Read Online The Language of Sisters by Amy Hatvany - Free Book Online Page B

been carefully tended in a way it never was when I was a child. Mom had always been too busy with Jenny to bother, and Dad hadn’t seemed to care if the lawn was overgrownor if dandelions were the main flowering plants under the trees. But now, the enormous lilac bushes that lined the entire property appeared ready to burst, bunches of tiny and sweet lavender knots swimming in the potential of their amazing perfume. A clematis vine wove wildly through a trellis along the south side of the house; its mauve buds were swollen with life, about to give birth. The rest of the yard overflowed with other plants and flowers, most of which I couldn’t name but appreciated for their sheer abundance. As we headed down the street, I considered that perhaps with Jenny at Wellman, Mom had channeled her caretaking tendencies into the land. Or then again, maybe she had just hired a gardener.
    I pushed Jenny along California Avenue, one of the main strips that ran through West Seattle. The faces of the buildings looked familiar to me; as a child I had walked this maple-tree-lined street countless times with Jenny, forever aware of the heads that turned in cars, trying to catch a glimpse of the drooling, dark-haired girl in the wheelchair. I felt the curious eyes on us now, too. I sighed as we approached the front door of the spa, wondering what it was that drew people to stare. It drove me crazy when we were younger. “Take a picture—it lasts longer,” I’d whisper under my breath. I quashed the urge to do the same now.
    A light-tinkling bell announced our entrance into the spa. The night before, when getting a brush through her matted hair proved to be an impossible task, I had decided Jenny needed a trip to a professional. I had thumbed through the phone book until I found a few salons nearby, and the Filigree had been the only one that could take us both on such short notice. I explained to the woman I spoke with on the phone that Jenny had special needs but was assured that it wouldn’t be a problem. We were both getting our hair done, as well as pedicures.
    The receptionist greeted us, then led us to the back of the salon, where two empty black barber chairs sat waiting. The walls were sponged in feathery terra-cotta paint, and the mirrors were all edged in scrolled black filigree, the fancy wrought-iron detail found on the buildings in New Orleans’s French Quarter. We appeared to be the only customers. “Your stylists will be right with you,” she said, then gestured toward Jenny without really looking at her. “Do you—I mean, does she need anything?” She was obviously uncomfortable.
    “No, we’re fine,” I assured her, and she went back up front. I slid Jenny’s wheelchair in between the two barber seats and sat down next to her, smiling at her in the mirror. She appeared slightly dazed. Her eyes were glazed over and her bottom lip drooped; her hands were clenched together but motionless in her lap. “This will be fun, Jen,” I told her. “I promise.” She didn’t respond. Then I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and cringed a little. My red corkscrew curls frizzed wildly about my makeup-bare, freckled face. I usually managed to at least swipe on some lipstick, but as I’d been so focused on getting Jenny home and busy with her since, I hadn’t even showered since arriving in Seattle. I glanced around self-consciously, then gingerly lifted an arm to see if I was obviously ripe. Not too bad , I thought, lowering my arm and crossing my legs under the floral print skirt I’d chosen to wear. At least I’d remembered to put on deodorant.
    In a few minutes two women appeared behind us. The stylist who was going to work on Jenny inquired if she needed to be careful of anything while doing my sister’s hair. “Keep your hands away from her mouth,” I joked, in an attempt to put her at ease. “She bites.” A horrified look popped up on the woman’s face. “I’m kidding, ” I relented, reaching out to