“I’m not sleeping in there! It’s disrespectful!” Fran was adamant, at least as adamant as it was possible to be after three beers. She was ready to crash for the night in the now-crowded house that her mother had died in, and that her father still lived in, and that was now full of siblings and nephews.
Her younger brother Eddie and his two sons were carrying on in the living room, where she’d prepared the couch for her night’s rest. They’d chased all the after-funeral-gathering guests away hours ago. The fans were going full-blast; this New England house had no air-conditioning. Fran couldn’t tell if her 20-something nephews were in agreement with their father about assigning her to her mother’s first-floor sickroom, or if they were just humoring him. Eddie had just lit a joint.
“Why don’t all of YOU go to the dining room?!” Fran asked, punching her soon-to-be pillow and getting up from the couch. “And who are you to boss me around? You don’t even live here! You haven’t lived here since 1980!” Fran hadn’t lived there either, except for a three-week stay one summer to help their mother recover from yet another operation.
Eddie took a toke on the joint. “It’s just common sense, Fran. Besides, I don’t feel like getting up.”
That was it. Fran walked over to the easy chair in which Eddie was sprawled, grabbed a handful of his graying-blonde hair, and pulled. Eddie yowled and struck out. Fran, overcome now by a wave of deja vu, jumped back to avoid his hand. This was exactly how their famous fight as kids had played out: except now she’d escaped the punch-in-the-stomach that had defeated her so long ago. She could still breathe.
“I don’t want to sleep in the room where she died!” Fran cried out. But then she lost inner momentum. She stood there looking at Liam and James, who were gazing at her, amused, as they passed the joint. She stared at Eddie, who was rubbing his head. Their old now-widower father had, hours ago, gone upstairs to his lonely room. Her sister had finished the dishes and had apparently left for her hotel room without inviting Fran to share it. Susan viewed her as a cheapskate, Fran was pretty sure of that.
The sickroom, just off the living room, contained two beds: one, an adjustable, had been her mother’s deathbed. It and the oxygen tank were to be returned to the hospice provider tomorrow. The other was an austere metal bed frame with a single mattress on which a thin wool blanket was draped. That was where the caretakers had napped, and where her mother had sometimes said her rosary or listened to the Catholic radio station before the most recent operation caused a debilitating stroke. That was the bed her brother had blithely suggested for her.
“I’m not her!” Fran yelled at Eddie as she burst into tears. No punch in the stomach, but she was defeated nevertheless. She grabbed her pillow and entered the dark sickroom.
— Macoff
Her younger brother Eddie and his two sons were carrying on in the living room, where she’d prepared the couch for her night’s rest. They’d chased all the after-funeral-gathering guests away hours ago. The fans were going full-blast; this New England house had no air-conditioning. Fran couldn’t tell if her 20-something nephews were in agreement with their father about assigning her to her mother’s first-floor sickroom, or if they were just humoring him. Eddie had just lit a joint.
“Why don’t all of YOU go to the dining room?!” Fran asked, punching her soon-to-be pillow and getting up from the couch. “And who are you to boss me around? You don’t even live here! You haven’t lived here since 1980!” Fran hadn’t lived there either, except for a three-week stay one summer to help their mother recover from yet another operation.
Eddie took a toke on the joint. “It’s just common sense, Fran. Besides, I don’t feel like getting up.”
That was it. Fran walked over to the easy chair in which Eddie was sprawled, grabbed a handful of his graying-blonde hair, and pulled. Eddie yowled and struck out. Fran, overcome now by a wave of deja vu, jumped back to avoid his hand. This was exactly how their famous fight as kids had played out: except now she’d escaped the punch-in-the-stomach that had defeated her so long ago. She could still breathe.
“I don’t want to sleep in the room where she died!” Fran cried out. But then she lost inner momentum. She stood there looking at Liam and James, who were gazing at her, amused, as they passed the joint. She stared at Eddie, who was rubbing his head. Their old now-widower father had, hours ago, gone upstairs to his lonely room. Her sister had finished the dishes and had apparently left for her hotel room without inviting Fran to share it. Susan viewed her as a cheapskate, Fran was pretty sure of that.
The sickroom, just off the living room, contained two beds: one, an adjustable, had been her mother’s deathbed. It and the oxygen tank were to be returned to the hospice provider tomorrow. The other was an austere metal bed frame with a single mattress on which a thin wool blanket was draped. That was where the caretakers had napped, and where her mother had sometimes said her rosary or listened to the Catholic radio station before the most recent operation caused a debilitating stroke. That was the bed her brother had blithely suggested for her.
“I’m not her!” Fran yelled at Eddie as she burst into tears. No punch in the stomach, but she was defeated nevertheless. She grabbed her pillow and entered the dark sickroom.
— Macoff
Oh, I feel for Fran. I think I might have had to give Eddie another punch.
ReplyDeleteAnother beautifully written character. You can feel the punch and Fran’s pain.
ReplyDeleteYou write s
ReplyDeleteWith such beautiful detail. Layered and multidimensional. I can see your scenes, the characters, hesr their voices. You write gems and jewels
So well done, and so familiar. I had the same lot as Fran a number of months ago. She's headed for a night full of sleeplessness and surreal episodic dreams. lkai is right. You write gems and jewels.
ReplyDelete