Comfort & Joy

My shrink says it’s because I’m not happy with my real life. She thinks I’ve let the accident paralyze me emotionally, and that when I wake up, I’ll quit needing a forest mirage as my ideal.

I tell her she’s wrong. I was emotionally paralyzed before the crash. This is just same old–same old. The difference is, now I know what I want. I just can’t find it.

Before the crash, I wanted Thom back.

Now I’m actually happy he’s gone. I worry for my sister that it’s dangerous to love a man who has already betrayed one wife, but she has made her choice, and truthfully, at his heart, Thom is a good man. I can only hope he’ll be a good husband to my sister.

I’m so deep in thought, I’m surprised when I hear my doorbell ring.

I glance at the clock. It’s twelve-fifteen. As usual, she’s right on time with my lunch. “Come in,” I say, getting to my feet, reaching for the crutches.

Stacey comes in, carrying a stack of magazines and videos. They have become her peace offerings, these things she collects for me, her way of saying she doesn’t think I’m crazy, even though I’m sure she does. “These are the newest Sunset magazines—two have articles on rainforest getaways—four local Sunday newspapers, and two movies shot up there. Harry and the Hendersons, about a Sasquatch, and Double Jeopardy. ”

We both know how much it means to me, these pointless, silly gifts; we also know it won’t do any good. I’m not going to suddenly “see” where I’ve imagined. The walls of my downstairs are now entirely covered with maps and photographs. None of the butter yellow walls beneath can be seen.

I take the pile of things from Stacey, knowing I will watch or read each item carefully. Knowing, too, that all I’ll find are images that strike a chord but create no real memory.

While Stacey puts things away in the kitchen, I go into my living room and sit down on the sofa. In the new Sunset magazine, I see a photograph of the Hoh rainforest that makes me feel homesick for a place that doesn’t exist.

“Joy?”

I look up to see Stacey holding a tray of croissant sandwiches. It isn’t until I see the look on her face that I realize I’m crying.

“Maybe I shouldn’t bring you this stuff. ”

“I need them,” I hear the panicked edge in my voice.

So does she. She sets the tray down on the coffee table. “You have to come into the real world. ” Her voice is tentative; I know she’s wanted to say this for a long time, but has been afraid. We are not yet the sisters we once were, who could say anything to each other. She plucks up a sandwich, sets it on a napkin and sits across from me.

“The real world,” I say softly, putting the magazine aside. Getting up, I make my awkward way to the window. There I stand on my good leg, staring out at the houses across the street. Now, in the winter, the lawns are dead and brown, as are the trees. There hasn’t been a leaf on the road for months. Everything on the block is gray or brown, it seems, and the pale sunlight only manages to dull it all. “Last night I dreamt I was stuck right here,” I say, without turning to look at Stacey. “Watching life pass me by. In my dream, I could see your house. Your lights were always on; there were kids in your yard. One of them was a quiet, watchful girl who always waited her turn. You named her Joy. And here I was, stuck. Wrinkling like a dying grape, going gray, wanting. ” I take a deep breath and turn around to face her. There’s something I need to tell her; something I probably should have admitted before. “You weren’t the only reason I got on that plane. Most of it, maybe, but not all. I was so tired of who I’d become. ”

Stacey doesn’t respond to that. I’m not surprised. She doesn’t know what to say, and she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. Our relationship is fragile; we both handle it like hot glass.

“You can’t understand,” I finally say. How could she? My sister never let anything pass her by. She’s never been a spectator.

“Are you kidding?” She stares at me as if I am a science exhibit under glass. “You think I don’t know about wanting more?”

“You were a cheerleader, for gosh sake, and homecoming queen. And now you’re pregnant and in love. ”

“Sixteen years ago I was a cheerleader, Joy. When you went off to college, I stayed in Bakersfield and worked dead-end jobs. ”

“But you met Chris . . . ”

“And he didn’t just break my heart, he shattered it, remember?” She sighs. “I used to watch your life and feel like such a failure. You came home from college in love with Thom and had the perfect wedding and then got the great job at the high school. You succeeded at everything you tried. I hated always being in your shadow. ”

I frown. “Is that why you moved away?”

“I thought a big city would help, but in Sacramento I felt even more lost. It was too busy for me. So I came back here and used my divorce settlement to buy a house, but I still couldn’t manage to get a decent job. It’s tough when you’re twenty-eight years old with no husband and no education—especially when your sister seems to have it all. ”

“You should have come to me. ”

“I tried. ”

I want to tell her it’s not true, but we’re well past the lying-to-each-other stage. The last year has given us that, at least. I glance out the window; anything is better than looking at her. “I know you did, but I was barely hanging on. Thom and I were fighting like crazy. ”

“I know,” she says softly. “I came over one day to talk to you, and found him at home. ”

So that’s how it had begun. I’d wanted to know, though I never would have asked. Now that she’s planted the words, I see them grow: how they were friends first, my sister and my husband, commiserating about their disappointed lives, then commiserating about me, then finding solace in each other.