Sis

Sis didn’t like attention. “Oh, Foo Ferrah!” were her favorite words, especially if everyone else was having fun. But the hill was way too icy, and that last bump was killer. Her airborne toboggan banged down so hard, you could squish your jelly with your backbone, though mine was safe at the side of the hill. Through my frozen breath, I watched her roll away like a pro. She managed a smile right there at my feet, grimacing only when she looked away from me. “It was nothing! What are you staring at, Jeff?” she moaned, holding her mits with one hand while she felt her back inside her ski jacket. I was used to her tough exterior, but something was very wrong.

The ambulance was a total surprise. Sis was in the hospital for a week. Or less. I need to remember. How many chocolate bars did I eat, waiting in that hospital room, scarfing everything: chocolates and sticky buns from our neighbors, homemade chips, and tacos? Still not enough. I would bum change and get real with the bandit vending machines when they ate my coins.

Daytime soaps and nighttime stupid shows made me want a Steam video game handheld so fricking bad! I would daydream about video games until Mom brought me up short, her tight smile served with a helping of Aunts and Uncles, slack-jawed with pasty handshakes. Who knew how many could crowd a room? Sucking all the air out of me until I had to get another snack.

But there was nothing to it. Sis would insist she was okay, though she never got out of bed. I’d tease her to get her all riled up, but she’d write everything down in this diary she cooked up, green cloth-covered dollar store overstock and swirly patterns. “That’ll cost ya!” she’d say, writing down my latest insult and what she would do to me when she could “get up and go.” I had to watch it; her plastic spoons were the worst. Honest to God, she’d flick her yogurt at me when I wasn’t looking and then laugh so hard that I had to restrain myself from pounding her out.

So, imagine my surprise when I returned from hiking around the hospital’s neighborhood, and Sis was not there! Zippo. Empty room. But I could hear screaming down the hall. Enough to make me wish I had never heard it. Damn! That sounds like nothing you want to hear, ever. I will never get a job in a hospital! I swear to God. Who could work in this madhouse?

That night, we all went out for dinner. I wanted pizza in Sis's room, cheese in the crust, delivered by my pal, Joey. I could get a discount, I swear. Pretty please? Uh…nope? It’ll be Danny’s All You Can Eat, are you coming or not? Something essential to discuss.

Danny’s. I ralph as if on cue, fake, of course. Ralphing could be too convincing, though, getting real fast. Sis laughs. “See you later, Upchuck!” she crows.

“Not until you be much braver!” I reply. I poke my behind out at her, just out of reach. Sis reaches for her diary, thinking she can smack me with it, but it falls on the floor where I can scoop it up and pretend to read it.

“Enough!” yells Dad. “Give your sister her diary back, Jeffrey! Grow up, will you?”

Then Sis winked at me when we were leaving. That meant so much! Our little world was still intact; we would always find a way to live somehow.

At the restaurant, there’s one table for twelve. Yes, that will be fine; the grownups are thinking, though, I would just as soon take whatever was available instead of making the whole restaurant turn their heads and stare at us. The two people who happened to be sitting at our table get up with fake smiles, making a big show of gathering their things only to hustle when they see that Reverend Mike, the youth pastor from our ten-thousand-member strong church, was with us. How many times had that table been used for just this sort of gathering? Did it always have to be this way?

Life decisions. Faith. It was like breathing. We all joined hands, and Reverend Mike began to say grace with his staccato voice as if God was on the line and short of time. But this was always how it had been, since forever. Our faith was our rock, our anchor in the storm of Emma's illness. It was what we clung to when everything else seemed uncertain.

“Lord, we pray for healing for our sister, Emma. She is in your hands…” He went on and on, and when he was finished, he got up to go, bowing out unexpectedly. Mom was so disappointed. She thought I didn’t hear her when she told Dad that if we tithed our earnings as we should, the Reverend would have had supper with us.

So that was it. Sis would get better. It was decided. No discussion was needed, not that I didn’t try talking when Mom was alone in the kitchen when we got home.

“What has Emma got?” I asked.

Mom turned to me from the sink where she was washing up. “Got? Whatever do you mean, Jeffrey?”

“You know! It’s not normal to go to the hospital after tobogganing!”

Mom took her favorite cup she always saved for last when cleaning the kitchen. The one her father gave her, the last surviving cup and saucer from the china set our famous great-grandparents had, the same people who first settled Hanover Plains, where we lived. Teatime with that cup was her way of relaxing in the evening. She kept drying it as if waiting for something. Finally, she sighed, laid it on the counter, and gave me her full attention.

“It’s in God’s hands. But if you must know, your sister has bone cancer. Not that knowing about such a horrible thing will make a difference. We’ve always told you that life is a trial, and we must be the difference."

Then she sighed again and gave me this stern look that always said, “Enough discussion,” even when there wasn’t any. Discussion, that is.

How my parents handled things used to make me so mad. Like there was no point to anything because when God took center stage, nothing else mattered; I would pound the pillows in my room until I hardly knew what I was upset about in the first place, like when Aunt Jean died. Into that hospital room we went, us kids, Emma and me, Penny and David, my cousins, to say goodbye, all sweet hugs and kisses, and the next thing I knew, we were going to her funeral! Where was Reverend Mike then? Was he having supper somewhere else?

Please, God, tell me Sis is still alive—my first thought when I tumbled out of bed the following day. We had to go to the hospital to meet with the doctor. I waited by the car for what seemed like forever, which turned into a joke, with Mom and Dad ribbing each other about how I was ready before anyone else. To hear them talk, pulling “hen’s teeth,” was easier than trying to get me to go anywhere!

