Briana's Gift (5 page)

M
elody’s mother invites Mom and me to join their family, Stu’s family, plus assorted in-laws and cousins for Thanksgiving dinner. This beats our recent Thanksgivings every which way. The Thanksgiving feast was Grandma’s favorite holiday and Bree and I would help her cook, but since her death it’s all changed. Mom roasts a small turkey—a chicken one year—mashes some potatoes, warms some rolls, opens a can of cranberry sauce and presto! Thanksgiving dinner is served. When I see what Melody’s mom and relatives lay out, I miss the old days even more.

Melody, Stu, a cousin and I sit at one of five smaller tables, while Mom and the other adults home in on the main table. No one asks about Briana, which is a relief because I couldn’t talk about it without crying. The only time my sister is brought up is when Melody’s father offers me and Mom a ride to the hospital anytime we want to go and don’t want to drive. He works in the city and says he’ll be glad to drop us off and bring us home after five. I can’t imagine hanging around the hospital all day with nothing to do except listen to my sister’s machine breathe for her.

All day I sneak peeks at Stu, who looks pretty hot in jeans and a sweater the same color as his eyes. He winks at me once and sends my pulse racing like a car engine, but he treats me as he always has—like a friend. He has no idea what I’m feeling toward him, and I’m sure not going to tell him!

After we clear the tables, Melody sets up a game of Monopoly and all of us play a cutthroat match. I’m almost bankrupt when a call goes out for an impromptu football game in the backyard. Everyone except Mom and the smallest cousins play. It’s mass confusion, but my big moment comes when I get a handoff from Stu and wiggle my way through the other team to score a touchdown. “That’s my girl!” Stu says, slapping me on the back. If he only knew how much I’d like to be his girl.

When it’s time to leave, as casually as possible, I say to him, “See you at the tree sale on Saturday?”

“I’ll be there,” he tells me.

Melody flashes us a look I can’t read, but then smiles. “Maybe I’ll stop by after dance class.”

“Great,” Stu says with a matching smile.

“Yeah, great,” I say, feeling a prick of disappointment. Like it or not, we’ll be a threesome again on Saturday.

I don’t know what wakes me tonight, but I sit upright with a start. My clock radio glows 4:00 a.m. I was planning on getting up at five anyway, because Melody and her mom are picking me up so we can hit the big mall in Chattanooga. We’ve done this ever since Melody and I turned ten and I always look forward to it. This year it doesn’t matter much to me at all. I can hardly think about Christmas gifts and shopping, but Melody has made me promise to come with them, despite what’s happened to Bree.

As I burrow in my bed, a sound floats up from the backyard through the silence. I hear the creaking of our old glider. Grandma liked sitting on it and watching the sun come up.
Maybe it’s Grandma’s ghost,
I think, then shake off sleep and go to the window to investigate. I see the silhouette of someone on the old rusty glider wrapped in a blanket, and go wide awake. I realize it’s Mom, not Grandma, and alarmed, I throw on my sweats, a jacket and boots, grab my own blanket and hurry out into the cold, crisp air. I suck in my breath as the sharp chill hits my face.

“Mom? What are you doing out here? Are you all right? Did the hospital call about Bree?”

“No, nothing’s changed for Bree. I couldn’t sleep, Sissy.” Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug. “Come. Sit.” She scoots over and I sit, tightening my blanket and shivering. “Did I wake you?” she asks.

“No. I have to get up soon anyway. Shopping, you know.”

“I laid out some money for you on the hall table.” Mom resumes rocking the glider. “I’m not looking forward to the holidays. They’ll be hard to get through this year.”

“I don’t need to go shopping today.”

She pats my leg, which is covered with the blanket. “That’s not what I mean. I’m trying to figure how best to pull it off. Tree? No tree? I had thought—” She stops herself, takes a deep breath. “We’re going to miss your sister.”

Her voice wavers and a lump pushes into my throat. “She was gone last Christmas too,” I remind her, because I don’t want her to be too sad.

“We didn’t know where she was. But we did know she was alive,” Mom reminds me. She tilts her head to look up at the stars still glittering in the sky. “Bree always was my wild and crazy child. She couldn’t wait to grow up. Had to have everything
right now.
No matter how hard I sat on her, she just went her own way.”

Mom isn’t really talking to me, just saying her mind out loud. I don’t interrupt. Once she goes quiet, I say, “The way the doctor explained it, what happened to Bree could have happened anytime. It wasn’t your fault…the thing in her head. It just
blew up.
”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart…” I hear Mom sniff. “It’s too cold to be sitting out here.”

Neither of us moves.

“I sure loved that girl, Sissy. She made me crazy, but I loved her.”

“You two fought a lot.” It isn’t a criticism, but an observation.

