Emma bumped into the door jam and reversed her chair so she could line up better and try again. This was the part I hated most, standing there, watching her frustration grow over something that had been so simple to her before. I wanted to help, and a few times I had made the mistake of reaching out and adjusting her chair for her, but she told me she would never learn if I was constantly helping her. The words had stung, but I also understood her point.
“Damn it,” she whispered under her breath as she reversed for a second time.
Unease rolled through me. This moment was always awkward. I never knew what I should do. It always seemed like a tossup between staying where I was and offering words of encouragement, or heading to the opposite side of the house and going about my way while she figured it out on her own. Was it easier for her if I wasn’t watching? I didn’t want to ask. So I remained rooted in place until she finally got it on her own.
Things we so different now, for all of us.
I had never seen my sister this closed off and snappish. The sensation of walking on egg shells when talking to her wasn’t something I’d felt since we were teens. While she had every right to be standoffish and snippy—hell, she could be a complete bitch if she wanted, because she should be mad at the world right now—I was just taken aback by how different she was.
“Want some lunch?” I made my way through the door and into the kitchen, carrying two bag of pills from the pharmacy. Mom had one, and now so did Emma.
“I’m not hungry.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek while I stared at her. She was never hungry. The desire to say so, to put my foot down and force her to eat, burned though me. I didn’t want to upset her though. She’d already been through enough today. With a sigh, I decided to take the nice route. “Are you sure? You didn’t eat breakfast.”
Emma paused at the entrance to the living room. She hadn’t stopped because she wanted to; she’d stopped because her arms were already tired. Charity, her physical therapist, had said it would take a while for her to build up the muscles in her arms. She had mentioned more than once exhaustion was common when learning to use a wheelchair.
“I know. I’m not hungry.” She spun the wheels on her chair, and started forward again.
I kicked the kitchen door closed behind me with more force than necessary, and tossed the bags from the pharmacy on the counter. Leaning against the countertop for support, I let out another long sigh. God, Emma could be so frustrating sometimes. Why the hell wouldn’t she eat? It was something I had mentioned to her doctor, but so far, he hadn’t done anything about. He claimed there was an adjustment period, and said she would eventually pull herself away from the brink of depression. Gradually her personality would revert back to the Emma I knew and loved. He recommended I give her time.
So I had.
I’d given her almost three months now to come back to me. So far, I hadn’t seen a spark of the old Emma shine through.
I didn’t expect her to bounce back easily, but I hoped she would at least go through the motions of staying alive—like eating, showering, being. Emma didn’t seem to have any desire for those things, especially not on the days she went to physical therapy. It was as though that snuffed out any bit of light she had gotten to spark during the previous days, because it was a reminder of what she still couldn’t do and never would be able to—walk. Charity tried to teach her how to use the special shower chair to her advantage today so she could feel accomplished in something. It hadn’t gone over well. My sister hadn’t worked out a day in her life. She never needed to. She was born naturally thin, but being thin didn’t mean she was in shape. Something she was learning the hard way.
Forcing myself away from the counter, I walked to the fridge. It was after two in the afternoon, and I was starved. I decided I would heat up some leftovers for myself and Emma, hoping once she smelled something she would gain an appetite. I had just popped open the Tupperware container when a text came through on my cell. I knew who it was without having to look. Dawson always sent me a message after Emma’s therapy appointments. He wanted to know how it went before calling and asking her. Our texts gave him an edge on her mood, and helped him figure out what words of wisdom he could offer. Dawson loved my sister. There was never a question.
I reached for my phone so I could fill him in on today’s appointment.
How did it go today?
I thought of how to word my response. Flat-out telling him she might not take his call because she wasn’t in the best of moods was not something I wanted to say.
Eh, she’s had better days. ~ Charlotte
It was the truth. The days Charity spent working with her on maneuvering around in her wheelchair were the best. Emma might not have been able to make all the turns or get over all the hard areas someone like me took for granted, but she tried, and even had a sense of determination about her while doing it. Today had not been one of those days.
What was the focus on?
Moving from the chair to the shower. Tried that crazy seat thing again. She hates it still. ~ Charlotte
I left off the part about how she had fallen and bruised her forehead, positive she would tell him herself or that he would see the bruise the next time he came by.
I can work with that. I’ll have her smiling.
Emma never smiled anymore. She was depressed. I knew things took time, but I had thought she would handle this better than she was. I thought she would bounce back with a profound new look on life. Emma was too positive of a person to let this break her. At least that was what I had thought. Now I wasn’t so sure. I wondered if her positive attitude toward life had all been for show.
The front door opened, and I felt myself deflate. Mom was home. I hated the feelings simmering through me. It was wrong and horrible, but there it was, in the center of my chest all the same. Struggling to get my sister back to as normal as could be was one thing, but having to take care of my mom was another. Self-pity crashed through me, and I hated myself for it.
I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I shouldn’t feel angry. I should be happy I still had a mom and a sister here with me. I was glad, but things were complicated. Things were too different now.
“Hello?” Carla called out. With everything that had happened, we were forced to hire someone to help with getting Mom to her appointments.
“Hey. I’m in the kitchen,” I answered. “Anyone want lunch?”
“No. We ate already.” Carla crossed the kitchen and set Mom’s purse on the counter. “I took Mrs. Montgomery to the little café on the corner of Benson and River Street.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wondered how this worked. Was I supposed to pay her for Mom’s lunch? I didn’t have any cash on me, but I was sure Emma did. Somewhere.
“I should have called to see if you two wanted anything. I’m sorry.” Carla reached out and gripped my elbow, obviously mistaking the look on my face for something it wasn’t.
“No. It’s fine, really.” I spooned more of the pasta dish I made the other night onto two plates. If I sprinkled it with more cheese, maybe it would appear more edible. “How much do I owe you for Mom’s meal?”
“Oh poo.” She waved my words away. “You don’t owe me a thing. I enjoyed the company.”
“Are you sure?” I put the lid back on the bowl and swiped my hands across my shorts. “I don’t have any cash with me right now, but I’m sure Emma has some somewhere.”
“No. It’s fine.” Carla’s smile wavered at the mention of Emma. “How did she do today?”