Adult Memoir - Rewrite III

I had given her ample warning.  Her arrogance had worn thin. I whipped the Pontiac three lanes over to the curb.

"Get out. Get..the.. fuck....out..of..my....car, right NOW." She had stirred up so much trouble at the nursing home, I couldn't take one more second of it.

She stared back at me, eyes wide, face flushed.  "What?!" she sputtered.

"You heard me.  Get out."  (Ironic, how solemnity is scarier than a tirade.)

I felt scary, out of control. I had desperately clutched the hand of love, only to watch it flit away from my fingers forever.  I was in no mood for her whining and narcissistic dramatics.

"But..but..you can't!  You can't just leave me here in the middle of town!"

"I can, and I AM.  Get out or I will drag you out." I turned and looked her dead-on, allowing my eyes to communicate the steel in my heart. "Now."

With a huff and sputter she opened the door, cursing me out as she slammed it shut. She never liked me, I was a bitch, it served me right, I was ...<BLAH, BLah, Blah, blah....b..l..a..h>.  I let the words wash over me and fade under the squealing of tires. I'd been listening to this blather for all of her twenty-eight years.

As I drove through town, I second guessed myself momentarily.  It was three in the morning, and the city was a ghost town, and she was my sister, right?  I looked around as I drove. Our altercation had reverberated through the alleys and buildings, mirroring the empty ricochet in my heart and head.  I powered down the windows and allowed the crisp February air to caress my forehead. She hadn't been a sister in a very long time.

The cold blast helped to clear my head and solidified my resolve.  She'd be fine, I reasoned. A nice cold walk might give her a chance to think about the pain she had just inflicted.  Oh holy hell - who was I kidding?  She never thought about anyone else - she was not about to suddenly achieve clarity through sorrow, anger and cold.  But what if she was attacked?  I laughed out loud. God help the poor SOB.  She had dated most of them anyway, and she'd never had a problem standing up for herself.  Not ever.

As I drove toward the outskirts of town, I tried to make sense of my volatility.  I was grieving for my grandfather, yes...but it was completely out of character for me to be that....heartless and calculated. Pop would not be happy with that performance, but in an odd way, I was.

Memories flooded the front seat as I drove on. More recent ones of being the first to arrive at the nursing home after the call from the nurse.  Climbing onto the rugged bed, wrapping my arms around the near stillness of him, whispering how much I loved him.  Holding my grandfather's worn face and whispering, "It's okay...I know you are tired....it's ok.  We'll be okay, I promise..." Physical pain trying to choke the words out, but knowing at some level he was waiting to hear them. Watching his chest rise, and then fall with the final exhalation that was more like an exasperating and weary sigh.

A wave of nausea came over me recalling my sister's tirade in the halls of the mostly asleep nursing home, demanding that my father leave immediately, that he had no right to be there.  Why are you already here? The sweet, sickly smell of alcohol on her breath as she made demands, hands on her hips, eyes dilated. Rapidly inventorying my mental file cabinets trying to recall any info on dealing with coked up alcoholics.  She was escalating, shit... please don't call the cops..please don't call the cops....  You must think you are some kind of special?! What did he say to you? It's not right that you were here and nobody else. You people are hypocrites and none of you should be here! Nothing like sitting around watching him die, yeah, that's a fun night, right? My attempts to quiet her, to reason with her, all the while knowing it wouldn't work.  My low, furious whisper in her ear, "Go to my car now, before I drop you to the ground and drag you out by your bleached roots," took her (and me) by surprise. Truth be told, I was bluffing. I never expected her to actually do it.

The awkward apologies to the nursing staff, and sheepish thanks. The piteous looks in response.

The long walk down the hall and out the door. Alone.

Distant voices roared in my head and I winced.  Far flung memories of angry parents, alcohol, fighting, violence, broken windows and walls....corked vials of hateful words and actions, desperation and loneliness. Understanding where it came from didn't make it any easier to stomach. Not now.  Not tonight.

On the car ride to deliver her to her apartment, listening to her vomit up years of imagined slights, self-righteous indignation and deflection. Try to be patient, I thought,she's grieving too.  Sort of. You can't talk to her right now, wait until she's sober.  Feeling the rage stewing below the surface, swallowing hard to keep it there. A comment about my son. In a split second, I went from simmer to a full rolling boil in a flash. I couldn't look at her round, pasty, mouth-breathing face hurling vile comments and demands at me and the world for one more moment.

And now.....blessed silence.

I was disappointed. It was my responsibility to be better. I could be better.  I was better.
It struck me with blinding simplicity - she would never change.  She would always be this junked-up, self-indulgent twelve year old for the rest of her life. She liked her life and didn't see any issues with it. Isn't that what they had told us in Psychology class? I briefly smirked at the irony.

The epiphany provoked the missing tears. Gushing droplets of sorrow, loss and anger, shame and frustration. I couldn't fix her because she didn't want to be fixed. I had failed somewhere along the line as the quintessential Big Sister. I had tried as best I could, but it wasn't enough, was it?

I drove forward, welcoming the blackness waiting beyond the city limits.