Giving Thanks

She doesn't answer the way others do. If I ask "Why did you do that," she might say "Broccoli." Another time she may answer, "Just because." I can never predict when she's with me and when she's taking a journey none of us can join. That's partly why my schizophrenic, developmentally disabled sister is both interesting and frustrating to live with.

Recently she told me she resents me and my ability to function. She's jealous I could marry, bear children, paint, draw, write – comprehend life. She hates me for knowing what she doesn't, and hates me even more when I teach her a concept that upsets the delicate balance of her understanding. 

She didn't used to discern between commercials and programs: The two ran together for her and each was equally real. I patiently showed her the distinctions in an attempt to enrich her life. The result was more resentment – she felt embarrassed, and it's my fault.

The fine lines blur for my sister, and many of the wide ones as well.

She lies. She lies about what she can and can't do and what she
understands. Sometimes I can tell she's lying; often I can't.

"Do you know how to peel potatoes," I ask, offering her a chance to  help make Thanksgiving dinner.

"Oh, yes," she replies, with an artificial emphasis on "yes" that reminded my ex of cheap porn actor dialogue. The assisted living group my sister lived in for eighteen years realized they couldn't teach her. Instead, they made her into an actress. She's learned to laugh when others do – whether in the living room watching TV, or in social situations.

She has a repertoire of exchanges she draws upon in conversation: how are you; fine, thank you; how is your (wife, husband, mother, father, son, daughter); it sure is (hot, cold, wet, dark) out today; have a good day; take care. Unbelievably, these few phrases allowed her to fake her way through twenty years and countless situations before she came to live with me.

"Okay, peel these potatoes for me while I get the pies made."

She lifts the potato ever so carefully, as if her thumb might burst through the skin if she pushed too hard on it. Suspiciously, cautiously, she stares at the peeler for a full minute before picking it up and setting down the potato. 

Turning it over in her hand a sacred number of times, she inspects the peeler. It passes some cryptic test and she cradles it in her palm. She stares at the
blade, hard. She's getting that shifty look again. Her eyes move rapidly from side to side, then her gaze flashes back to the peeler. I wonder if she's considering plunging it into my heart.

"Are you okay, honey?"

Blinking, she grudgingly looks away from the peeler and fixes her shifty eyes on me. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Do you need me to show you how to peel a potato?"

"No, thank you." She turns away, now shielding the potato from my line of sight with her body. Her arm moves in a rhythmic motion. I assume she's peeling the potato and forget about her while I prepare the pies.

About an hour later, I have five crusts made and three pies assembled – two apple, one pumpkin – and I glance at her work area to check on her progress. There are four tiny chunks of potato peel on the newspaper in front of her and three large clumps of hair she's ripped out in frustration.

I remember my sister cried when she realized that my second grader surpassed her ability to do math problems. Until then, she hadn't realized the extent of her own limitations. She believed she led a normal life while in the assisted living group. When it closed, I  took her in.

Her observations of our family soon made her existence intolerable. She'd ripped out most of her hair and clawed her face till it bled, then slapped herself until what skin wasn't bleeding was bright red anyway. Something inside her shut down. She became a ghost for nearly six months, under constant assault of the reproachful voices in her head – on a self-inflicted journey I could neither join her on nor bring her home from.

"That's great, honey. Thanks for your help. I'll finish up." I hug her. "Why don't you go watch some TV now? I think Rugrats is on."

"Oh, yes," she gushes, and scurries out of the kitchen.

Approval Rating

Loved ones who have passed on return to visit us in our dreams, as long as we need them to. It is their gift. My dad went a little farther. He had a few more wrinkles than the average father to iron out in order to redeem himself for eternity. 

Approval Rating © 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill

Dad doesn't talk when he comes to visit. He doesn't call beforehand; he lets himself in with the key I didn't give him. The only evidence he's been here is the scent of his pipe smoke floating through the rooms and halls.

"Hi, Dad, I missed you at Thanksgiving. You should've seen the turkey I made. Phill said it was the prettiest one he's ever laid eyes on. Everyone loved it too. I fixed it with pure maple syrup,the kind you always liked, and bacon. Sounds weird, doesn't it? I got the recipe from Redbook. It was splendid.

"Made my first apple pie this year too. I even did a latticework crust. It came out perfect, all golden and just right – not burnt or raw like so many apple pies. I didn't make my pecan pie this year. Every time I think about pecan pies, I see Joe throwing that chair across the dining room. Maybe next year. I did make a pumpkin custard though, and homemade whipped cream. You would've loved it.

"We missed Mena at Thanksgiving again this year. She's still out at BYU, you know. I worry about her, wonder how she survives, how she's handling her diabetes, if she has enough money for everything she needs. She is hoping to get in for Christmas though, and I'm very excited about that. Keep your fingers crossed.

"I've had several pieces accepted for publication since you were here last. Most of them don't pay but a few do. It's a start. Used to be folks framed their first dollar. Guess I'm gonna have to frame the Paypal printout for my first payment, huh? I'm due a nice check from a print publication but it won't come till they actually print the issue, and that's not due to come out till sometime in December. "

Dad remains silent. I wonder what he thinks, why he came. Does he enjoy me blathering on about my life? Or does he still judge and find me unworthy? The aroma of pipe smoke fades as he wanders into the kitchen. My cat Sam follows happily behind him. Frosty seems oblivious to Dad but Sam always shows interest. I don't know why. It's not as if Dad ever pets Sam or feeds her or even acknowledges her existence. Sam seeks his approval as I do.

"I could fix you something to eat if you're hungry." His face is expressionless, dead flat. He shakes his head slowly, scornful. My cheeks burn with shame. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Dad moves through the hallway to the back door and leaves without a word, a lingering trail of pipe smoke the only substantiation he was here. I draw the scent deep into my lungs. It's the only physical connection we maintain. The pipe smoke is my Dad and my Dad has become the pipe smoke. In life he seethed and smoldered. Anger and disappointment with me were his dominant sentiments. In death, the fumes hang in the air long after his departure.

I forget his anger and concentrate on the sweet scent of the smoke,and smile.~~GHC