“Yes, we did. I wanted so much for her to have a good life. It’s what parents want, you know…for their kids to have good lives.”

Bree made some poor choices, but I don’t state the obvious. “We’ll love her baby too, Mom.”

Mom sighs. “Lots of work raising a child.” Before I can comment, she asks, “Bree ever tell you if she picked a name for the baby? The baby should have a name, you know.”

I asked my sister the same thing. “You can’t give a name to someone you’ve never looked at,” Bree answered. “A person needs to look like the name you give them. Know what I mean? What if I picked out a name and got my mind settled on it, and then when she’s born and I take a long look at her, I see that she doesn’t look like that name at all? I’d have to change it on the spot. So I think it’s best to wait until she’s born, then figure out a name. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

I tell Mom what Bree said.

Bemused, Mom bobs her head. “Crazy girl. That baby has no father, no mother, no name. I guess it’ll be up to us, won’t it, Sissy?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you think on it. We’ve got to put something down on her birth certificate.”

“We’ll figure out a good name for her, Mom.”

“Briana.” Mom speaks my sister’s name into the dark. “Do you know what it means, Sissy?”

I say I don’t.

“It means ‘strong.’ And she was strong-willed, that’s for sure.”

“What does my name mean?”

“
Lily.
From the Hebrew. A sweet, beautiful flower. You’re well named.” She strokes my hair and I lean against her blanket-covered shoulder and together we cry.

I can’t get into shopping. The stores are crowded, lots of pushing and shoving over ‘on sale’ and ‘today only’ stuff. Christmas music blares every place we go, and because our band has been practicing most of the same music since October, I’m sick of it. I don’t let on to Melody or her mom how bad I’m feeling, though. I just paste a smile on my face and trail around after them, oohing and aahing over everything they like, wrinkling my nose over the stuff they don’t.

I buy Mom a soft-as-silk fleece neck scarf and matching gloves. In the bookstore, I buy Stu a book about Winston Churchill and for me, a baby-naming book.

Melody grabs it out of my hands and flips through the pages. “This is cool! Are you looking for a special name?”

“It’s for the baby. Mom told me to pick one out for her.”

“I’d love to help you choose a name!”

“Um…I think Mom wants a shot at it first. I mean, since she’s the grandmother and all.” Telling that little lie doesn’t bother me one bit. Melody can be pushy at times.

She looks up her own name. “
Melody:
‘song.’ Well, duh! No surprise there.” She flips over to another section and reads, “
Stuart:
‘caretaker.’” She giggles. “Should we tell him?”

I carefully extract the book from her hands. “Why not keep it our little secret? It might go to his head.”

Distracted, Melody quickly forgets about the book and I slip it back into the store bag with its receipt.

When we stop to eat a late lunch, Melody’s mother eyes our shopping bags. “You only have two bags, Susanna. We’re way ahead of you.”

I nibble on a rubbery-tasting egg salad sandwich. “Small shopping list this year,” I say.

She looks stricken and her face grows pink. “What’s the matter with me? Honey, I’m very sorry. How could I be so insensitive?”

I’m embarrassed because I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. “I—it’s okay. Really.”

She pats the table with her palm. “You know what? As soon as we finish eating we’re going into that baby store on the second level. We need to buy that baby some pretty clothes.”

And that’s what we do. Melody’s mother chooses outfits in three different infant sizes. “So she’ll have something to grow into,” she tells me. She tosses a green velvet baby dress with red ribbons onto the stack. It looks very Christmasy.

“She won’t be born until January,” I remind her.

“No matter. We’ll buy it for next Christmas.” She finds a larger size.

Melody picks out a cute baby hat and tiny socks. I find a soft blanket with pale purple giraffes, trimmed in lime green—the same colors as the nursery.

I feel better after our side shopping trip. I can’t buy a gift for my sister this year, but I can buy gifts for her baby.

When we pile into the car for the trip home, Melody’s mother turns to me and quietly asks, “Would you like to stop at the hospital, Susanna? Mellie and I can wait in the lobby while you run up and see Briana.”

I feel as if she’s read my mind. “Would you mind? Would it be all right?”

“Absolutely,” she says.

I could kiss her.

“I won’t stay long,” I promise before heading to the elevator.

“Take all the time you need,” Melody’s mother says.

“Are you sure we can’t come with you?” Melody asks.

“Only family’s allowed,” I say, glad of the policy. I don’t want anyone gawking at my sister, not even my best friend.

I ride up to Neuro ICU, push through the double doors. The nurses at the desk wave to me. They know Mom and me by now. I walk to Briana’s cubicle and see a woman leaning over her. My heart freezes. “What are you doing to my sister?” I ask.

T
he woman turns, flashes me a smile. “I’m Nicole, your sister’s physical therapist. You must be Susanna. The nurses told me about you.”

