Oliver's Daughters
[Fiction.part one] (unfinished)
The first words to come out of Ronette McClain’s mouth in four years were uttered in the chaos of the living room of her father’s house and were drowned out by louder shouts and screams from the mouths of others. As a result, only her son, Charles, heard them as he stared up into her face looking for reassurance and safety in a moment of terror. A woman of few words prior to the accident that killed her husband, Ronette had given up speaking altogether afterward. She found this condition quite agreeable, as she was able to go about her business more easily than she had; people tended to avoid her and her time wasn’t wasted by idle chit-chat. She enjoyed the peace of her muted world and had long ago resolved never to speak again when she found her lips opening and her voice rushing forth into the electric air the swirled around her and the rest in the room. Her son, her only child, had forgotten the sound of his mother’s voice, as he was quite young when she went silent and had resolved the idea in his mind by deciding that she was a mute. He stared at her in that terrible moment not looking for comforting words, but rather the language of her eyes, which he had come to understand quite intrinsically. She did not return his gaze and he squeezed her hand to gain her attention, for he knew his voice would not reach her ears in the cacophony. She persisted, continuing to direct her attention to the mass of people struggling at the doorway and opened her lips and spoke, for the first time in four years.
Ronette’s father, Oliver, had been dead for exactly 73 hours when she found herself speaking in his living room. She had been called to his bedside one week earlier to say goodbye to him in his final moments and she sat with him for the full week until the very moment when his life passed conclusively through his lips. She did not speak to him during those times, but held his hands and searched his face for signs of the man she knew in her childhood. Finding now, this stranger lying in bed losing his life before her, she reaffirmed her decision to never utter words again. Her sister came and went during that week, checking in nightly and every morning, kissing her father on the forehead and murmuring sweet words to him. She cried unremittingly from the moment she entered the room until the moment she left. She reminded the semi-conscious man of good times spent together and fond shared memories through a steady stream of quiet tears. She had few words for her sister, for she felt they were wasted. But for the silent man in the bed, they were all she had left to give.
Ronette’s sister, who slept in the room next to her father’s, left each morning with a long goodbye to her father and a knowing look to her sister and traveled to the hospital where she birthed babies all day long. She wore a constant placid expression as she went about her duties; she smiled lovingly when it was appropriate, she dressed her face in professional concern when things did not go according to plan, but beneath it all was the casual indifference that had come to define her work manner. This indifference carried over into her home life in Oliver’s last days, for Ronette’s sister, Shelia, cooked his food, dispensed his medicine, bathed, clothed and cared for him and herself with a certain detachment. None of this was really happening. It was only when she knew the end was near and entered the room that he was to die in, seeing him frail and weak-looking surrounded by sheets and cards and her silent sister, did she allow his life to affect her. And then she could not stop weeping.
Unlike her sister’s silence, Shelia’s resolute coldness was not a conscious decision but rather a symptom of her condition. Ronette, as she sat by her father’s side day and night, watching her sister move automatically in the lens afforded by the doorway and the window that overlooked the front yard, wondered to herself how and why her sister had become the woman she was. But she made no indication of her thoughts when Shelia entered the room weeping and whispering, nor when she exited, wiping her eyes and smoothing her blouse, nor when she watched her move briskly to her car parked at the curb, check the rearview mirror and drive to the hospital. Ronette asked no questions of her sister and her father, but she they brushed against her heart and as she held Oliver’s hand in his last hours, she felt that he could sense her concern.
Shelia had not been there to witness her father’s passing. At the very moment of his death she had sat in the nursery of the hospital rocking a stranger’s child to sleep. Surrounded by sleeping children, Shelia thought of nothing but the motion of her arms and the care of the child in them. She remained fearful every time she picked up a child that her arms would loose themselves from each other and fall to her sides as they had done once before. Every child she held, she envisioned falling to the ground at her feet, helpless and shrieking. The image terrified her, but her face, now as ever, revealed no indication. She had dressed her expression in passive peacefulness, to reassure the child should he glance at her as he drifted off to sleep, and beneath the peaceful expression was the same detachment. As her father and the child fell to sleep, Shelia thought of nothing but the movement of her arms and the paint on the walls around her.
