Zebra stripes

**More fiction dug up among old computer files. This was written while I was an undergrad at Hamilton College.**

By Lisa A. Eramo

Sandra, my sister, had to cancel all of her patients today so we could get together, but I just made sure the VCR was set to tape reruns of MASH. It was mid-July, and we’d been waiting for a cool day to clean out the attic. After all, it’s been almost a month since Mom passed away. I was there when it happened. Sandra, of course, was saving another life. She never got to say good-bye, but I don’t think Mom knew the difference anyway. She was laying in one of those beds at the time. You know – the ones with the cold metal railings, her frail body barely making an imprint on the ghostly sheets. She kept raising her left hand slowly toward her mouth as if the cigarette were still there. It disgusted me. I ran right out of the room, wishing Dad were there with me so we could walk for miles and miles, and perhaps never return.

Mom lived fifteen years without him. She moved on after his death, but I don’t think I ever did. I swear I can still hear his voice lingering in the breeze. When I was a kid, he’d say, “Let’s go for a walk, Milly – along the canal. We can make pictures of the clouds.” On days like that, Sandra and mom would have been baking cookies or watering tulips in the garden. Dandelions were my favorite anyway. Never seemed to fit in – weeds that jutted up like lonely poles amongst thousands of blades of grass, waving like solitary hands.

Maybe it was because she was two years older than me, but Sandra and mom were like one. They’d buy the matching mother-daughter dresses, swap recipes for chicken cordon bleu, catch the attention of everyone in a room. Their soprano voices soared above the crowds, their jokes were always funny, and small talk just came naturally to them. Dad and I would fade into the background – sitting on the mall benches and people-watching while they shopped, or staring at one another from across the table while mom and Sandra lost themselves in conversation.

Yeah, having dad there would have made things a lot easier. Having his big arms wrapped around me would have drained all of the years of frustration away. The frustrating years of never meeting her expectations, of trying to be the daughter I never was. Dad never wanted me to be anything in particular. That was especially helpful on the day (during my junior year of college) when I told them I had a crush on one of my professors – a woman. A lesbian, in fact. And that no, it wasn’t a phase. I was attracted to women. And it was non-negotiable, so yes; they should deal with it. It wasn’t going to just go away. And neither was I.

“Milly, how could you?” My mother had sobbed, her arms submerged in a sink of dirty dishwater. “What will everyone say?”

My father had been sitting at the dinner table, and was chuckling at the time. I think he always knew. He was a strong man. He’d been in the Navy, and I used to call him Popeye. On rainy days, he’d plop me up on his shoulders, or we’d have wrestling matches in the living room. Dad would play board games with Sandra or attend her piano recitals. He was just different with her, as was mom with me.

“I don’t blame you Milly,” he said. “Women are beautiful.”

I don’t think Sandra was ever completely comfortable after I told her. We were so different to begin with, that this particular difference seemed to drive us even further apart. But Sandra also didn’t seem to mind the fact that in our devoutly Catholic family, her wedding would be the only wedding. Mom and Dad could invest lots in her special day. I would never really have such an occasion.

“Mom, can’t we have the reception at the Crystal Castle?” Sandra had begged. “I know it’s expensive, but it’s not like you’re ever going to have the chance to do this again.” She was right, but I hated her for saying it.

Sandra and I agreed to meet at the house at 1:00. As usual, I was running late. My apartment was such a mess I could barely make my way to the door. I ran outside in ripped jean shorts and a tank top, and slid into the car. It was a ten-minute drive. I sang with the radio to calm me down. I shouldn’t be nervous. I was going home, after all. Sandra was the one who had to make the four-hour drive. Someone had to stay with mom. She’d been sick, and it didn’t matter where I lived so long as there was an all night diner where I could pour coffee. So, I stayed. Sandra left.

Our old house was on the corner of Cemetery Hill and Anderson Ave. Yeah, we used to live right across the street from a cemetery. It was a pretty cemetery with lots of trees and rolling hills. I liked to wander around in there, putting dandelions on the graves that he been overgrown with weeds. I didn’t know anyone buried there, but some of the headstones were just beautiful – gray slabs of marble, some engraved with flowers and crosses, sketched with names like Angelica and Anne-Marie, long since forgotten and tucked aside, weathering away through the seasons. The cemetery was the one place that never changed. Its hills were always peaceful and dotted with marble slabs pushing up out of the earth - an unlikely beautiful garden of names. My bedroom window looked out onto those hills, and sometimes, I would stare out into the openness, finding comfort in the fact that some places never seemed to change.

