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

she could begin another daylong session of record playing from the eclectic family collection. Bay City Rollers. Electric Light Orchestra. Roger Whittaker. Carmina Burana. There was little peace to be had in a house with five children living in it, and my sister’s habits just increased the sense of chaos. Even so, our mother did what she could to set some kind of boundary with the records. Margaret was allowed to turn on her music, “When the other kids get up.”

Of course, as I’ve said before, waiting for anything was very difficult for Margaret. Her anxiety-fueled pacing and talking to my mother shook the walls and rattled the doorknobs, but, to be fair, the music stayed off. Sometimes I’d lie there listening to her ask my mother, “You’re going to play the music, Mom?” and my mother would answer, “When the other kids get up.” I’d hear Margaret walk away and sit on the couch with a thump, and about ten seconds would pass before she’d get up, hurry into the kitchen, and ask, “You’re going to play the music, Mom?” My mother would repeat the same answer, cheerfully, endlessly it seemed.

“When the other kids get up, then you can play the music, Margaret.”

“When the other kids get up, then you can play the music, Mom.”

“That’s right, Margs.”

“Then you can play the music.”

“Then you can play the music, Margs.”

“Then you can play the music, Mom.”

“Then you can play the music, Margs.”

After a certain period of time, Margaret just couldn’t stand it anymore. She’d sprint into the kitchen and switch on the stereo at full volume for a split second, blasting music through the house. Before someone yelled at her to turn it down, she had already turned it off again. Of course I was no longer sleeping after that, but I clung stubbornly to my right to be in bed, and I kept my eyes shut tight. Often, Margaret would start checking on me to see if I was moving. I’d pretend like I was asleep as she pounded up the stairs and shuffled to my bedside. Then she’d just stand there, breathing on me. I’d look at her through my lashes, always sensing that she knew I was faking my slumber.

Some days her face would be pulled into lines of worry, and she’d stand there twisting her hands, looking like she was about to cry or scream. On other days I would see her mischievous smile. “You can play the music when the kids get up,” she’d say loudly, into my face. And if I so much as flickered an eyelash, she’d pounce on me, rolling around on the bed and laughing, “YOU’RE GOING TO LISTEN TO THE MUSIC WHEN EILEEN GETS UP! HA HA HA HA!” Then she’d sprint down the stairs to crank up the stereo. “You’re going to listen to the music when Eileen gets up, Mom!” she’d holler up from the kitchen in her high monotone voice. And I’d be, against my will, up.

I’ve never quite recovered from those days. I still hide my face in the morning, only now I’m hiding from my dog, who starts pawing at my shoulder if she sees me move, hoping to expedite a quicker breakfast. I feign sleep around the cats, one of which starts knocking pictures off the walls or flinging my glasses and other bedside items if she thinks there’s a chance I’ll rise up and open the window for her, the other one wanting me to fill her very special water bowl in the bathroom and crying and pacing if she sees me awake. Yes, it’s true—I’m a grown woman who feels the need to deceive her pets. But I hide from my husband, too, who, like Margaret, always wants to get up early on the weekends. So far, he has been easier to fool with the pretending-to-be-asleep bit.

ALL OF THIS is to say that sleep-related anxiety makes me pretty keen to avoid shared sleeping arrangements. If I sleep alone, I don’t have to worry about being watched or, consequently, try to hide the fact that I am worried about it. But no such luck this time. Here I was, trapped by the enthusiasm of a sweet young boy. As I lay awake, I knew I should be flattered by the attention. At least I wasn’t some scary relative that everyone hid from—the Aunt with the Hairy Mole, the Aunt Who Chews with Her Mouth Open, the Aunt with the BO Who Hugs Way Too Much. Tony was young enough to take it for granted that he liked me just because I was his auntie. He was too young to make any critical sort of judgment about me as a person; I was just an aunt. For this I knew I should be grateful. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on gratitude, but I moved in the wrong direction and felt a muscle in my lower back start to spasm. While I waited for the pain to pass, it occurred to me that there weren’t too many years left for Tony to be so cuddly. As the youngest of my sister’s three kids, he tolerated the babying, snuggling, and hand-holding. But his big brother was on the football team, his dad was in the military, and I knew a time was coming when the little man in him wouldn’t stand for any of it; he’d rise up and throw off the sweet bonds of women’s affection, at least while other people were looking.

As I finished this thought, Tony kicked me in his sleep and my spine twanged like a loosely strung violin. My sleeplessness intensified, and I realized that in just a few short hours I was going to have to face a room full of alert family members, and I was pretty sure there wasn’t any coffee in the house. This thought terrified me into full wakefulness. I thought about climbing the stairs into Tony’s room