Loma Soyle could stretch forty winks into a voyage round the horizon. When she went down, she was down as far as that golden metropolis that sank into the who-knows-where way back in that ancient time when mere mortals would believe any fantastical story you told them. Good thing bed linens aren’t the briny deep ‘cause Loma wouldn’t bubble a breath for long, long as she went under.
Hephelonius Soyle tried her best to rouse her eldest daughter from her slumber loving. Her two girls, Loma and her sister Petie, shared a room off the kitchen under the shadow of an overgrown elm, and the room had just enough room between the two thin beds for a pantaloon to walk between unmolested, so Hephelonius would starch extra crisp Petie’s undergarments with the cherry appliqué and the lace trim so that when the pretty things moved, their crisp folds would scratch and crinkle like pinecones going up in flames, and her sister would wake and be so undone she’d near go up with them. That was one solution.
Another solution was to set aside a day of the week when Petie would get her hair washed with oil of camphor in a tub drug to the head of Loma’s bed. Hephelonius would pour pitcher after pitcher of warm pure water over Petie’s golden curls and the water that didn’t turn them lustrous dark with damp fell into the tub with a tinny drum-drum. She’d drop the tin pitcher on the floor by the tub at the head of Loma’s bed and commence to massage Petie’s golden curls with the oil of camphor, rubbing it into the scalp in slurpy sounding swirls and swoops, bubbling up quite the froth and giving moths for miles fair warning. Petie loved the smell of oil of camphor. She’d have had her hair washed daily if she could, just to live in that biting aroma. Hephelonius was partial to that smell, too, and grateful that at least her younger daughter was born with the same wise appreciation for things you didn’t need eyes to enjoy. Loma, if she had to choose between the smell of oil of camphor or having all of her hairs pulled out one by one, she’d yank herself bald. Loma and oil of camphor did not mix.
Loma began her journey as a baby who cried a lot, and grew into a young woman who slept a lot, and if you asked her why she was so selfish to sleep so much while her younger sister was left to have to brush her own hair, clear her own dishes, empty her own slop and deflect the many compliments on how buttercup-pretty she was in comparison to ring-eyed Loma, Loma would fix a stare on you that you just had to slap her out of.
Petie was in possession of many fine qualities that Loma lacked: her head sat directly above her torso thanks to a last-minute change in the direction that her spine curved; her wheeze was not a distraction; and any knowledge of a discomfiting nature would not spend much time in the inner sanctum of her mind. In short, she had a near-quiet, near-empty head, center-most on her shoulders, and milky eyes.
Naturally, as these qualities were Upland qualities from the O’ums side of things, passed on from Hephelonius and her family to her second child, Hephelonius could be forgiven for lavishing upon the daughter who was not her spitting image the bulk of her spit. Loma inherited what she inherited from the Minton end of the Soyle side of things, and the Minton end of the Soyle side of things were not any side of things Hephelonius ever made reference to without spitting, so to mention Mintons was to spit, to talk of Loma was to spit, to talk to Loma was to spit, and, with so much spit generated on her behalf, Loma did what she could do on a daily basis to goad her mother into spit fits that might one day fill a tub that she could then dunk her sister’s half-empty head into, and all the way under, so that the wheezy little thing might bubble her last. That was one solution.
Another solution was for Loma to sleep as long as she could until one day she’d be sleeping forever. Her inclination to the somniferous might, to some, be considered a selfish act, as it did to her mother mostly, and to her sister half the time. They could not understand this girl with the off-center head that was too full of thoughts and not a one of them happy about being Petie’s sibling. Her every action was ingratitude on a scale of magnitude that would take a person with a full brain and another half brain added to fully comprehend. To Loma’s consternation, between them, Hephelonius and Petie came up two-thirds of a brain short, so having the very people who misunderstood her come to understand her was a likelihood as unlikely to happen as a sunken golden metropolis suddenly coming up for air.
Sleep seemed the only way to live through her life. Down she’d go as soon as she could and out for the count as long as could be. She was tired of brushing her sister’s hair, and clearing her sister’s dishes, and emptying her sister’s slop. She was tired of wishing on stars and dreaming of golden metropoli and waking to oil of camphor and burning pinecones. She was body tired, and heart tired, and tired from being so tired. She felt herself in a hole at the bottom of a chasm too fatigued for anything but sinking deeper. She’d curl into a tuck like she was back in her mother’s womb and she’d stay that way for hours and hours and more. She’d stay that way in her bed, if that’s where she took to, and she’d take that way to stay any other place, too. Sometimes it was in the cold dark beneath the sagging front porch among the spiders and moles. Other times it was in the woods not too far from the field where the Drells were felled. She’d find a spot like something only in a dream: a place no one else had ever happened upon, a misty hideaway where new moss had tiny fresh blooms, a holy ground not even ants would blaspheme, and as it would be in a dream, the locale was always as quiet and dark as the night before the first day. She’d lay herself down on the cushioned ground and feel the dew-dropped green on her cheek. She’d draw into her tuck with her knees up close to where her bosoms never grew and her arms enfolded about herself as much as her own twisting spine would allow, and she’d hope that sleep would overtake her soon and completely. Until it did, she’d lie there and listen to the feel of the beat of her heart. She’d slow her breath. And still her blood. And in that near lifeless state of waiting for finality she’d think to herself over and over: I will wake to a golden metropolis … I will wake to a golden metropolis … I will wake to a golden metropolis.
