Read My Sister's Voice Online

Authors: Mary Carter

My Sister's Voice (29 page)

BOOK: My Sister's Voice
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The Hotel Chelsea. 222 West Twenty-third Street. It was a sign. Monica had seen a fascinating documentary on the Hotel Chelsea, and it was on her list of places to visit. Elegant old bricks standing since the late 1800s. A colorful history to boot. Bob Dylan composed songs here and Allen Ginsberg waxed philosophical with other poets within her walls. Dylan Thomas is said to have died of alcohol poisoning here, and Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols stabbed and killed Nancy Spungen in room 100. Monica’s little plan paled in comparison. It was the perfect place for a budding artist to make a statement. She walked into the hotel with the cans still in her arms.
A spiral staircase rose from floor to ceiling, drawing Monica’s eye to the artwork depicting the hotel, staged up and down the wall behind the turning steps.
Perfect,
Monica thought,
I’m spiraling out of control.
She approached the front desk.
She pointed to her ears and shook her head. She gestured, wanting a pen. The man behind the counter eyed her paint cans, but gave her a notepad and pens.
My carrying case broke,
Monica wrote.
I paint theatrical backgrounds. I need a nap before I go back to the theatre. Single room, please.
With lots of wall space, she thought. His face remained still, only his protruding eyes flicking from her to the computer screen in front of him. He slid her a form and she filled out Lacey’s name and e-mail. He showed her the total on the computer screen. She paid in cash. He handed her the key and pointed up the spiral stairs. The entire transaction was completed without uttering a word.
 
The room was simple but beautiful: a white four-poster bed, a fireplace with an ornate mantel, salmon-colored walls. Modern touches as well: a round glass coffee table, a plasma TV mounted to the wall. She couldn’t do it to this beautiful room, could she?
Go home, go home, go home....
First she sprayed it on the far wall in black. Then she sprayed it above the bed in red. She sprayed it underneath the window in silver. The fumes were suffocating, but she’d been unable to open the windows. Did they keep them locked so people couldn’t leap to their death? She stepped into the bathtub (what a nice pedestal tub; she should come back sometime and enjoy it) and tried to pry open the little window behind the shower. She was in luck; after considerable effort it opened a crack. She leaned forward and tried to suck in the outdoor air. It was only slightly better than the paint fumes. She looked around the bathroom. It too could use some spray paint.
She brought in the can of blue. Repetition was the mother of invention? Or master of invention? What did it even mean? Repetition leads to new inventions? So far she wasn’t learning anything new, wasn’t convincing herself of anything, she just couldn’t stop writing it. Maybe soon she’d feel it, get under her sister’s skin, really know how she felt when she said it. She’d never know if she had any artistic talent or not. This was hardly painting. It was just writing with paint. She surveyed the walls. Everywhere was written on.
 
