How to Be a Sister Eileen Garvin (online e reader .txt) 📖

a fond recollection. My quiet adult life was empty of the shock and rush of Margaret’s actions. I moved through stores, crowds, and holiday dinners just like anyone else. Nobody stared at me or the people I was with. No one in my cohort was apt to throw herself on the ground kicking and screaming under the clothes racks in Nordstrom’s. Nobody said “Hi, Eileen,” in the middle of the night, as casually as if I were sitting next to her on a park bench at noon instead of trying, desperately, to get some sleep. Nobody bounded naked through the living room when I had friends over, laughing or crying about her brown bra. I could sit at the dinner table for hours if I wanted to, and nobody threw food at me or spit on me or took my plate away before I’d had a chance to finish, insisting that it was time to go.

But I also found that none of my friends picked me up by the neck in a bear hug, either. Nobody tackled me on the family room floor and rolled around with me, hooting with laughter, telling me, “I’M not your meLON!” When I was home alone, nobody was spinning records to create the soundtrack of my day—Ella Fitzgerald, Simon and Garfunkel, Electric Light Orchestra, Arthur Fiedler’s Pops. Nobody continued to apologize over and over again for the last time they had pinched me by giving me the kindest of hugs, the sweetest pressing of a cheek on mine before reaching out to pinch me again.

I found that I missed the craziness and color that Margaret brought into my life. As in any life, the good and the bad of the past were long gone, and I had only the memories of that time. And though the past echoed back at me on occasion, it wasn’t always what I wanted to hear.

THE DAY MARGARET refused to eat lunch with me was my second summer in Oregon, back in the Pacific Northwest. I’d been in more regular contact with her through the staff at her group home, trying to find ways to connect with her. So when I found out that she would be traveling to the coast for a week’s vacation with one of her housemates and a couple of staff members, driving right through my town, I asked Tami if she would be willing to bring Margaret by. She agreed, and they planned to stop for lunch on their way to the coast.

On the appointed day, I waited, nervous and excited, as the lunch hour came and went. Hours later Tami called to explain that they had missed the turn from I-90 to U.S. 395 and ended up going a different, longer way. We arranged for them to come by on their way home instead.

A week passed and again I waited by the front door for my sister to appear, half certain they wouldn’t make it this time, either. But suddenly there they were. Margaret was all smiles and enthusiasm when they first arrived. “Hi, Eileen!” she said, opening the car door and sticking a foot out on the pavement before the car had reached a complete stop. She threw off her seat belt, jumped out of the car, and gave me a big hug and a huge smile before she pushed past me and hurried into the house.

While her housemate and two staff members were still climbing out of the car, stretching, and introducing themselves, Margaret did a speedy self-tour of my house. We followed behind slowly, moving up the sidewalk and into the house, me asking about their drive, asking if they were hungry, them telling me about their three-hour detour on the way to the coast. By the time we’d entered the house, Margaret had retreated to the living room and plunked herself down in a big rocking chair, withdrawing from the rest of us.

I had set the table before they’d come, but thought better of it right before they arrived and put everything back in the kitchen for a casual buffet. Too much structure made Margaret nervous. The two staff members—Tami and Teri—made sandwiches for themselves and Margaret’s quiet housemate, Ken, but Margaret refused to come to the table. She just kept looking down and shaking her head when they asked if she was hungry. “No!” she said. I knew enough to let her be. I knew what would happen if I tried to get her out of that chair. At least I thought I did. I thought she’d just get upset and start yelling. She might even head for the car and insist on leaving.

Tami and Teri seemed puzzled. “She was so excited to come here this morning,” said Tami. She told me that Margaret had gotten up, showered, and was ready to go before the sun rose. But I knew better. Margaret was probably not excited to see me as much as she was just anxious to get on with “the plan.” My house was the last stop before home. She probably wanted to get the trip done with in the order it was planned, that’s all. And that’s pretty much the way our entire anxious family behaved on the last day of a vacation. We seemed to forget how much fun we’d had and would think, “Well, crap! Vacation’s almost over! We might was well just go home, goddammit!”

But I didn’t say anything. I just watched Margaret and listened to Tami and Teri talk about their week at the beach. They told me things my sister never could: dates, times, names, events. They’d rented rooms right by the water in Lincoln City, Oregon, a place we used to go on spring break with our parents. The four of them had spent the week walking along the coast, watching people fly kites, wading in the cold Pacific, and generally lounging.

“Margaret really liked going for walks,” Tami said.

“She liked the wind,” said Teri. “She’d say, ‘It’s