Free The Language of Sisters by Amy Hatvany

wiggle my fingers in front of Jenny’s wet lips. “See? Completely harmless.”
    She laughed a bit awkwardly, her palm to her chest. “Jeez, you scared me,” she said. “I’ll just work on her in her own chair. Is that all right?”
    “Sure.” I settled back and let my stylist begin the unenviable task of untangling my hair. Jenny remained quiet while her hair was washed, deep-conditioned, and trimmed, her expression still fairly blank. I wondered if she was overstimulated, if bringing her to the spa had been a mistake. Maybe I should have just kept her at home to help her get readjusted to being there. When the stylists moved us to the pedicure station, I took Jenny’s hand in mine. “You doing okay, Sis?” I asked. “Your hair looks great.” Though not as long as they used to be, her dark waves shined softly around her face again, the layered bob complementing the new round curve of her jawline. I glanced around until I found a handheld mirror and put it up in front of her. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous!”
    The fog over her eyes seemed to lift, and a light began to fill her face as she stared at herself in the mirror. A small smile tickled the corners of her full, rose-petal lips, and she ducked her chin down to the left in the tiniest motion, flirting with the image she saw reflected back at her. Pretty, I heard her say, and I smiled in relief.
    The rest of our visit went by quickly. Jenny giggled the entire time her feet were in the bubbling footbath, and since she was extremely ticklish, the poor pedicurist had a heck of a time getting a pale pink polish on my sister’s tiny, round toenails. But all in all, the appointment seemed a success and I was glad I had brought her. I paid the bill and tipped well, promising to spread the word about the service we had received.
    As I pushed Jenny back to our childhood home, I thought more about what drove people to stare at her. It suddenly struck me that perhaps it was the same phenomenon that caused commutersto slow down as they passed a fiery crash on the freeway, the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I syndrome. They looked at Jenny and counted their blessings. So did I, I realized, looking at the dark cap of my sister’s head as we turned the corner that led down our street. My heart ached with emotion I had forgotten I was capable of experiencing. I counted my blessings, too, but for entirely different reasons.

 
     
    •  •  •
    Three o’clock in the morning and she was moaning again. Every two hours; I could almost set my clock by the noise. The thin wall between our rooms did little to mask the sound. It reached into my chest and twisted my heart, pulling me from a fitful rest. “Jenny, please, ” I groaned into my pillow. “I need to sleep.” God, I was tired.
    The first two weeks of her waking in the night had not bothered me too much. My body was used to being active in the dark and I had immediately run to soothe her, to adjust her pillow, to turn her over so she wouldn’t develop sores. But the long hours awake with her during the day—feeding her, walking her around, changing her diapers, giving her her medications—had drained me. I longed for a four-hour-straight block of sleep like a starving man longs for bread.
    Jenny’s needs were constant, their strength coaxing me to her even as I tried to pull away, tried to take a shower or finish a cup of coffee. My lower back screamed from lifting her swollen pregnant body. A dull ache had settled in behind my eyes. My sister woke several times a night and rose early; she needed to be fed, showered, diapered, and dressed. Then there was her medication schedule, which I had scrupulously charted out and stuck to the refrigerator but often passed by without consulting. Take her back to Wellman, a small voice within me cried. You can’t do this. It’s too much. I felt inept, lost in the wilderness of what caring for her demanded of me, afraid I might never return to the freedom of the