How to Be a Sister by Eileen Garvin (icecream ebook reader .TXT) 📗

I did. I could see her standing on the beach, smiling into the wind and pointing a long, graceful finger at the sky. That made me smile. I glanced back at Margaret, but she averted her eyes when she saw me looking.

Margaret’s housemate, Ken, who also has autism, always looks really nervous when I see him. He looked a little scared sitting there at my table. I had never heard him speak, but he has a very kind face. Even today, whenever I say, “Hi, Ken! How are you?” he just looks at me with wide eyes and grimaces, trying to smile. Ken had eaten part of his sandwich and was gulping his root beer. Tami said, “Ken! What did we say about drinking slowly?” She gave him a patient lecture about how he needed to drink slowly or he would make himself sick, remember? Ken, looking very sorry, nodded vigorously, crushed his root beer can in one hand, and belched.

During this conversation, Margaret got up and hurried into the bathroom like she was late for some really important meeting. She came out while still zipping up her pants, which earned her a gentle reprimand from Tami about why it’s important to pull up your pants before you come out of the bathroom. Then she reminded Margaret to go back and wash her hands, which Margaret did with great urgency.

I guessed that Tami had said these things to the two of them over and over and over again. When I had lived with Margaret, I had done the same: Cover your mouth when you cough, Margaret. Say, “Please pass the bread,” Margaret. Close your mouth when you chew your food, Margs. Wait your turn. Say, “Excuse me.” Put your clothes on before you open the bathroom door. Don’t push people. It was like having a kid around all the time, a kid who would never learn, and it was endlessly frustrating for me to repeat the same things without any apparent change in her behavior.

I watched Tami and thought about how I had always imagined this was something I would end up doing—taking care of my sister. When I was in my twenties and people asked me when Brendan and I would have kids, in my head I was thinking that I needed to keep myself freed up for the time that I would be taking care of Margaret. Even years after Margaret was in a residential setting with professional staff, in the back of my mind I felt like I was supposed to be preparing myself to be her caregiver. Why I thought this, I can’t say. It’s a terrible idea for many reasons, including my personality. Luckily, I’d never been asked to be this person for Margaret. Some parents simply assume that their other kids will step up to the plate and take on this task when the time comes—failing to acknowledge it as an enormous, life-changing burden.

Our parents had had the foresight and the means to make long-term arrangements for Margaret. They worked very hard to provide her with a stable, sustainable living situation, including a twenty-four-hour staff. Even so, my survivor’s guilt still pricked me every now and again with thoughts of what I should be doing for my sister because my life is so much easier than hers. But as I watched Tami, I was simply grateful that Margaret had such patient and vigilant staff members who were willing to keep offering the same careful advice to her and to give her some freedom by being there to support her.

We sat at my dining room table, eating our sandwiches and making small talk while Margaret rocked in the chair a few yards away. Then there was a break in our conversation, and I heard my sister say, “Margaret, why don’t you shut up?” She muttered it to herself, looking at the floor. And even though she said it quietly, I heard her perfectly, because it was a true-to-life imitation of my own teenage voice. Although I don’t remember saying this to her, I’m sure I must have said it—and worse—when we were growing up. “Shut the fuck up” comes to mind. And even “Jesus fucking Christ, Margaret, would you fucking shut the fuck up!” in a more eloquent and frustrated mood. Perhaps I said this when she had been screaming for hours and banging her hands against the walls, the doors, the floors. Maybe I said it when she was laughing and goofing off at the dinner table so I couldn’t get a word in edgewise in our already loud family. I can’t remember, but she clearly does.

Margaret looked at me out of the corner of her eye and said it again, just as clearly. “Why don’t you shut up?” I glanced at Tami and Teri, who were looking at my sister, but didn’t say anything. I wondered if she said this all the time or if it had just popped into her mouth because she was with me. I didn’t know why Margaret said it. I didn’t know if she was irritated with me because I was crashing her vacation or if she was just anxious. Maybe this was just a meaningless phrase that she attributed to me. Maybe she really just wanted me to shut up. Whatever the case, it made me feel like an asshole to hear this sound bite that I’d left in her head after all this time. It was an inversion of the familiar feeling—embarrassment at Margaret’s public outburst—because this time I had no one to blame but myself.

While the rest of us finished eating, Margaret rocked in the chair and shredded a piece of junk mail. I asked her if she wanted to see my garden, thinking she might want to be in a quieter place. “Yes!” she said and jumped up out of her chair. But as soon as we went outside to look at the garden,