73 hours before she spoke again, Ronette held her father’s hand and searched his face a final time for someone she knew. His eyes were closed, as they usually were, and the muscles in his hand were weakly constricted around hers. Ronette pursed her lips and glanced outside to see if Shelia was home yet. The sun had only begun to set and she knew that Shelia did not come home until dark. The house faced east and Ronette could see the reflection of the reddening sun in the windows of the house across the street as she searched for Shelia. She returned her attention to her father. He shifted slightly beneath the covers and Ronette shifted, too, in her chair. She leaned in close to him and listened to his breath. So faint was his breathing that to hear it she had to let her ears graze his lips. The weak gasps were thin and shallow, but he was breathing. She moved her head lower and rested it on his chest, lightly, so as not to tax the muscles that pulled in wisps of oxygen. She thought of Shelia and the many tears that were contained to this room and tried to conjure up sobs for her father. She rested on his chest as she had so many times in the past and let the fingers of her free hand stroke his face. He responded slightly to her touch and for a few precious seconds in the amber-tinted room, the daughter and the father were indivisibly connected and through this connection they spoke, they communed with one another. The daughter pled with her father for his life and he comforted her. The silent man enswathed in beige sheets, which had now taken on the orange glow of the setting sun, counseled his eldest daughter and eased her fears for her sister. He told her how things had to be, when his life escaped his grasp, and instructed her on what needed to be done. She stroked his face and told him of her love for him and as she felt his chest rise for the last time, she heard his last words burn themselves into her ears and after that her mind and heart. These were the words that would carry her everyday following and these words would dictate her every action in the hours to come. These words allowed her to understand all that she could not previously understand. Ronette lifted her head from her father’s chest, having made peace with what was to be and loosed her hand from his. She stared once more into his face and then, for the first time in a week, left the room.
When Shelia returned from work that evening she knew that her father had died when she found Ronette sitting in the living room of her father’s house burning a stack of papers in a metal wastebasket and weeping into the flames.
The first words to come out of Ronette McClain’s mouth in four years were uttered in the chaos of the living room of her father’s house and were drowned out by louder shouts and screams from the mouths of others. As a result, only her son, Charles, heard them as he stared up into her face looking for reassurance and safety in a moment of terror. A woman of few words prior to the accident that killed her husband, Ronette had given up speaking altogether afterward. She found this condition quite agreeable, as she was able to go about her business more easily than she had; people tended to avoid her and her time wasn’t wasted by idle chit-chat. She enjoyed the peace of her muted world and had long ago resolved never to speak again when she found her lips opening and her voice rushing forth into the electric air the swirled around her and the rest in the room. Her son, her only child, had forgotten the sound of his mother’s voice, as he was quite young when she went silent and had resolved the idea in his mind by deciding that she was a mute. He stared at her in that terrible moment not looking for comforting words, but rather the language of her eyes, which he had come to understand quite intrinsically. She did not return his gaze and he squeezed her hand to gain her attention, for he knew his voice would not reach her ears in the cacophony. She persisted, continuing to direct her attention to the mass of people struggling at the doorway and opened her lips and spoke, for the first time in four years.
Ronette’s father, Oliver, had been dead for exactly 73 hours when she found herself speaking in his living room. She had been called to his bedside one week earlier to say goodbye to him in his final moments and she sat with him for the full week until the very moment when his life passed conclusively through his lips. She did not speak to him during those times, but held his hands and searched his face for signs of the man she knew in her childhood. Finding now, this stranger lying in bed losing his life before her, she reaffirmed her decision to never utter words again. Her sister came and went during that week, checking in nightly and every morning, kissing her father on the forehead and murmuring sweet words to him. She cried unremittingly from the moment she entered the room until the moment she left. She reminded the semi-conscious man of good times spent together and fond shared memories through a steady stream of quiet tears. She had few words for her sister, for she felt they were wasted. But for the silent man in the bed, they were all she had left to give.
