She’s finally found an acceptable position on her back with three pillows behind her head, one tucked into her left side, and one propped under her knees. “Wow,” I say, forcing myself to keep my tone light. I’m grateful for the semi-darkness that conceals my reaction, for her fogged illness that blurs her awareness.
REAL STACKS OF MONEY ON BED SKIN
She’s skeletal, her hard-edged bones a sharp and startling counterpoint to the soft, loose folds of skin hanging like curtains from her arms and legs. I stifle a shocked gasp when I see her body. She ignores my attempt at light-heartedness, but allows me to help her remove her shirt. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” “So take it off,” I reply, somewhat cheekily. She finally sighs exhaustedly, “I can’t stand the way my t-shirt keeps bunching up behind my back.” She squirms, unable to find a comfortable position despite my multiple attempts to rearrange the pillows. Her shrunken frame is practically swallowed up under the comforter and the five pillows propped around her. My sister lies in her king-sized bed, as close to the edge as possible so the ordeal of swinging her legs around to sit upright is minimized. I feel trapped inside a fetid, stagnant cave where stacks of books rise up and cobwebby filaments filter down as substitute stalagmites and stalactites.
One bare-bulbed lamp provides our only source of light. The room is dim and grainy, littered with pill bottles, cluttered with magazines and reams of hospital paperwork. The stench of illness hangs dank and heavy in my sister’s bedroom.
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