I’m speechless.
Physical therapy for someone who’s technically dead?
Doesn’t she know about Bree?

Nicole says, “Come closer. I’ll show you what I’m doing.” Warily I shuffle to the bed. The covers have been thrown back and the hospital gown barely covers Bree’s thin legs. “See how her hands and legs are drawing up?”

My sister has only been lying here for a couple of weeks, but already I see a difference. Her hands are turning toward her wrists and her fingers are beginning to look clawlike. Her legs are pulling closer to her body.

“It’s called contracturing. Muscles begin to shrink from inactivity and that causes the limbs to curl. I come in and massage and manipulate a patient’s joints to keep that from happening. I also turn the patient several times a day so bedsores won’t form. Bedsores are caused from lying in the same position day after day. It helps keep a patient comfortable.”

“But Bree—”

“I know her condition.” Nicole interrupts me kindly. “But a bedsore can cause an infection that can get into her bloodstream and cross over to her baby.”

I watch for a few minutes as Nicole gently kneads Bree’s arms and legs, stretching and rubbing the joints. My sister looks like a mannequin, a life-sized doll whose body lies at odd angles. I can’t stand to watch another minute. I back out of the cubicle and leave the unit, hit the stairwell door at the end of the hall, and hurtle down eleven flights of stairs, crying every step of the way.

On Saturday, I change outfits five times before leaving for the Christmas tree lot at school. “Sissy, I have an appointment with a client and I’m going to be late if you don’t hurry!” Mom calls from the foot of the stairs.

“I’m hurrying,” I shout, ripping off a sweater, knowing it’s too fancy for a day around tree sap. I jerk on an old sweatshirt, grab my work gloves and a hoodie and rush downstairs.
Who am I kidding? Stu won’t notice unless I show up naked.

“Susanna! Thank goodness you’re here,” Mr. Mendoza calls as I get out of Mom’s car in the crowded parking lot. “You and Stuart are the only ones who’ve shown up so far. Patsy and Nolan and a couple of dads are coming later, but we need help
now.
”

The trees have been set up in rows by type, tied to stakes hammered into the ground. Half the town appears to be wandering through the lot, fingering branches, each in a quest for the perfect tree. “What should I do?”

“Go help Stu unload the truck that came in last night. It’s around back.”

I wave to Mrs. Mendoza, who is wearing a money apron, and hurry around the side of the gym, where a huge semitruck, its back doors wide open, sits in the cold sunlight. I climb the ramp into the truck and discover Stu wrestling with piles of bundled trees, stacked in mounds like cordwood. The scent of fresh evergreens is overpowering. “Hey,” I say. “The cavalry’s here.”

He looks up, red-faced with exertion. “Pretty small army you’re leading.”

“Do you want help, or not?”

He wipes his forehead, walks over and squeezes my upper arm. “Seems strong enough.”

“Ha, ha,” I say, warm all over from his touch. “What’s the plan?”

“You pick up the top of the tree; I’ll lift from the base. We carry it outside, cut the strings, stand it up and shake it out good. Tons of loose needles in them, and Mendoza said the trees have to look fresh if people are going to buy them. Once outside, we’ll lean the trees against the wall.”

“Is that all?”

“Until help arrives. You know…the rest of your cavalry. They can carry the trees to the lot and stake them. It’s a harder job. Serves them right for being late.”

We start working and in an hour have freed and shaken more than forty-five trees. Lined up against the back wall of the gym, they look like a dark green forest. At some point help arrives and Stu and I take a break inside the gym on the basketball court. We fish sodas out of a cooler reserved for us workers.

“You sure you don’t want hot chocolate?” he asks. Pots full of hot water and packets of cocoa and coffee are also available.

“I’m sweating,” I tell him, then regret my self-description. How alluring must
that
sound!

We climb midway up the bleachers, sit and pop open our sodas.

“You doing all right?” he asks.

“The front ends of the trees aren’t very heavy, you know. I can handle the job.”

“That’s not what I’m asking about.” He grows quiet and I stare into his eyes. A girl can drown in his eyes. Suddenly realizing that he isn’t asking about my stamina, I gulp from my soda can. He’s asking me about Briana.

“I’m doing just fine. Honest.”

“You never talk about her. Not to me. Not to Melody either.”

“It’s not something I like talking about.”

“But we’re your friends. In the beginning, you told us plenty.”

I shrug. “Not much to say anymore. The doctors are just waiting for the baby to get big enough to be born.” I don’t add,
And for Bree to die,
but that will happen too.

“Melody says you’re in charge of naming the baby. That you bought a book.”

“I’m just looking up different names and their meanings. We won’t name her until she’s born. Until we see her and all.”

“Melody says you’ve already bought the baby some clothes.”

“Is that all you and Melody do? Sit around and talk about my life?”