Ronette’s sister, who slept in the room next to her father’s, left each morning with a long goodbye to her father and a knowing look to her sister and traveled to the hospital where she birthed babies all day long. She wore a constant placid expression as she went about her duties; she smiled lovingly when it was appropriate, she dressed her face in professional concern when things did not go according to plan, but beneath it all was the casual indifference that had come to define her work manner. This indifference carried over into her home life in Oliver’s last days, for Ronette’s sister, Shelia, cooked his food, dispensed his medicine, bathed, clothed and cared for him and herself with a certain detachment. None of this was really happening. It was only when she knew the end was near and entered the room that he was to die in, seeing him frail and weak-looking surrounded by sheets and cards and her silent sister, did she allow his life to affect her. And then she could not stop weeping.
Unlike her sister’s silence, Shelia’s resolute coldness was not a conscious decision but rather a symptom of her condition. Ronette, as she sat by her father’s side day and night, watching her sister move automatically in the lens afforded by the doorway and the window that overlooked the front yard, wondered to herself how and why her sister had become the woman she was. But she made no indication of her thoughts when Shelia entered the room weeping and whispering, nor when she exited, wiping her eyes and smoothing her blouse, nor when she watched her move briskly to her car parked at the curb, check the rearview mirror and drive to the hospital. Ronette asked no questions of her sister and her father, but she they brushed against her heart and as she held Oliver’s hand in his last hours, she felt that he could sense her concern.
Shelia had not been there to witness her father’s passing. At the very moment of his death she had sat in the nursery of the hospital rocking a stranger’s child to sleep. Surrounded by sleeping children, Shelia thought of nothing but the motion of her arms and the care of the child in them. She remained fearful every time she picked up a child that her arms would loose themselves from each other and fall to her sides as they had done once before. Every child she held, she envisioned falling to the ground at her feet, helpless and shrieking. The image terrified her, but her face, now as ever, revealed no indication. She had dressed her expression in passive peacefulness, to reassure the child should he glance at her as he drifted off to sleep, and beneath the peaceful expression was the same detachment. As her father and the child fell to sleep, Shelia thought of nothing but the movement of her arms and the paint on the walls around her.
73 hours before she spoke again, Ronette held her father’s hand and searched his face a final time for someone she knew. His eyes were closed, as they usually were, and the muscles in his hand were weakly constricted around hers. Ronette pursed her lips and glanced outside to see if Shelia was home yet. The sun had only begun to set and she knew that Shelia did not come home until dark. The house faced east and Ronette could see the reflection of the reddening sun in the windows of the house across the street as she searched for Shelia. She returned her attention to her father. He shifted slightly beneath the covers and Ronette shifted, too, in her chair. She leaned in close to him and listened to his breath. So faint was his breathing that to hear it she had to let her ears graze his lips. The weak gasps were thin and shallow, but he was breathing. She moved her head lower and rested it on his chest, lightly, so as not to tax the muscles that pulled in wisps of oxygen. She thought of Shelia and the many tears that were contained to this room and tried to conjure up sobs for her father. She rested on his chest as she had so many times in the past and let the fingers of her free hand stroke his face. He responded slightly to her touch and for a few precious seconds in the amber-tinted room, the daughter and the father were indivisibly connected and through this connection they spoke, they communed with one another. The daughter pled with her father for his life and he comforted her. The silent man enswathed in beige sheets, which had now taken on the orange glow of the setting sun, counseled his eldest daughter and eased her fears for her sister. He told her how things had to be, when his life escaped his grasp, and instructed her on what needed to be done. She stroked his face and told him of her love for him and as she felt his chest rise for the last time, she heard his last words burn themselves into her ears and after that her mind and heart. These were the words that would carry her everyday following and these words would dictate her every action in the hours to come. These words allowed her to understand all that she could not previously understand. Ronette lifted her head from her father’s chest, having made peace with what was to be and loosed her hand from his. She stared once more into his face and then, for the first time in a week, left the room.
When Shelia returned from work that evening she knew that her father had died when she found Ronette sitting in the living room of her father’s house burning a stack of papers in a metal wastebasket and weeping into the flames.
posted by R. Eric Thomas at 7:31 AM
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