I took the turn down our street. For some reason, I got the feeling like I was returning after some long voyage. That the neighborhood wasn’t mine. The welcome sign on our door was crooked, and I fixed it as I stepped inside. Sandra was already up in the attic, and didn’t hear me come in. I’m not sure why, but I took a look around. I had no idea what I was looking for. I felt the need to just walk through the rooms of the home that had once been my own. It was a trance-like walk in which I seemed to be numb, yet sensitive to everything at the same time.

The kitchen counters were cluttered with medicines and pills, and the refrigerator was covered with fruit magnets and drawings that Sandra’s kids had made. I continued through a small hallway to the living room. The smell of mom’s cigarette’s had seeped into the walls, and lingered in the air. Family pictures lined the walls – smiles upon smiles upon smiles - Sandra always in the front, and me, younger but tall and lanky, in the back. Dad’s old rocking chair faced the fireplace. How many times had I sat on Dad’s lap in his chair, falling asleep as we rocked back and forth? How many times had I since longed to hear that creak? And how many times had I returned here, only to feel very different? How odd it is to feel different in a room.

“Hey Mill? That you?”

My sister’s voice commanded. She had a voice that never faltered – one always sure of itself.
“Yeah, I’m comin’!” I shouted toward the steps that led to the attic.

The narrow little staircase was old, and cluttered with pots and pans. I had to step carefully on its rickety old steps, trying not to knock anything down. The wooden door at the top was slightly ajar, and as I opened it, a gush of hot air clung to my skin. I took a step in onto the creaking floorboards, and the overwhelming smell of mothballs and cedar filled my senses.

Sandra sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes.

“How’ve you been?” I said, not having seen or talked to her since the funeral last month.

“Oh, you know, I’ve been all right. Ron and I had the most lovely dinner last night for our anniversary.”

That wasn’t really the answer I was expecting, but I was glad she was doing ok. I looked around, trying to decide what to get into first. Mom had alphabetized everything in the attic, so when I wanted to look for her china dishes, I headed over toward the endless extra coffeepots.

I pulled out the box and took out a single glistening china. The china had been passed down from generation to generation in my family. It was an heirloom that practically had our last name invisibly engraved on it. The dishes had a pretty ivy and holly pattern around the edges. The Christmas table would always look so pretty when decorated with the china. Funny how the aching cracks in the wood never seemed to show on holidays when the dishes were out. They never showed, but I knew they were still there. Underneath the china and pine green table clothe they split the wood like a vein. “It’s amazing the things you can hide,” my mother had said, gleefully smoothing out a wrinkle in the cloth.

I remember the one Christmas I refused to wear a dress for our family pictures. I had wanted to wear my little blue jeans. I was eight or nine at the time. Mom had bought matching red velvet dresses for Sandra and I.

“Milly!” my mother had shouted at me. “You’re going to do this one thing for me whether you like it or not! Sandra likes her dress...why can’t you, Milly?” She had me cornered in my bedroom and was shoving one of my arms into the dress. My father stood outside my room, pounding on the door. “Ellen! Stop it! Just let her wear the pants!” I could hear my sister outside the door, too. “Just put it on Milly!” she pleaded.

As usual, my mother had prevailed. I ended up sitting at the dinner table sulking, trying to pretend I was happy and be pleasant to everyone else in the family. I wouldn’t talk to her, though, that entire day.

“Hey, mom left those dishes to me, Milly.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, gently setting the dish back into the box.

“It’s ok,” she said. “I just wanted you to be careful with ‘em.”

Sandra used to act the same with her toys when we were little. We had the same dolls, the same bed spreads, the same clothes, the same dressers. My parents even made us share a bedroom for twelve years until we built an addition to the house. It was a small room with little space to move around. After a while, my mother gave up, realizing that we were never going to be the same.

Sandra had begun packing up some of mom’s old dresses. She stood in front of the only window in the attic, the sunlight illuminating her strawberry hair and penetrating green eyes. She held one of the dresses up to her body, modeling it in a dusty mirror. It was made of long powder blue satin, with a lacey crème bodice. She twirled around in a circle, listening to the swish of the dress as it danced. I swear she looked just like mom.

“What do you think she was like when she was younger?” Sandra said, swaying gently back and forth like a little princess in a ball gown.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, piling up some empty cardboard boxes.

“I bet she was the most popular girl in the school,” Sandra said, giggling. “Poor dad. He was just the quiet, shy guy in love with the prettiest girl in town.”

“Maybe,” I said, watching her become lost in her little reverie.

“Hey, speaking of dad, why did she ever keep all that stuff?” She pointed to an oak dresser in the far corner. Even after dad passed away, mom still kept all of his shirts, pants, suit coats, and ties. “Maybe the Salvation Army’ll take it.”

“I’ll take care of that stuff Sandra, don’t worry.” There’s no way I’d just give his clothes away. Sandra could take whatever dresses she wanted, she could wear them, sell them, or cut them up into little pieces for all I cared, but she was not going to take dad’s clothes.

