well as their most recent measurements, Pat in charge of carrying pads of paper and crayons to entertain the smaller children) and we’d follow our mother through the department store until every last pair of pants, skirts, underwear, socks, and shoes had been bought.
A glass of scotch reminds me of my father walking carefully into the dining room, his hands reaching for the walls for balance, starting in on Pat before he has even taken his seat.
The first day of school each year reminds me of dropping Gracie off at kindergarten and her crying silently, tears running down her face, her small head bowed when I refuse to give her another hug good-bye.
Bright blue winter skies remind me of the day I married Louis, and the way my hands shook as I walked down the aisle, dropping petals from my bouquet of white roses.
Horses remind me of a teenaged Lila in competition, her jaw fixed, her face locked in an expression of such intensity that once the event ended, even if she’d won, it took time to relax.
Many things remind me of the day my sister died. A toddler with white-blond hair. My mother’s strong hands, folded in her lap now or gripping her purse after years of raising, holding, bathing, carrying children. My brother Pat’s pale eyes. Lila bragging about her memory, which makes me think about mine, which leads me to think about my first memory. I have no choice but to remember.
My sister’s crying woke me that morning. I watched her through the bars of my crib. She sat bolt upright in her bed a few feet from me, her hands cupping her throat as if she were trying to protect it from something. “Water,” she said. My mother appeared in the doorway, tying her robe around what was left of her waist since she was eight months pregnant. “Shush now. Your father is sleeping.” Mother looked angry, and my sister hid under her pillow. I went back to sleep. Later, after Father left for work, my sister was curled in a ball on the living-room couch. She whimpered, and my mother sat next to her, her hand on the child’s forehead. Give her water, I wanted to say, but I wasn’t able to speak in sentences yet. My sister looked very hot, and I knew that for some reason she could no longer speak for herself. “I can’t,” my mother said, as if she had heard my thought. “You have to let a fever burn itself out. No fluids. That’s what Dr. O’Malley said.”
My mother left us to straighten up the bedrooms and wash the breakfast dishes. While she was gone I watched my sister and her fever burn themselves out. I sat on the floor penned by a square of wooden posts. I ignored my toys. For one minute my close attention paid off— my sister made a face at me. She stuck out her tongue and waggled her hands by her ears and I laughed. This was our own private game, a secret from Mother and Father. Some nights she and I did not go to sleep when we were supposed to. My sister would turn on the light and stand on her bed and make her funny faces while I giggled in my crib.
But after that one face my sister didn’t look at me anymore. Her eyes closed and her face swelled up and she began to make a strange cough in the back of her throat. Mother came back into the room, wiping her hands on her apron, saw my sister, and said, “Dear Lord.” She ran over to the couch. I had never seen my mother run before, and being as pregnant as she was, it was a worrying sight. She gathered my sister up in her arms, turned toward me, and yelled, “Willie.” I had never heard my mother yell before, either. Willie didn’t appear, and my mother ran across the room to me, my sister quiet in her arms. With difficulty, Mother leaned over the fence, and I put my arms out to be picked up. My mother hesitated, then said, “Not now, Kelly. Be good for Mother.” Then she and my sister left the room, the garage door slammed, and the house roared with silence. I waited, perfectly still, for a monster to come and eat me, because that seemed like a completely viable end to this strange morning.