To wake was to be reminded of what life was not, of her sister’s favored position in their mother’s graces and her own diminished standing in her mother’s spit. How one child, an afterthought at that, could stumble upon such partiality just because of a lucky bend in her back, or a pleasing wheeze, or a proclivity for the intoxicant oil of camphor was a boulder of reason ever at battle with gravity that would always nearly make it to the mountaintop of Loma’s comprehension before tumbling down, down, down.
To wake was to also confront an unfortunate truth about the haphazardry of life that ran counter to her feelings of turpitude towards Petie. Petie’s lucky back bend and her pleasing wheeze and her overall buttercup prettiness were a sight for every sore eye in town, save two: her own. Her milky eyes, set in her near quiet, near-empty head, had never in her life seen the light of day. Loma’s eyes had taken in everything the world has to offer, every shape and form, every shade of day, of night, every color from buttercup to periwinkle. She had vision enough to imagine the golden metropolis in all its ancient splendor, while to her sister, be it standing or submerged, all golden metropoli looked alike. Hephelonius had been insistent since the insufficiency was discerned that Loma be the eyes that Petie lacked—to look for her and look out for her—so that Petie might see the world as God’s eye sees it, and Loma, as she did so, might see the world as Petie saw it.
It was expected that Loma would take Petie by the hand and guide her through the years. If there was a climb to make then Loma should be the one to say to her sister two steps up, that’s one, that’s two; if a footfall was imminent in her sister’s path she should say to her sister rocks ahead, step left, now right; if the woodstove was hot to the touch, she should say to her sister careful now, that’s hot, don’t touch; if left with only each other after their mother’s passing, she should say to her sister, I’ll always be here, I will. A life of lead and follow would be what life would be and Loma should tell herself that this will be enough, enough.
Loma began her journey as a baby who cried a lot, and grew into a young woman who slept a lot, and in the dappled light that only she could see between the two she was a daughter who resented a lot and a sister who regretted even more.
This hurts my finger, Loma. What is it?
That’s a knife.
My arms and legs and neck and face are all itchy, Loma, what are you rubbing on my body?
It’s called poison ivy.
I smell smoke, Loma. Where’s it coming from?
Your hair.
Am I as pretty as you are, Loma? Am I? Loma? Are you crying? What do tears look like, Loma?
Tell your sister, Loma. Loma! Wake up, Loma!
When you can’t see a way out, the way out is you. Loma’s tongue grew tired speaking to and for Petie’s eyes. The more their mother insisted on her sacrifice, the deeper Loma retreated into her own heart, slowing her breath, stilling her blood, and becoming actively inert. It was tranquil there. She was neither resentful there, nor remorseful. She would close her eyes and see the world as she imagined both God and Petie saw it—as a beautiful black void of perfect ever-after-ness. As the years washed forward like the hues in a prism that only she could see, Loma tried to spare her sister the hardened black heart that beat at her daily. As a small girl she had swallowed whole a new potato her mother had yet to quarter for Petie; she choked on it and sputtered and spasmed like a rat on arsenic until she flailed herself against the hot woodstove and miraculously dislodged the spud as if from the ground anew. She reasoned she could do the same with the turmoil of her feelings. She’d swallow them as arsenic down her rat hole of a throat, but stop short of dislodging them by throwing herself on the hot woodstove. That thing burned the hell out of her belly.
She tried, so often through the years she tried just that. At the sun’s every shadow around the dial, on the green moss of the forest floor, under the sagging front porch among the spotted spiders and the gray moles, at every stiff swish of her sister’s starched pantaloons with their pretty cherry appliqué and lace trim, when spring was all diamonds and summer all circles and autumn all hexagons and winter all flat; as the years put new bends in their spines and spots on their hands, when the box with their mother was lowered into the ground and the rich, dark dirt shoveled back over it like a sprinkling of brown sugar on a cake only worms would enjoy, after every encounter with her own reflection in the parlor looking glass, at every washing with the oil of camphor that Loma in her hard heart had to admit was the silkiest substance she ever saw poured—rather than make Petie more sorry for the golden metropolis she’d never seen nor see, Loma curled into her tuck and tried to will her own sinking, wished for it, cried for it, dreamt of it, prayed, but it never did happen the way she envisioned.
Petie’s invisible hands were full caring for a self she could not see. Best she could on a daily basis she brushed her own invisible hair and cleared her own invisible dishes and emptied her own invisible slop while trying to make herself invisible so Loma could continue to sleep. More often than not she brushed hair that was seldom washed, and cleared away dishes that rarely touched food. More often than that she brushed her own hair with a dish, and emptied her own slop into the kitchen sink, and when one day she cleared her invisible hairbrush into the invisible slop bucket and reasoned she’d have to reach her invisible hand into the invisible reek to retrieve it before Loma woke and got wind and got mad, Petie sat down on the invisible woodstove and burned her invisible behind and cried tears neither one of them would see.
