(hush Lisey no Lisey)
'All right,' she said, alarmed by the panic that flooded her mouth with the taste of copper, the purple light that seemed to bloom behind her eyes, and the way her hand clenched on the tiny pair of scissors. 'Okay, never mind. Pass it.'
She hid the scissors behind a clutch of dusty shampoo samples high up in Amanda's towel cupboard, and then— because she could think of nothing else—took a shower herself. When she came out of the bathroom, she saw that a large wet patch had spread around Amanda's hips, and understood this was something the Debusher sisters weren't going to be able to work through on their own. She got a towel under Amanda's soaked bottom. Then she glanced at the clock on the night-table, sighed, picked up the telephone, and dialed Darla's number.
2
Lisey had heard Scott in her head the day before, loud and clear: I left you a note, babyluv. She'd dismissed it as her own interior voice, mimicking his. Maybe it had been—probably had been—but by three o'clock on that long, hot Thursday afternoon, as she sat in Pop's Cafe in Lewiston with Darla, she knew one thing for sure: he'd left her one hell of a posthumous gift. One hell of a bool-prize, in Scott-talk. It had been a bitch-kitty of a day, but it would have been a lot worse without Scott Landon, two years dead or not.
Darla looked every bit as tired as Lisey felt. Somewhere along the way she'd found time to put on a little makeup, but she didn't have enough ammo in her purse to hide the circles under her eyes. Certainly there was no sign of the angry
thirtysomething who had in the late nineteen-seventies made it her business to call Lisey once a week and hector her about her family duties.
'Penny for em, little Lisey,' she said now.
Lisey had been reaching for the caddy containing the packets of Sweet'n Low. At the sound of Darla's voice she changed direction, reached for the old-fashioned sugar-shaker instead, and poured a hefty stream into her cup. 'I was thinking this has been Coffee Thursday,' she said. 'Mostly Coffee With Real Sugar Thursday. This must be my tenth shot.'
'You and me both,' Darla said. 'I've been to the john half a dozen times, and I plan to go again before we leave this charming establishment. Thank God for Pepcid AC.'
Lisey stirred her coffee, grimaced, then sipped again. 'Sure you want to pack up a suitcase for her?'
'Well, someone has to do it, and you look like death on a cracker.'
'Thanks a pantload.'
'If your sister won't tell you the truth, no one will.'
Lisey had heard this from her many times, along with Duty doesn't ask permission and, Number One on the All- Time Darla Hit Parade, Life isn't fair. Today it didn't sting. It even raised the ghost of a smile. 'If you want to do it, Darl, I won't arm-rassle you for the privilege.'
'Didn't say I wanted to, just said I would. You stayed with her last night and got up with her this morning. I'd say you did your share. Excuse me, I've got to spend a penny.'
Lisey watched her go, thinking There's another one. In the Debusher family, where there was a saying for everything, urinating was spending a penny and moving one's bowels was—odd but true—burying a Quaker. Scott had loved that, said it was probably an old Scots derivation. Lisey supposed it was possible; most of the Debushers came from Ireland and all the Andersons from England, or so Good Ma said, but there were a few stray dogs in every family, weren't there? And that hardly interested her. What interested her was that spending a penny and burying a Quaker were catches from the pool, Scott's pool, and ever since yesterday he seemed so smucking close to her…
That was a dream this morning, Lisey…you know that, don't you?
She wasn't sure what she knew or didn't know about what had happened in Amanda's bedroom this morning—it all seemed like a dream, even trying to get Amanda to stand up and go into the bathroom—but one thing she could be sure of: Amanda was now booked into Greenlawn Recovery and Rehabilitation for at least a week, it had all been easier than she and Darla could have hoped, and they had Scott to thank. Right now and
(rah-cheer)
right here, that seemed like enough.
3
Darla had gotten to Manda's cozy little Cape Cod before seven AM, her usually stylish hair barely combed, one button of her blouse unbuttoned so that the pink of her bra peeked cheekily through. By then Lisey had confirmed that Amanda wouldn't eat, either. She allowed Lisey to insert a spoonful of scrambled eggs into her mouth after being tugged into a sitting position and propped against the head of the bed, and that gave Lisey some hope—Amanda was swallowing, after all, so maybe she'd swallow the eggs —but it was hope in vain. After simply sitting there for perhaps thirty seconds with the eggs peeping out from between her lips (to Lisey that peep of yellow had a rather gruesome look, as if her sister had tried to eat a canary), Amanda simply ejected the eggs with her tongue. A few bits stuck to her chin. The rest tumbled down the front of her nightgown. Amanda's eyes continued to stare serenely off into the distance. Or into the mystic, if you were a Van Morrison fan. Scott certainly had been, although his pash for Van the Man had tapered off quite a bit in the early nineties. That was when Scott had begun drifting back to Hank Williams and Loretta Lynn.
Darla had refused to believe Amanda wouldn't eat until she tried the egg experiment for herself. She had to scramble fresh ones to do it; Lisey had scraped the remains of the first pair down the garbage disposal. Amanda's thousand-yard stare had robbed her of any appetite she might have had for big sissa's leftovers.
By the time Darla marched into the room, Amanda had slid back down from her propped-up position—oozed back down—and Darla helped Lisey get her back up again. Lisey was grateful for the help. Her back already hurt. She could barely imagine the mounting cost of caring for a person like this day in and day out, for an unlimited run.
'Amanda, I want you to eat these,' Darla said in the forbidding, I-will-not-take-no-for-an-answer tone Lisey remembered from a great many telephone conversations in her younger years. The tone, combined with the jut of Darla's jaw and the set of Darla's body, made it clear she thought Amanda was shamming. Fakin like a brakeman, Dandy would have said; just one of his hundred or so cheerful, colorful, nonsensical phrases. But (Lisey mused) hadn't that almost always been Darla's judgment when you weren't doing what Darla wanted? That you were fakin like a brakeman?
'I want you to eat these eggs, Amanda—right now!'
Lisey opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. They would get to where they were going more quickly if Darla saw for herself. And where were they going? Greenlawn, very likely. Greenlawn Recovery and Rehab in Auburn. The place she and Scott had looked into briefly after Amanda's last outletting, in the spring of 2001. Only it turned out that Scott's dealings with Greenlawn had gone a little further than his wife had suspected, and thank God for that.
Darla got the eggs into Amanda's mouth and turned to Lisey with the beginnings of a triumphant smile. 'There! I think she just needed a firm h—'
At this point Amanda's tongue appeared between her slack lips, once more pushing canary-colored eggs before it, and plop. Onto the front of her nightgown, still damp from its last sponging-off.
'You were saying?' Lisey asked mildly.
Darla took a long, long look at her older sister. When she turned her eyes back to Lisey, the jut-jawed determination was gone. She looked like what she was: a middle-aged woman who'd been harried out of bed too early by a family emergency. She wasn't crying, but she was close; her eyes, the bright blue all the Debusher girls shared, swam with tears. 'This isn't like before, is it?'
'No.'