“Fine with me,” she said.

She tossed me a winter coat, motioning to the corner. We had piles of things to keep, piles of things to get rid of, and piles of things we had no idea what to do with. And each treasure we came across seemed to carry with it a set of unique associations. Of course, these memories were never remembered the same way, but like I said, Sandra and I never did agree on anything.

“Hey – you remember when mom and dad took us to the Bronx Zoo?” Sandra said. “It was the summer of ’63 or ‘64, I think.” She giggled, sifting through a small cigar box on the floor. “She saved the postcards. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah.” Of course I remembered. Sandra and mom had spent all day in the souvenir shops, while dad and I had walked around to look at the animals.

“Oh, we just want to take a quick look in this shop...you guys go on ahead.” Mom had taken Sandra’s hand, and they had disappeared into the store before my father could even respond. We spent practically that whole day together, just the two of us. He made up stories for each animal that we passed by. The zebras were my favorite and always have been.

“Zebras are the most like people,” he’d said.

“Why Dad?”

He’d taken my hand and put it up to the fence.

“Trace their stripes, honey. No two zebras have the same stripes.”

“Why Dad?” I’d said, mesmerized by the zigzagging lines.

“Just because. God made ‘em that way. Same way he made people. No two are the same.”

“So are we related to the zebra?” I’d said, confused, a swirl of blue cotton candy dangling at my side.

“No, but we’ve got stripes like the zebra. You just can’t see ‘em. But they’re there. Right inside you.”

I blew some dust off the postcard and held it to my chest, closing my eyes, imagining my father was there to make me strong again.

“You think she would have cleaned this place out a long time ago,” Sandra said. “Can you imagine how long it’s going to take to go through all this shit?”

I opened my eyes and watched her looking through some old magazines, gawking at the out of date hairstyles and clothes.

“Jesus Christ, Sandra!” I darted over to the china dishes, took one, and threw it down to the ground; its jagged pieces strewn all over floor. “It’s the least you could do. Who stayed with Mom while she was sick? You were supposed to be her goddam best friend. Not me.” I started to cry, and I turned my back to her, stepping out of the circle of broken glass around me.

Sandra was silent. Then a quiet voice arose.

“Milly, I’m not against your lifestyle, if that’s what you’re still bitter about,” she said.

“Sandra, I just want you stop looking at your goddam self for once.”

We continued to sift through things, but in silence. An uncomfortable silence. After what seemed like an eternity, she came over and stood about a foot away from me, watching me sort through a box of old stationary on the floor. I didn’t look up. She continued to stand there for a few minutes. Then she bent down, until I finally lifted my gaze. She had begun to cry and she quickly reached out for me.

“I miss Mom, Milly,” she said. “The same way you miss Dad. I should have been there with you.”

I looked at my sister, taking note of the dimple in both of our chins, our high cheekbones, our long eyelashes. All we had was one another, and we both knew it. We worked non-stop for the remainder of that afternoon, until almost everything had been cleaned out.

“Hey, you gotta come over here,” Sandra said, wiping the sweat off her brow.

She had found about thirty boxes of mom’s shoes. Some of the last items to go through. All kinds of shoes. Black chunky heels, Velcro sneakers, white flats, red heels with diamonds lacing the strap around the ankle. As kids, we used to parade around in these shoes, pretending to be movie stars, or even mom. Sandra was always better – she could walk in heels without wobbling around. She took out a pair of dressy black heels, stepped out of her own sandals, and slipped her feet in. A perfect match. She looked pretty funny, wearing black heels with a pair of orange shorts and a shirt that said ‘Bermuda,’ but boy did they look good.

“I think I’ll be taking these home with me today,” she said. “They feel great!”

“They look good Sandy.”

“Here, you try these on,” She handed me another pair of heels. “For old time’s sake.”

“All right.”

Reluctantly, I slipped my feet in. I could barely even stand, they pinched my feet so much. My toes were scrunched up against the leather, suffocating in pain, rubbing and burning as I took a step forward.

“Try these Milly,” she said, handing me another pair of heels.

Those hurt even more. I stood there motionless, gazing down at my clumsy feet in mom’s tight red heels. Nothing could have looked more absurd. I yanked them off so my feet could finally breathe again. It felt great to be back in my own sandals. I told Sandra she could take them all home.

And she did. From time to time, I notice the shoes on her. I notice her elegant walk, her delicate poise, the grace with which she moves. I hear the click of her heel on the floor. I see my mother and all she stood for. And from time to time, if I look hard enough, I can see my father staring back at me in the mirror, reminding me of our field of zebras and the beauty of my own stripes.