stared ahead, silent for a moment. “Ahm megmap,” she mumbled.
“What the hell was that? Speak English.”
“I’m pregnant, Angela.”
I sat up in bed. “That’s great, Susan!” I hoped that my sincerity resonated in my voice. “Come here. Let me give you a hiug. That’s great! When are you due?”
She turned from the wall, tears staining her cheeks. “You’re not angry? I was so sure that you would be angry.”
“Angry? Why on earth would I be angry?”
She sniffled. “Because you couldn’t keep yours.”
“Oh god, that’s not even the same situation. You’re married. You have a good life. You have stability. You aren’t on a cocktail of psychologically-altering medications or living on a minimum-wage salary.”
“I thought you would be mad,” she said as she approached the bed. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid of your reaction.”
“You have to tell me. I have to know that I’m going to be an aunt. Besides,” I said, “You’ll be a great mother. You did ok raising me.”
She burst out crying. “Oh god, no! I did a terrible job with you. That’s what I’m afraid of!”
I started to giggle at the thought of it, which burst into a full-blown belly laugh. It was true. Look at me. What had I done with my life? And as a teenager, I was such a terror. “I am so sorry,” I said as I gasped for breath. “I didn’t mean to upset you with that comment. I meant well!”
Her cries gave way to giggles. “’You did ok raising me,’” she said in her best mimicking voice. “If that’s the best I can do, this kid is fucked.”
I laughed even harder, and the feeling was contagious. Before I knew it we were both on the bed howling, with the cat sitting on the floor wondering what was wrong with these people. But then again, isn’t that the cat’s perspective 90% of the time? She struggled to her feet. “Stop it,” she cried. “I have to pee!” There was nothing funny about that, but it made me laugh even harder. “Stop!” she cried as she ran for safety. I could still hear her laughing behind the bathroom door. It felt good to laugh. I hadn’t had a good laugh like that in a really long time.
When she emerged, and things were calm once again I told her to sit down next to me.
“I’m scared, Susan.”
She put her arm around me and stroked my hair. “I know you are.”
I was overcome with a wave of self-pity. “Why do I have to feel like this? Why can’t I be normal?”
“Oh sweetie,” she said, continuing to play with my hair. “What you don’t seem to realize is that you are normal.”
“No I’m not,” I said, indignant. “If I was normal, I wouldn’t have eleven prescriptions for drugs to straighten out my brain.”
She stopped for a moment, and left her hand resting on the crown of my head. “No, that’s not true. Everyone feels the same things. It’s all about how we deal with them from there. Some of us tackle them head-on. Some of us need meds.”
I thought about that. “So are you saying that I might actually be like everyone else if I got off the meds?”
I felt her shrug. “Maybe. When was the last time you were drug-free?”
“Prescription or street.”
“Ugh, Angela! I don’t like to think about the street drugs. But ok, give me both.”
I thought for a minute. “Prescription drugs have been for six years or less. I started with the Prozac and worked my way up from there. Street drugs… I think I was 13 or 14 when I started that.”
She took a deep breath when I said 13. I didn’t know if I should apologize for it or not. I decided against it. What’s done is done. And it wasn’t her fault that I was a screwed-up kid. As I’ve said before, I blame that on my mother.
“See, here’s what I’m afraid of: it’s been, like, a decade since my brain was on its own, functioning without chemical assistance. Maybe that’s a bad thing, or maybe I sought to self-medicate myself because there was a real need for it. Maybe it’s entirely possible that I really couldn’t deal with reality.”
“By that logic, I should be an alcoholic,” Susan said.
“No heroin for you?” I asked.
“Good lord, please don’t tell me that you ever did needle drugs.”
“No,” I lied. It had been years, but I’d done more than my share when I was younger. The prescriptions took away the desire for the high, though, and I’d been basically street-clean for about six years.
She didn’t believe me, but kept her opinion to herself. “I prefer to use legal drugs to self-medicate.”
“Oh, right. Hence the alcohol. Couldn’t have Ms. Volvo-driving Suburbia visiting her dealer in the projects.”
Her body stiffened. She was offended, but I thought it would pass quickly.
“Oh, come on, Susan. I was only kidding.”
“It wasn’t funny,” she said sharply.
“You need to lighten up about it,” I said.
She stood up, pushing my upper body out of her way. She grabbed her sweater and purse and headed for the door.
“What, no goodbye? Just walking out?”
“I don’t even know you anymore,” my sister said.
“Why should that bother you now?” I asked. “You never did.”
She flung the door open so quickly that I expected the knob to blow a hole in the plaster. Instead, it merely left a knob-shaped impression in the wall.
“Susan!” But she was gone, out the door and down the steps. Damn her! This time I was the one swearing that we would never speak again. I’m not going to let her get away with making me feel guilty.
posted by Ali at 10:11 PM
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