CHAPTER
twenty-five
I’d stayed up far later than I should have, waiting for Clara to come home. I occupied my time after Hugo went to bed by looking through the old photo album, stopping on a picture of my Uncle Gerald on his tractor, Clara on his lap and me standing beside him. We were so small, and I had absolutely no recollection of that picture having been taken.
Our mother’s brother, Uncle Gerald, lived on a farm somewhere called Bliss, a few hours’ drive from Detroit. We went there once a year in the summers when we were very young, Mother saying that the fresh air would be good for us.
We’d run through the cornfields with our cousins, Clara moving between the stalks with abandon. I, on the other hand, worried the whole time that we’d get lost or in trouble or that we’d bump into a less-than-savory creature in there.
For a girl only accustomed to a city like Detroit, even a rabbit could be a scary prospect.
Only once was our mother able to convince Dad to let us spend the night on the farm. Clara and I slept on the screened-in porch with our cousins, the cool of the evening so refreshing after a hot day of play.
Never one to sleep well away from home, I’d tossed and turned on the pallet that was my bed that night. The chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs joined with other country sounds, none of which were familiar to me.
Very late, after the rest of the household was sleeping, my mother crept out to the porch, stepping over one sleeping child after another and pushing open the screen door with all the care in the world, slipping out into the night.
I’d followed her, worried that she’d sneak away and that we’d never be able to find her. But she’d just perched on a large rock in the front yard, her knees held tight against her chest. Head tilted back, she stared up at the sky.
“See all of them?” she’d said when I got to the rock. She patted a space beside her, and I climbed up. “We never see this many in the city, do we?”
When I noticed that she was crying, I asked her why the stars made her sad. She told me she wasn’t sad. Not at all.
“Beauty makes me cry sometimes,” she’d told me.
She let me stay beside her for a long time and she told me the names of the constellations she knew. Those she didn’t know, she made up.
It was the closest I’d ever felt to her. That was the most I’d ever felt I really was her daughter.
It was well past two in the morning when lights from a car pulling into my driveway beamed in through the living room window, projecting my shadow on the wall.
I yawned, stretching as I got out of my chair so I could let Clara in. I had half a mind to explain to her that “be back soon” did not mean twelve hours later.
When I opened the front door, I saw that it wasn’t Norm’s car in the driveway. It was Albert’s. He was next to the open passenger side door, reaching in to help Clara out. She put her hand on his shoulder and stood up, leaning on him heavily.
“Is she okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the neighbors, and rushed down the steps.
“Birdie, hi.” Clara’s voice slurred and she slumped.
Albert put an arm around her to keep her upright.
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, louder than was necessary.
Albert’s wide eyes met mine and he nodded, wincing as if he hated to be the one to give me the news.
Clara’s blouse was rumpled and hung on her unevenly, and she was holding both of her shoes in her hand. Her hair was mussed and loose, makeup smudged.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“Maybe a little.” I waved for them to come up the walk. “Let’s all get inside.”
She took a step and then looked down at her feet, her face scrunched in puzzlement. “Where are my shoes?”
“In your hand,” I said. “Come inside, Clara.”
Her steps faltered, and I met them halfway up the walk. She leaned on both Albert and me as we took the two steps up the porch. Merciful heavens, she smelled awful. Her breath, her clothes, even her skin and hair stunk to high heaven. Alcohol and cigarettes and some other skunky odor that stung my nose.
The screen door creaked, and I let her go inside first. Turning in the vestibule, she looked me right in the eye.
“You can’t act like this,” I said. “You’re a mother. Your son needs you. You have to think of him first.”
“I can’t control it.” She laughed.
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” I didn’t like the scolding tone in my voice. “You’re acting like a little girl.”
Her smile vanished.
Albert offered to make a pot of strong coffee. I supposed he didn’t know what else to do. I told him it was a good idea, even if I did expect to waste most of it down the drain. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was getting Clara back to herself. Or at least halfway there.
I took her to the bathroom and had her sit on the edge of the tub while I wiped her face clean with a washcloth and brushed out her hair. Even when I hit a snag, she didn’t protest. She didn’t complain. When she told me she was going to be sick, I helped her get to the toilet and held back her hair.
“Where did you go?” I asked, drawing hot water into the tub for her bath.
“I just wanted to stop feeling for a little while,” she answered.
“So you went to a bar?” I took a fresh washcloth from the closet. “How did you pay?”
“I found a jar of money in the cupboard.” She closed her eyes and swallowed, wincing. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s done now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, not wanting to say anything I’d regret later and not wanting to ask how much she’d taken. That money was for a vacation that Norm and I never got to take. It was just money. That was all.
“How did Albert know to come get you?” I asked.
“I found his number in the phone book.” She took in a gulp of air. “I was too scared to drive home.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
She didn’t answer my question.
The hot water from the faucet steamed up the mirror and window, and I turned off the tap when there was enough of it for her to get a good soaking.
“Can you get in the tub by yourself?” I asked. “Or will you need help? I don’t need you falling and cracking your head open.”
“I need help,” she answered, all the hardness melted out of her voice. “I’m scared, Birdie.”
“It’s just a bath. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I helped her out of her clothes, trying to avoid seeing too much of her undressed body. What I did see was far too thin, far too angular, and I wondered when she’d last eaten more than a few bites at a time.
She held my arm tight when she lifted one foot after the other to step into the tub. She didn’t let go until she was submerged, letting out a hiss at how hot the water was.
“Here’s your washcloth,” I said. “The soap is fresh there on the side.”
“You won’t leave me, will you?” she asked, looking smaller than ever, folded up on herself in the bath. “I’m afraid to be alone.”
“I’ll stay with you for a little bit.” I sat on the closed lid of the toilet. “Why are you frightened?”
“I’m scared I’ll hurt myself.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s just get you sobered up,” I said. “You need a good night of sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
She blinked at me slowly, as if it took all her energy to do just that, and let herself sink down all the way into the water. When she didn’t come right back up, I lunged toward her, fighting against the water and her slippery skin and the weight of her body to pull her back up. She kept her eyes open the whole time.
When I finally managed to pull her face above water, she sucked in a gasping breath. Leaning her head against the edge of the tub, she parted her lips.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, louder than I’d intended. Nearly a shout.
“Uh, is everything okay in there?” Albert said from the other side of the door.
“Yes,” I called back. “We’re fine.”
I waited until I heard the sounds of Albie moving about the kitchen—a cupboard opening and shutting, the drawing of water from the faucet—before I moved so much as an inch.
“Clara,” I whispered. “Please don’t do that again.”
“I’m losing my mind, Birdie,” she said. “Just like Mama.”
“No. I can’t believe that.” I sat on the thin porcelain, wet from the sloshing, afraid that she was right.
She draped her arm on the ledge by the soap holder. That was when I saw the cut that sliced halfway across her wrist. It didn’t look deep. But it was enough to make my stomach clench and my heart ache.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I lost my nerve.” She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Oh, Clara.”
“Don’t give up on me, Birdie,” she said, dropping her hand back into the water. “Promise you won’t ever give up on me.”
“I never will,” I said.
“Do you promise?” She blinked heavily.
I helped her clean up, working the shampoo into her hair and scrubbing the washrag across her skin. When she talked, I didn’t hear the voice of my sister. When I looked into her face, I didn’t see the Clara I’d known all my life.
It was as if something else inhabited her body.
I found that my chest was so tight I could hardly breathe.