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Authors: Amy Hatvany
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asking my mother why Jenny never had a problem with it.
“Angels don’t get acne,” Mom answered lightly, as she brushed Jenny’s smooth skin with the tips of her fingers. At the time I figured the zits Jenny would have gotten if she hadn’t been such an angel were simply passed on to her demon big sister.
I shook my head at the memory, attempting to clear it from my mind. “Hold on a second,” I said to Jenny. “I’ll be right back.” I dashed down one door to my room and picked through my old dresser for a sweater. I finally found one I had worn in high school; it was too small for me now, but I hoped it would fit over Jenny’s newly expanded shape.
When I stepped back into her room, I heard a muffled cry, then saw that Jenny had fallen sideways on the bed and had her face stuck in a pile of clothes. I had forgotten that, like an infant, she needed pillows around her at all times or she would tip right over. I rushed over, lifting her as gently as I could back into a sitting position. Her eyes were glossy with panic and tears, her round cheeks flushed. She was panting, her breath hot. I brushed her dark hair back from her face and held her again. Despite her weight gain, she still felt like a child in my arms. “I’m sorry, Jen. There’s so much I’ve forgotten.”
“Ehhh … ,” she moaned lightly, rubbing her face into my chest. Her bare back was cold to my touch, so I quickly showed her the sweater.
“Let’s try this one,” I said as I carefully maneuvered her head into the new top, following with one arm at a time. The green sweater clashed a bit with the hot pink elastic-waist stretch pants I had already managed to get on over her diapers, but I wasn’t about to be picky.
I spent the rest of the morning unpacking her few belongings while she sat in a nearby chair, watching me. Her ankles were crossed, and she rocked in a small forward and back motion, her hands clenched. She seemed uncomfortable; again, I wondered if I had done the wrong thing in bringing her here. Wellman had been her home for ten years. Despite what had happened to her there, maybe she felt the same way I did: displaced, the way you feel when you drive down an unfamiliar street in a city you thought you already knew by heart. Maybe she missed her routine and the familiar faces that had surrounded her for the past ten years. I experienced a stab of guilt knowing my face was not among them.
“Do you want your things folded or hung in the closet, Jen?” I asked her, carrying on a one-sided conversation as I sortedthrough the few bits of clothing she had. I was definitely going to need to find her some maternity clothes.
“Uhhn … ,” she groaned, a low, unhappy sound.
I squatted down in front of her, resting my rear on the backs of my heels. I took her callused hands in mine. “What’s wrong, hon? Are you tired?” I reached up with one hand to straighten her dark hair.
“Uhhnnn … ,” she groaned again.
“Not tired, huh?” I surmised from her tone. “Are you hungry?”
She stopped moaning and stared at me, her blue eyes round and wide.
“What do you say, Sis?” I prodded. “Do you want to eat?”
“Ahhh!” came her happy reply. We had figured this game out as children: I would ask her questions, and when I finally asked the right one, her low, negative moans would suddenly escalate into a lilting, positive exclamation.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Let’s eat and then we’ll head down to the salon. It’s about time you and I had a sisters’ day out.”
• • •
The Filigree Day Spa was only a few blocks from the house, and since the cornflower sky held only the promise of a beautiful spring day, I decided to walk Jenny to her appointment. After a quick lunch, I transferred her into her wheelchair, then carefully maneuvered it out the back door and down the ramp that led into the yard.
As I pushed Jenny up the driveway to the sidewalk, I noted how the yard had
“Angels don’t get acne,” Mom answered lightly, as she brushed Jenny’s smooth skin with the tips of her fingers. At the time I figured the zits Jenny would have gotten if she hadn’t been such an angel were simply passed on to her demon big sister.
I shook my head at the memory, attempting to clear it from my mind. “Hold on a second,” I said to Jenny. “I’ll be right back.” I dashed down one door to my room and picked through my old dresser for a sweater. I finally found one I had worn in high school; it was too small for me now, but I hoped it would fit over Jenny’s newly expanded shape.
When I stepped back into her room, I heard a muffled cry, then saw that Jenny had fallen sideways on the bed and had her face stuck in a pile of clothes. I had forgotten that, like an infant, she needed pillows around her at all times or she would tip right over. I rushed over, lifting her as gently as I could back into a sitting position. Her eyes were glossy with panic and tears, her round cheeks flushed. She was panting, her breath hot. I brushed her dark hair back from her face and held her again. Despite her weight gain, she still felt like a child in my arms. “I’m sorry, Jen. There’s so much I’ve forgotten.”
“Ehhh … ,” she moaned lightly, rubbing her face into my chest. Her bare back was cold to my touch, so I quickly showed her the sweater.
“Let’s try this one,” I said as I carefully maneuvered her head into the new top, following with one arm at a time. The green sweater clashed a bit with the hot pink elastic-waist stretch pants I had already managed to get on over her diapers, but I wasn’t about to be picky.
I spent the rest of the morning unpacking her few belongings while she sat in a nearby chair, watching me. Her ankles were crossed, and she rocked in a small forward and back motion, her hands clenched. She seemed uncomfortable; again, I wondered if I had done the wrong thing in bringing her here. Wellman had been her home for ten years. Despite what had happened to her there, maybe she felt the same way I did: displaced, the way you feel when you drive down an unfamiliar street in a city you thought you already knew by heart. Maybe she missed her routine and the familiar faces that had surrounded her for the past ten years. I experienced a stab of guilt knowing my face was not among them.
“Do you want your things folded or hung in the closet, Jen?” I asked her, carrying on a one-sided conversation as I sortedthrough the few bits of clothing she had. I was definitely going to need to find her some maternity clothes.
“Uhhn … ,” she groaned, a low, unhappy sound.
I squatted down in front of her, resting my rear on the backs of my heels. I took her callused hands in mine. “What’s wrong, hon? Are you tired?” I reached up with one hand to straighten her dark hair.
“Uhhnnn … ,” she groaned again.
“Not tired, huh?” I surmised from her tone. “Are you hungry?”
She stopped moaning and stared at me, her blue eyes round and wide.
“What do you say, Sis?” I prodded. “Do you want to eat?”
“Ahhh!” came her happy reply. We had figured this game out as children: I would ask her questions, and when I finally asked the right one, her low, negative moans would suddenly escalate into a lilting, positive exclamation.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Let’s eat and then we’ll head down to the salon. It’s about time you and I had a sisters’ day out.”
• • •
The Filigree Day Spa was only a few blocks from the house, and since the cornflower sky held only the promise of a beautiful spring day, I decided to walk Jenny to her appointment. After a quick lunch, I transferred her into her wheelchair, then carefully maneuvered it out the back door and down the ramp that led into the yard.
As I pushed Jenny up the driveway to the sidewalk, I noted how the yard had
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