About My Sisters (23 page)

They'd park at the beach train station with their Cokes in hand, watch the sunset, and wait for trains to go by. Later, Déja would tell me some of Blaze's stories. He complained to her that school was tough, that his teachers were mean, and that he was generally oppressed. There was substantial embellishment in these tales of woe, and Blaze usually made himself out to be very much the victim. Déja was alarmed at first and asked me if I knew what a terrible time the poor kid was having and what was I doing about it? She was even more alarmed when I laughed it off. He wouldn't get the kind of sympathy from me that he got from her, I told her. My line was always to tell him to do his job at school, to go with the flow and stop complaining. Other family members would tell him more or less the same thing. But with her, Blaze could vent without the possibility of censure. With her, his feelings were validated in a way they couldn't be with me or anyone else. Déja understood this and
settled into the position of sounding board. She took his complaints with a grain of salt, but didn't lecture him.

Most likely inspired by his attendance at almost every one of Déja's performances over the years, Blaze started writing short plays a couple of years ago. His favorite subjects are fairy tales, reinterpreted. Casting these plays with family members is as much fun for him as actually writing them. Every one of his plays turns out to be a star vehicle for Déja. She is Dorothy, Cinderella, and Snow White. The part of the princess never goes to anyone else. Maya, Lavander, and I are most often relegated to the roles of ugly stepsisters or wicked stepmothers (so much for honoring thy mother) and my mother usually gets a fairy godmother or good witch role to play. With protestations, he'll sometimes change the parts a little (like when I refused to play Aunt Em and insisted on Glinda the Good Witch
at least
), but the shining beacon is always Déja, and the prince (a necessary character, but never one with too many lines) is Danny. In Blaze's metaphorically inclined mind, Déja will always be the fairest one of all, a fun-loving, Coke-drinking, peerless princess. Through Blaze's eyes, it's no stretch at all to see Déja this way.

A few years ago, I took Blaze to one of Déja's plays, although I can't remember which now because there have been so many. There was a whole scene before Déja's entrance and so some waiting for the main event as far as Blaze was concerned, but my sidelong glances in the darkened theater showed that he was, if not rapt, at least paying attention. My own attention was fixed half on him and half on the play. It was usually like this when I took him to Déja's performances—I could never be entirely focused on her or the play while Blaze was sitting next to me since I was always anticipating that he'd speak out loudly by accident or demand to go to the bathroom or something similar. With very few exceptions, however, he was remarkably well
behaved at Déja's events. Still, my eyes kept sliding over to his face, just to make sure. This is how I managed to see his expression when Déja made her entrance on the stage. He took a short indrawn breath. The light of adoration came shining through his eyes, brightening his entire face.

“Déja,” he whispered, looking at her, not me, and with that, he said it all:
Look at her. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she just the best thing ever?

And yes, she was.

 

Of all of us, only Lavander has expressed some disappointment that Déja is always the princess in Blaze's mental fairy tales. She came out with it a few weeks ago when we were all gathered at a family dinner at her house. Blaze was upstairs in her bedroom, watching one of the DVDs she keeps on hand for him. The rest of us were gathered around her dining room table. We were talking about how comfortable her house was and how neat and clean. Lavander is the only person in our family to have a candy dish in her living room and guest towels in her bathroom. She is also the only person in whose house one has to search for the trash since it's always so well hidden away.

“I don't know why we don't come here more often,” Maya said. “It's so nice here.”

“And Lavander's such a good hostess,” my mother added.

“Mmm,” I said. “This is what my house would look like if I didn't live with people who don't notice when the floors or windows are dirty. And Blaze doesn't make a mess in your house, I see. He loves it here.”

“Yes, but he wouldn't want to come if Déja wasn't here,” Lavander said. “Déja, the princess. Who can compete with that?” Her tone was playful, but there was an element of seriousness in her comment.

“Please,” I said, “you're hardly alone there. I have to play the wicked stepsister. And I'm his
mother
.”

“Hmm,” Lavander said, unconvinced.

“It's not true, you know,” Maya told Lavander. “He's crazy about you. As we were pulling up, Blaze said, ‘I can't
wait
to see Lavander.' He was so excited. Didn't he?” Maya looked over at me.

“He did,” I nodded, wishing I'd remembered a fraction of a second earlier so that I could have told her that. It was the kind of thing one couldn't hear too often and the kind of thing that didn't get said often enough.

“Did he?” Lavander said, her eyes filling with quick tears. “Did he really?”

“Yes,” I said. “He loves spending time with you.”

I think about the truth of this now. Blaze does relish his time with Lavander, but the quality of it and his relationship with her is very different from what he has with Déja. Occasionally, Blaze and Déja get into minor skirmishes over plans (Blaze insists on a free-form approach with Déja and gets bent out of shape when she has specific errands to run or places to be), but, as a rule, the time they spend together is about
fun,
pure and simple. Déja keys into whatever mood Blaze is in and lets him set the tone. She doesn't demand specific behavior from him and is always fiercely protective of his right to express himself in any way he wants. She wouldn't dream of asking him to accompany her on a trip to the mall, for example (retail clothing stores are Blaze's equivalent of hell's inner circle) or even taking a route that he doesn't like. She indulges him, in other words, and this suits Blaze just fine. Lavander, on the other hand, presents another kettle of fish altogether. In a way, I feel that the time he spends with her is the most important for him in terms of how well he presents himself to the world outside the protective shell of his family.