The darkest dark of all is the dark that knows no light. Petie could breathe in the oil of camphor and feel her scalp tingle to its touch, but she could not reason out an analogy to its strong aroma in a bold color or a forceful action, having no reference to what colors and actions looked like. She could feel a face for its abundant nose and absent chin, but she could not conjure an image in her mind to contrast to faces not so New Eden in their appointments, nor was it flattery to call her buttercup-pretty when she had no sense of what a buttercup was. Tell her of a golden metropolis full of colonnades and coliseums and so agleam with perfection that all spines are straight and all heads are full and all eyes are all-seeing, but such a tale of visible splendors is wasted when, to understand a thousand words, a single picture is still needed. Petie was alone in a dark that Loma could never fully grasp. To Loma, dark was merely the absence of light, a time of day, a place where dreams didn’t need sun to grow, a hue, a mood, a lampless room, a refuge. It was where she could retreat to and then return from, lead herself into and follow herself out of. Loma had all the words and images for dark except the dark that only God and Petie knew. Petie’s dark would take a thousand images to convey and not a one would ever be the last word. One word needed no image, however. To Petie, it was the one word that made all the difference in the dark. It was her word for light. The word was Loma.
Sibling years pass with little things going unnoticed. Petie’s head had been migrating over time from center-most on her shoulders to the western end of a right shoulder shrug. It was such a small advance daily that Loma could hardly be blamed for missing the shift as it happened on her watch, but she did miss it, and missed something shiftier, too. Not only was Petie’s head inching its way east, her neck was twisting its way Egyptian, with her chin directing her head all the way one way even as her body set its course the opposite. You’d think that seeing that sight day after day would make Loma wake up and take notice, but as it was that she slept for what seemed like years on end, who was going to shake her and wake her just to tell her that something didn’t look like it was supposed to look—Petie?
Loma could look away, but she could not hear away, and so it was that when a gurgle was added to Petie’s repertoire, Loma at long last deduced that something in her sister was amiss. Petie took on the musicality of a fireplace bellows, with a glottal kind of slurp followed by a nasal sort of wheeze. Whether she slept or lumbered or sat or chatted, she resonated like a hearthside recital at all times, all slurp and wheeze, slurp and wheeze, slurpier sometimes and wheezier others.
Petie did not express disturbance with her new discordance. Slurping was a familiar sound at home from when their mother’s spitting was in its high water years—a condition as much a result of bad teeth as it was of a bad humor. As Petie could not equate her torquing neck with choking any more than she could make a connection between their mother’s tooth rot and slurp juice, with only a sound to go by, she naturally assumed it was a natural aspect of aspiration and not a forewarning of asphyxiation. Thus, she slurped and she wheezed as she unconcernedly went about brushing her own slop and emptying her own hair. Her curving spine twisted her head further and further, and as it did, it caused the air to her lungs to grow thinner and thinner, which led, over time, to the color of her pretty skin turning from buttercups to bluebells.
One day the sun slants down at just the right angle and something your eye never fell upon before all at once takes you by surprise. You notice that long, thick, diseased branch that hangs perilously close to the rooftop over your bedroom and how the droop of it seems so much more severe now that there’s no distance left at all between it and the years and years of decayed leaves and moss and broken limbs that are piled up on your sagging roof and rotting what’s left of your shingles. You stagger backwards as best you can and you crane your own twisting neck and your newly awakened attentiveness at what is undoubtedly the cause of all that slurpiness you’ve been half-hearing in your sleep and you speculate as to the entirety of the disaster that you are sure is impending—the limb breaking off and the soggy roof caving in, and yet another door you must shut on yet another part of your family home made unlivable by the slow degradations of time—and because the mere thought of it is as exhausting as any remedy you might take up—you take to your tuck on the parlor divan—at least the roof over that room is sturdy, for the time being—and as you lie there willing yourself to a standstill you wish and you cry and you dream and you pray that your sister is soundly sleeping in her thin bed in the room you used to share when the roof over it collapses and she goes in one quick final slurp and wheeze in the dark. That’s one solution.
Another solution is to cease waiting for your sister’s end to fall out of the sky, cease yearning for a hole to be dug in your own honor, cease praying for a sunken golden metropolis to rise from the depths and put to shame the all-too-real world you live in, and instead, wake up: brush your sister’s hair and your own, empty her slop and your own, cup your hands around her cheeks and force her twisting neck to turn back just a notch enough to let a bit more air pass through for the little time that’s left, and accept that what this life gave you may not have brought you to the golden metropolis, but it made you one in your sister’s milky eyes. And when the two of you are found long after your long-awaited stillness has finally come to call, you’ll be crushed in your two thin beds in your small room off the collapsed kitchen with your twisted heads twisted towards one another like a pair of crumbled Egyptians, and across the narrow space between you, so narrow a space that you never needed eyes to measure what you had there, you and your sister will be holding each other’s hands as you enter that beautiful black void of perfect ever-after-ness that only God and Petie have ever seen.