She was so dizzy. She could barely read the label on her bottle of pills. Monica Bowman. She would just take three. Three would let her sleep. The ceiling was spinning. Her eyelids were heavy. Suddenly, the shadows above her looked like trees. They were the woods behind her house. She could hear two little girls singing. She smiled as she watched them hold hands, identical raven-haired girls singing.
Sweet,
Monica thought.
They’re so sweet.
One of the girls was gripping the other’s hand very tight. The farther they got into the woods, the little girl singing the loudest pulled her hand away.
“No!” Monica heard herself say out loud. Or did she? Maybe she shouldn’t have taken three pills. Or was it six? Three for herself, three for Lacey? The little girl who pulled her hand away was skipping ahead. She had something else to occupy her, a plastic toy horse. The other little girl started to cry. She ran after the girl with the blue plastic horse, hands outstretched.
“Mine,” Monica heard one of the girls say. “Mine.” They were playing tug-of-war. It wasn’t so sweet now. Back and forth they tugged, tears and screams from both girls now. Where was their mother?
“No,” Monica cried. She felt her big hand join the hand of the little girl who had managed to yank the horse away from the other. The other was reaching for it, she was going to take it back. Monica felt her hand raise in sync with the little girl’s, the front leg of the blue plastic horse tilted back as if rearing up. Then it went black.
What happened? What’s with the screaming?
There she is, the mother. Oh, that look on her face. Her mouth open in horror, her hands clasped over her own ears, two little girls on the ground, one with a blue plastic horse sticking out of her ear. The mother grabbed the little girl on the ground. Blood pooled around the toy horse and spilled down the little girl’s cheek.
Monica woke in a sweat. It was just a dream, it was just a dream. Wasn’t it? Oh God. She felt like she was going to be sick. It couldn’t have been real. In the dream, Lacey was singing and babbling and—
Lacey was singing and babbling. Lacey could hear. Until Monica stabbed her in the ear with the horse.
Monica tried to scream again, for real this time. She couldn’t find her voice.
I’m the reason Lacey is deaf. I’m the reason they separated us.
It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t, it couldn’t, it couldn’t.
Monica sat straight up and reached for the bottle of pills.
Chapter 32
L
acey checked her BlackBerry again. An hour had gone by and Monica still hadn’t answered the text. Lacey’s feeling that something was wrong was stronger than ever. She opened her e-mail to send Alan a quick message, when another message caught her eye. It was from the Hotel Chelsea in New York City.
Welcome to the Hotel Chelsea. We hope you are enjoying your stay. Do you have a few minutes to complete our quick customer satisfaction survey? ...
Lacey had never stayed at the Hotel Chelsea in New York City. She hovered the mouse over the message to delete it. Something made her stop. That feeling again, that something was wrong with Monica, came back full force.
Lacey got up from her easels and walked into the living area to find Mike. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at his phone.
“Would Monica ever hurt herself?” he asked when he saw Lacey.
“What’s going on?” Lacey asked. He showed her his phone.
First text:
It’s all my fault. Tell her it’s my fault.
Second text:
I’m so sorry.
Third text:
I’m so sleepy.
Lacey motioned for Mike to follow and they ran over to her computer. She showed him the e-mail from the Hotel Chelsea. He held his hand out in confusion.
“Not me,” Lacey said.
“You tried texting her?” Mike asked. Lacey held up her BlackBerry.
“She won’t answer.”
“Something’s definitely wrong, then,” Mike said. “She worships you. She would answer.” Mike took out his phone. Lacey watched him dial 4-1-1 and ask for the number to the Hotel Chelsea. Lacey waited as he made the call. Lacey shook her head when Mike asked for Monica Bowman.
“Lacey Gears,” Mike corrected himself. “She’s Deaf?” he said. “Actually, she’s not. Please, just ring her room. Just do it!” Mike counted as the phone rang. When he reached six, Lacey tapped him.
“Tell front desk 9-1-1,” Lacey said. “Hurry.”
 
The phone was ringing. She counted them, there were six. Someone should really answer that. She was so heavy, but not quite asleep. Funny, because she’d taken enough to put her to sleep, hadn’t she? Her head was pounding, or was it the door? She couldn’t move.
“Open up,” a man’s voice yelled. “I was told I needed to call 9-1-1. Either answer the door or I’m coming in.”
The nice man sounds nice, man,
Monica thought.
I wonder who he’s mad at. He shouldn’t get mad at the little things.
Getting mad at the little things wasn’t good for your health. Getting mad at the little things wasn’t recommended in
The Architect of Your Soul.
Still, Monica understood how the poor man felt. She was upset about something earlier too. Only now she couldn’t remember why. What was it about?
“Jesus Christ,” she heard the man say. He sounded closer now. “She spray painted the freakin’ walls,” the man said. “She’s swallowed a whole bottle of pills! Jesus. Call it in.”
Who spray painted the walls? Who swallowed a bottle of pills? Why were they in her room? They should be taking care of the poor person.
Monica didn’t hear anymore. Everything went black.
 