For a variety of reasons, Lavander was never a designated baby-sitter for Blaze when he was little. Most of these had to do with the fact that there were several other family members willing to pick up this particular slack when needed. Lavander has never been the stay-at-home type anyway and, by the time Blaze was born, she'd gotten her driver's license and was out all the time. This is not to say that she didn't see him often, but when she did, there were always plenty of other people around. Only in the last few years have the two of them started spending time alone together. As a result, Lavander has never perceived Blaze as a baby and has never offered the same kinds of indulgences that Déja, Maya, or I do. She expects a certain level of maturity from him as well. The funny thing is that she, and only she, gets that level consistently. In her case, Blaze is the protective one and he wants to rise to her expectations.

Early on, Blaze started doing things with Lavander that he wouldn't consider doing with anyone else. He's been known to take out her trash and help her clean her house, for example. When Lavander first got her real estate license and was trying to drum up business, Blaze went with her door to door as she dropped off business cards. This wasn't a chore for him, it was an activity he actually looked forward to and he'd call her asking when they could go “carding” together. And then there is the shopping. With Lavander, Blaze will spend an entire afternoon running errands, rifling though linens and kitchen supplies without a complaint. He'll go with her to Target, a store so far off his list I can't even mention it without a hue and cry from him about how I am never to even entertain the possibility that he will darken its door. I want to stress here that if there were
any
other family members involved in these activities, Blaze would revert to his usual pattern of refusal, but with Lavander alone, he is always willing—and happy—to go.

I've wondered about why Blaze is so willing to modify his routines with Lavander and it's true that she simply expects it from him, but there's more to it than that. I've held up the same kinds of expectations and he just ignores them. Lavander has always treated Blaze like a young adult and that is something that none of the rest of us can claim. So, during the time he spends with Lavander, Blaze becomes that young adult.

Blaze has never been an indicator of what is “in” or trendy with his peers and so I've been constantly out of touch with what's happening in his social milieu. He's never wanted to dress a certain way, participate in sports, or requested the kinds of video games that have been popular at any given point. As a result, I don't know what's in or out or even what is considered “normal” out there.

But Lavander does.

Lavander has always had an innate sense of what's in fashion in every social arena. Perhaps even more important, she knows what's out, when it went out, and why. This a real and very valuable talent. It's as if she holds a set of blueprints to the maze that is social interaction. Of course, what one does when one is actually wandering around in that maze is a matter of individual style and personality. Still, I've always thought that knowing the shape and color of the social structure offers an important leg up to understanding how to
be
in the world, without compromising one's individuality. In other words,
in
it but not
of
it. Lavander is way ahead of the rest of us in this respect. And this is why what she gives to Blaze is so significant.

There are the little things:

“Debra, how can you let him wear those swim trunks? He looks like an old man.”

“But there's nothing wrong with them.”

“They're awful. Here, I bought some new ones for him. All the surfers wear these and he's going to look great in them.”

“Okay.”

“And I can't believe he's still wearing those shoes. Those things haven't been in style for, like, ten years. Kids get picked on for things like this, you know.”

“He doesn't get picked on.”

“How do you know?”

“I'd know.”

“But how do you know what people are
saying
?”

After taking his considerations into account, I consult Lavander on almost all the clothes I buy for Blaze. If she approves, I know I've gotten it right. And it's not just the clothes. Lavander was the one who bought Blaze a handheld Nintendo and then a Playstation and introduced him to video games—something that “every other kid his age is into.”

Then there are the bigger things. It was Lavander who took Blaze to the go-cart track so he could practice driving, something he obviously wasn't going to get from me. The go-cart “experience,” as I like to call it now, happened just recently and gave me much insight into the nature of their relationship. The two of them went off, happily enough, with a friend of Lavander's who has two small boys of her own. A couple of hours later, Lavander called me from her car.

“Look, there was a small accident,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn't know that Blaze wouldn't be able to handle the go-carts,” she said. “I mean, nobody told me or anything.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, starting to get worried.

“He doesn't know how to handle those things. He was going way too fast and then he couldn't steer. People were yelling and he crashed into the side. He hurt his knee—but it's okay, we bandaged it up—I'm sorry, okay? Don't be angry at me—I didn't know….” I could hear Blaze muttering something in the background. “No, I'm not going to tell her that,” Lavander said to him in response.

“I don't care if he banged his knee,” I said. “Big deal. He's not bleeding or unconscious or in the emergency room, right? So he got a scrape—why are you so upset?”

“Because I'm worried you're going to be pissed at me for taking him somewhere dangerous.”

“It's a
go-cart
,” I said. “That's not dangerous. Skydiving is dangerous.”

“Well, I…Look, I'm pulling into your driveway now. Don't freak out when you see his knee.”

I hung up the phone just as Blaze was walking in the front door. “Look at my knee!” he shouted by way of greeting. I inspected the damage, which was really quite minor and had already been well dressed and bandaged.

“Looks okay,” I told him. “What's the big fuss about?”

“Aren't you mad at Lavander?” he asked me.

“No, of course not. I'm not mad at anyone. So you hurt your knee. Next time you'll do better, right?”

“Next time?” He was puzzled. “You'll let me go again?”

“Yes, that's how you learn,” I told him. I went out to find Lavander, who hadn't even come into the house. She was sitting in her car, ready to leave and visibly upset.

“I don't understand why you're so freaked out about this,” I told her. “I really don't care that he banged his knee a little, you know. It's good for him. Next time, he'll be more careful.”

“Next time?” she said, incredulous. “Oh no, I'm not taking him back there again. Are you kidding?”

“But why not?” I asked her. “Who better to take him driving? Or practice driving anyway?”

“I'm really worried about him,” she said then. “How's he ever going to be able to drive? He was so uncoordinated. He had no idea what he was doing. I mean, this should just come naturally, you know. If you could have seen him…”