by Bari Benjamin
She smiles when she sees me
and her skin stretches tightly over her mouth and chin. Her cheekbones and
collar bones jut out, sharp and pointy. I sit by her hospital bed, trying to
understand what has happened to my seventy-two-year older sister. Just three weeks
ago, we spoke on the phone. She asked about my daughter. “You’ve done
everything possible for this child.” And I knew she meant it.
She was twelve and I was five,
an annoying younger sister who adored her. One day she taught me to ride my big
girl bike. We inched down the cobblestone road when zoom—she let go of the seat
and I sped off. My hair flew in my face; my hands clenched the handle bars, my
knuckles big and white. My eyes stared wide open.
But the next day she hated me.
Often she scared me; she looked like a witch, skinny with long fingernails and
straggly, thin hair. We played outside one day, when she hid behind the side of
our house. “Boo,” she yelled as she wrapped her gnarled fingers around my neck
and squeezed. Hard. She tortured me. “Eat, eat more. Eat for me,” she said, as
she pushed food in my face. It didn’t matter what—candy, bread, doughnuts,
fruit, whatever was in the fridge.
I became the focus of her
rage. Not only did she desperately control what she put in her mouth, she
controlled my diet as well. And so it went, I struggled with my sister’s
intense emotions, and my mother struggled to keep peace. Her illness divided my
parents: My mother protected my sister and my father defended me. “Mommy,
please, “I cried, “I don’t want any more to eat. I’m stuffed. I don’t wanna
throw up. Help me.”
“Leave her alone,” my father
yelled, again and again.
|
Madeline and Bari
|
A year away from my family at
the age of five fractured my vulnerable sense of security. But my sister got
better. She stopped starving herself and stopped scaring me. There was peace in
our home but we remained distant, and it wasn’t until our adult years that we
gradually grew closer. Our daughters provided a bond, a safe island upon which
to connect. She embraced the role of big sister, advised and comforted me when
my daughter’s troubles emerged. Did she have a special understanding of how
wounded a child can be when they feel utterly helpless? When they have so
little control over their lives?
At six months old, my daughter
had been left in a carriage in a train station in Moscow. Sometimes I imagine
her crying and crying, her baby face scrunched up with rage, her terror at not
seeing her mama’s familiar face. Police rescued her and placed her in one of
the city’s twenty-five orphanages. And then at age two, she was flown halfway
across the world with another unfamiliar face. My sister, the experienced
parent, helped me navigate those early years.
“She won’t make eye contact
with me. That’s not normal. What should I do?”
“Don’t worry,” she soothed me.
“It’s a temporary delay. Sit with her, rock her, hold her.”
But then, adolescence exploded
like a series of firecrackers. I bore the brunt of her rage. “I hate you, you
bitch,” she’d scream, as she stormed out the door.
My sister didn’t experience
that kind of trauma, but did she feel abandoned when our father, (who was in
the Navy during her early years) came home and showered her younger baby sister
with affection and attention? Did she cry, “What about me?”
I climbed up on my father’s
lap and rested my head on his shoulder. “Daddy, why are you so mean to Maddy?
Please be nice to her.”
He grabbed me and set me down
hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled.
“She’s taken off again. What
should I do?” The police won’t do anything. I’m scared.”
“She’ll be back. Try to stay calm,
“she said.
Then: “Should I place her in a
treatment program? They say they can help her. But I hate to send her away.” I
worried, was I repeating history?
“I understand but you have to
keep her safe. This is her chance.”
Finally: “She’s coming home.
And she’s better.”
“Thank God. You did the right
thing.”
We never spoke of her illness.
I left the hospital that day, haunted
by my childhood memories. My sister, who had become my friend and my advisor,
spent the next four months in the hospital, in and out of intensive care. There
was pneumonia, and then heart failure. She recovered from both but then she
simply could not swallow. No one knew why.
My sister had just turned
seventy-two when she died. She never made it out of the hospital, unlike her
first hospitalization at age twelve. I found myself almost stoic at her
funeral, detached and cold. Shock? Denial?
Survivor’s guilt? I just know I couldn’t find my tears.
Then two weeks after her
death, I drove to Zumba class one rainy Sunday morning, my daughter’s favorite
rock radio station blaring. I recalled her dancing to the music just the other
night, her large, dark brown eyes sparkling, and my heart swelled with that
special love that parents have for their children. And then it hit me: I can’t
ever call my sister again to talk about our daughters. She isn’t home.
My sobs stunned me. My body
shook. I pulled over. I finally surrendered to them and when I finished, a
sense of peace enveloped me. I drove on.
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