“Yeah, right, as if hens have teeth,” was all I could say, pretending to smile. “Could you hurry it up, please?” I complained as I fastened my seatbelt.

“Show the proper respect, son,” my father replied. “Or we will need to talk.”

Which was my father’s way of dealing with problems.

Despite how I was in a rush, I wished to God that life would slow down and things could go back to what they were. Mom and Dad chatted while Dad drove. He discussed how his work was disrupted, and we needed “to get back on track.” I had to get back to school. Home care for Emma had to be arranged, and we needed the "right attitude." It was so cringy to hear my mother say repeatedly: “If we give something to God to take care of it, then it is not our place to take it back again.” I started to get a headache, and I tried praying, but to tell the truth, it wasn’t working for me. Sis was all I could think about.

When we arrived, she was out of her room again. I listened real close, wondering if those awful screams would start, but there was only silence. A nurse told us we were in the wrong place for an appointment with a doctor. Room 403 was where we needed to be. Which in this colossal hospital was nowhere close to us. Dad hated wasting time, so he snatched the appointment form away from Mom and grumbled about how we would be late.

“Where’s Emma?” I asked, trying to be matter of fact while simultaneously wrinkling my nose at the musty odors mixed with a detergent smell. Pee smell from some rooms, too! It was like we were visiting relatives who had dashed about their house, getting ready for guests at the last instant.

“Shouldn’t Emma be with us to meet the doctor?” I said as we tried yet another corridor to where, exactly? Wasn't there a map?

Dad glared at me and quickened the pace. It was already ten past nine. Finally, we reached this quieter area with potted plants and carpet instead of that hospital tile you see everywhere. The doctor was out of her office and down the hall talking with someone. Then she caught sight of us and hurried back to greet us.

“You’re the Hamptons. Correct?” she started, showing us into her office. “I’m Emma’s oncologist, Dr. Geoffrey.

Mom apologized and tried to explain why we were late, that it was all her fault, but Dr. Geoffrey only smiled and said it was good that we could make it.

“Your last name is my first name!” I shouted, sitting on the edge of my chair after everyone had sat down.

Dr. Geoffrey smiled again. “I’m sure you spell your name with a J instead of a G?”

I didn’t answer; my face was suddenly red and so uncomfortable. I looked at my feet, and Mom took my hand.

 Dad started talking. It was like we were in church or something. He said that although he could appreciate that “modern medicine” has its place “in healing the sick,” ultimately, God is the healer and that if we believe and have faith, Emma will be healed. The doctor listened for a while, but she grew impatient as it began to look like Dad was starting to indulge in his part-time passion: lay preaching.

“We are meeting to discuss bone cancer treatment options?” asked Dr. Geoffrey. She looked at her watch. “Our time is up as of now. We can’t wait to start treating Emma.”

I don’t remember what was decided, even though we kept talking through another family's appointment time. The discussion was about “waiting and seeing” and being “minimally invasive,” whatever that means. Was a miracle supposed to happen?

My headache was pounding. I guess my head hurt because Dr. Geoffrey was unhappy when we left. She said she wanted more meetings with us and that Emma’s case file would be reviewed by other doctors who might also want to meet with us. Why didn't my parents take the doctor's advice? It was a mystery to me.

Dad did nothing but talk about the meeting all the way back to Emma’s room. He was stinking mad, saying that if the doctor didn’t believe, it would make it less likely that Emma would recover. Mom had to do all she could to try to calm him down. They decided to go for coffee. I was told to keep Sis occupied, which I was happy to do.

I crept to her door. It was open. Then, just when I thought I might surprise her, Sis was staring right at me!

“Caught you!” she laughed. “You can’t fool me!”

I thought everything was fine when I sat on her bed, but Sis had these new bandages, and I didn’t know what to say, so I let her talk.

 “You went to that Foo Ferrah meeting, didn’t you?”

I hung my head, getting all red in the face again.

“Oh, don’t you get upset now!” she guffawed. “I’m the one that’s sick!”

I still didn’t answer or say anything, so Sis kept talking. She pointed to the table where the flowers were.

“There’s no more sticky buns or tacos, but if you like cold leftover coffee and lots of strawberry and cherry goo in your chocolates, there’s some left. Go on! Nobody else is going to eat this stuff!”

I wasn't interested. Instead, I became obsessed with Sis's diary. Now, where was it? I’ll wrestle her for it! Sis laughed so much as she tried to keep the diary from me.

But then I had to stop, finally, when I burst into tears.

Sis was shocked.

"What's the matter, Jeff?" she asked, her voice so tender and sweet as she put her diary on the bedside table.

I cleared my throat, making such a weird sound. "You're going to say this is stupid. I know it," I stammered. "Promise me you won't say it's stupid!" I said again, choking on my sobs while wiping my tears away.

"Go on," Sis answered.

I sat up on the bed and tried straightening some bed covers, wondering why I was trembling so much. I couldn't look at her even though she was staring at me.

"You're going to die, I know it," I said as I covered my eyes and then bent over, bawling.

"How could you know that?" She answered, "That's just so stupid!" she added, touching my arm and bending a little so she could see my face.

Then we both laughed and cried. And hugged.

When Mom and Dad returned, they seemed stunned, clutching coffee cups and staring about the room.

"What on earth..." my father said.

Which was the best thing I have heard him say since forever.