My outburst startles him. “No way. And you don’t have to go postal. I’m just trying to be a friend.”

I hang my head. “Sorry,” I say.

He reaches over, puts his hand on my shoulder. “We worry about you. I think about you a lot.”

“You do?”

His eyes look like deep pools of blue water. My heart thuds like a jackhammer.

“There you two are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Melody’s voice saves me from drowning.

Stu drops his hand from my shoulder, waves her up to where we’re sitting. “Break time.”

She climbs up, eyes us suspiciously. I stand, my insides quivering. “Back to work,” I say. “How was dance?”

“Same-same. How are tree sales?”

“We have enough for Mendoza to buy himself a new baton and a whistle,” Stu jokes.

Melody breaks into laughter. I only smile. Stu’s stab at humor isn’t
that
funny. I precede them outside, glad for the sharp slap of cold on my face. I go over the conversation I’ve had with Stu. He said he was worried about me. He said he thought about me.
A lot!
Do we have a chance to be more than friends? If only Melody hadn’t barged in when she did. Something will have to change drastically if I’m ever going to be more than just friends with Stu. And that something does
not
include Melody.

On most days my brain is a bouncing ball. My thoughts flash from Briana to her nameless baby, from Stu to Melody, from me-Melody-Stu to schoolwork, from band practice to the coming holidays. I start to think about one thing but before I can concentrate on how to deal with it, my brain cells jump to something else and I end up not figuring out anything about
anything.
I hate rubber-ball thinking!

Mom’s really busy closing out year-end books for different clients, so she’s barricaded in her office for long hours. I’ve practiced my solo parts for our holiday show so much that I can perform them in my sleep, and I finish homework assignments ahead of schedule. I have time to myself, and I spend much of it in Bree’s bedroom. I don’t know why I feel better sitting in her room, but I do. I’ve neatened it up, put things into place, vacuumed and dusted, although I know she’s never coming back to stay here again. The only thing I don’t do is wash her bedding. The pillow still holds her scent and I press my face into it, close my eyes and imagine she’s still alive.

I’ve always looked up to her. Growing up, she was too busy to pay me much attention, but I never minded. I
liked
her, thought she was cool. I didn’t argue with Mom like Bree did. I guess I never liked yelling or being yelled at. Bree must have thought it was her duty to make up for my lack of spirit. Mom made rules Bree refused to follow—Mom called it damage control—but when Bree was around, life was never dull.

I go back to my earliest and most vivid memory of my sister. Daddy has died and Mom is packing up our old house for the move to Tennessee. I’m sitting on the porch steps, my face buried in my hands, crying. Mom has told me to sit down and stay out of the way. I’ve been sitting there and crying forever when Bree comes over and gives me a tissue. “What’s the problem, Sissy?”

“I miss Daddy,” I say.

She looks sad. “I miss him too.”

“What if Daddy comes home and we’re gone?” I obviously haven’t gotten the death angle straight in my head. “What if he can’t find us?”

“He’s not coming home.”

“But why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t you remember the funeral, Sissy?” I nod. “The man in the box was Daddy.”

The man in the box hadn’t looked a thing like my father to me. My daddy smiled a lot. The man in the box never moved. “I only looked once,” I confess. I remember shutting my eyes tight right after Mom led me to the casket and told me to tell Daddy goodbye.

“Remember how we rode in the big car to the cemetery? Remember how they buried the box in the hole in the ground?”

“But the pastor said Daddy was sleeping.” I hear the pastor’s words exactly…my daddy was “asleep and will one day rise up.” I remind Bree what the pastor said. “So what if he wakes up and wants to come home, and when he gets here, we’re gone?”

Bree puts her arm around my shoulders. “The preacher didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then why did he say it?”

“It’s just his way of talking about Daddy being in heaven.”

“So Daddy’s not coming back?” I cry some more. Bree is almost nine, so I take her word for it, but I just can’t wrap my mind around never seeing our dad again.

She thinks for a minute. “I have an idea. Go get a piece of paper, and I’ll write down Grandma’s address, and you can put it in our mailbox. That way, he’ll know where to come and find us.”

I run into the house, find a piece of scrap paper and take it to Bree. I watch her carefully write numbers and letters on it. She hands it to me. “There you go.”

I grab it, fold it, dash to the curbside mailbox and tuck it inside. I feel so much better knowing we’ve left Daddy a message. I skip back to the porch and hug Bree hard.

Bree unwinds my arms from her neck. “You know, Sissy, don’t get your hopes up. I don’t believe people are allowed to check out of heaven once they get there.”

I remember her words all these years later. By the time we have settled in with Grandma in Tennessee and I’ve started first grade, I’ve stopped expecting Dad to show up. People don’t return from the dead. Not then. Not now.