“She spray painted the walls,” Mike said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They said she wrote
Go Home
all over the place.” Lacey slapped her hand over her mouth. “Let’s go,” Mike said. “She’s at Beth Israel hospital. They say she’ll be okay, but I want to be there—I don’t know about you—”
“I’m coming,” Lacey said.
“What about her parents? Her—boyfriend?” Mike seemed to have a hard time getting the words out of his mouth.
“She broke up with Joe,” Lacey said.
“Okay,” Mike said. “We’ll wait and call whoever Monica wants us to.” Lacey sent Alan a text on her way to Mike’s car. She prayed he wasn’t going to be mad she was going with Mike. But he offered to drive, and even though she could probably make it there faster on her motorcycle, she was too upset to be speeding. After all, this was all her fault. None of this would have ever happened if it hadn’t been for her. And there was now no denying what deep down she’d known all along. There must be a bond between twins. Because Lacey’s heart was breaking as if it weren’t her own.
 
“I’m sorry,” the nurse behind the counter said. “She’s resting. Unless you’re family—” Lacey stuck her face in front of the woman and pointed to herself.
“Oh my,” the nurse said. “You’re twins.”
Lacey’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes,” Lacey said. “Twins.” The nurse said Lacey could see her. Lacey took out her pad and pen.
Gift shop?
The nurse drew a little map on the piece of paper and pointed down the corridor.
Lacey stood irresolute in the middle of the gift shop. She didn’t know what to buy. Flowers? A teddy bear? With each item she picked up, she was at a bigger loss. None of them said “I’m sorry.” None of them said “This wasn’t your fault.” The responsibility for what happened to them as children lay squarely on their parents’ shoulders. Lacey could buy every present in the store and it wouldn’t give them what they really deserved: twenty-five years of their lives back. She settled on a bouquet of flowers and a mug. It said: Y
OU
C
AN
K
ID
THE
W
ORLD
. B
UT
N
OT
Y
OUR
S
ISTER
.
Lying in the hospital bed, with the covers snug against her, eyes closed to the world, Monica looked so helpless, so frail. Lacey pulled up a chair and simply watched her. Her eyes were moving behind shut lids, she was dreaming. Did they have similar dreams?
“You’re beautiful,” Lacey signed. “I’m sorry.” Lacey snuck her hand underneath the covers and took her sister’s hand in hers. They said she hadn’t taken the entire bottle of pills, that it may not have been a true suicide attempt. The paint fumes had led to dizziness that may have made her confused about how many she had taken. Still, Lacey knew it wasn’t completely accidental, just like writing
Go Home
all over the walls wasn’t by accident. This was a new and bewildering experience, having someone need you, but there was no doubt about it, Monica needed her. Her BlackBerry buzzed. It was Alan.
Lacey. Where are you? Are you okay? Is Monica okay?
I’m at the hospital. She’s sleeping. They pumped her stomach.
Are you okay?
Yes. I love you.
I love you too.
Someone touched her on the shoulder, and Lacey jumped, almost dropping her BlackBerry in the process. A nurse, a doctor, and a woman dressed in black stood behind her.
“This is Dr. Barns,” the nurse said. The woman in black interpreted. “He’s the psychiatrist. He wonders if he can speak with you?”
“Of course,” Lacey said.
“This way,” Dr. Barns said.
On the short walk to the doctor’s office, the interpreter introduced herself to Lacey and they chatted briefly. Her name was Melanie, she was one of the interpreters on staff in the hospital. Soon they were sitting in a small office covered in plants.
“I’m sorry for the circumstances which bring us here today,” Dr. Barns said. Lacey kept quiet. “I’m preparing your sister for admission to our psychiatric unit,” he added. “And I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about her history. Has she attempted suicide before?”
“I thought they said the paint fumes made her dizzy,” Lacey said. “This may not have been a suicide attempt at all.”
“Has your sister spray painted hotel walls before? Is this a pattern of acting out with her?”
“I think that was the first,” Lacey said. She didn’t like the doctor. And he certainly wasn’t locking Monica up here. “I’d like to take her home instead,” Lacey said. “I can take care of her.”
“Are you two very close?” the doctor asked.
“We’re twins,” Lacey said.
“Yes, identical twins, I can see that. But that doesn’t really answer my question now, does it?”
“You can’t imagine how close we are,” Lacey said. She sat back and smiled at the doctor. There. She wasn’t sure exactly how the interpreter phrased it, but word for word she wasn’t exactly lying.
“It’s standard procedure to admit any patients who have attempted to harm themselves into the psychiatric unit for evaluation. If this proves to be an isolated incident and a case of vandalism and—dizziness—as you say, then she will be released in twenty-four hours. I’m not here to debate where she goes next, Ms. Bowman—”
“Gears.”
“Mrs. Gears—”
“Ms. Gears.”
The psychiatrist stopped, looked at her. “I’m simply trying to get an idea of her history from you.”
“It’s our parents’ fault,” Lacey said. “They suck.”
“I see.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Have you contacted them?”
“Did I not just say they sucked? That they were to blame?”
“Is that a no?” the doctor asked. He took off his glasses, rubbed his nose, and stared at the interpreter. Lacey slammed her hands on the desk and stood.
“Are you an idiot?”
“Ms. Gears, I will not tolerate name-calling.”
“I just said our parents are the reason my sister is lying in a hospital bed and you ask if I’d called them.”
The doctor turned to the interpreter.
“Is this normal behavior for a Deaf person or is she over-animated?” he asked her.
“Excuse me?” Lacey said.
“You weren’t supposed to interpret that,” the doctor said to the interpreter. “Stop signing. I’m talking to you, Melanie, I’m not talking to her.” Lacey crossed her arms and glared as Dr. Barns continued his futile attempt to persuade the interpreter to have a nonsigned conversation about Lacey right in front of her face. Lacey didn’t care how she was going to do it, but Monica was getting out of this hospital.
“When will she be admitted?”
“We should have a bed ready in a few hours,” Dr. Barns said.
“Fine,” Lacey said. “And where do I file a complaint?”
Dr. Barns stood.
“A complaint?”
“Yes. I find your behavior despicable,” Lacey said. “And discriminatory.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. You can speak to someone in the visitors’ lobby, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Lacey said.
Lacey tried not to run all the way back to the room. Monica was still sleeping. According to the nurse, she could wake at any time and other than feeling tired and pangs from her stomach being pumped, she shouldn’t be in any physical danger. She found Mike sitting next to her bed.
“I lied,” Mike said. “I said I was your brother.”
Lacey winked.
“Welcome to the family,” she said. “Now help me wake her up.”
An hour later, Lacey and Mike walked out of the hospital. On their way past the nurses’ desk, the nurse called out to them.
“How is your sister?” the nurse asked, half yelling, half over-enunciating. Mike pretended to sign the question to Lacey, who responded.
“She’s still resting,” Mike interpreted. “We’ll be back after a bite to eat.”
“They’ll be checking her into the psychiatric unit while you’re gone,” the nurse said. “So when you come back, you should go to the ninth floor.” Mike interpreted again; Lacey smiled at the nurse and gave a thumbs-up.
“Thank you,” Mike said. “We’ll do that.”
 
A few minutes later, Lacey walked past the nurses’ station again. This time she was alone. The nurse said something to her. Lacey pointed to her ears and shrugged. She walked on, but as she neared a pair of glass double doors, she could see the reflection of the nurse behind her, frantically waving her arms. Lacey stopped and waited as the nurse ran over with a piece of paper. She shoved it at Lacey.
BOOK: My Sister's Voice
13.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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