Chapter 3 - The Weight of Caretaking
The surgery took six hours.
On the day of the procedure, Mom insisted I take time off from my classes at the community college to stay at the clinic. I refused, telling her I had a graded biology lab. In reality, I spent the afternoon in the campus computer lab, researching medical coding certifications and reading contracts for off-campus studio apartments.
When Olivia returned, the family dynamic transformed entirely. The house became an ICU wrapped in grief.
"Clara! Bring the crushed ice!"
Olivia’s voice came through the baby monitor Mom had set up on the kitchen counter. It had been installed three days post-op so Olivia wouldn't have to strain her vocal cords by shouting down the stairs.
I was standing over the stove, reheating soup for Dad, who had started working fifty-hour weeks at his engineering firm to keep up with the surgeon's payment schedule.
I picked up the plastic tumbler of ice and walked upstairs. Olivia's room was completely dark; she had taped black garbage bags over her window blinds because the morning light "made her eyes ache behind her cheekbones."
Her face was swollen to nearly twice its normal width. Heavy splints covered her bridge, held in place by medical tape that ran down onto her cheeks. Purple and yellowish bruising extended from beneath her eyes to the corners of her mouth.
"You took too long," Olivia rasped, grabbing the cup with trembling fingers. "The ice in the bowl was already melting. It has to be freezing cold, otherwise the inflammation will spread to my upper lip."
"It's fresh from the freezer," I said, standing by the door.
She peered at me through the slits of her swollen eyelids. Even through the pain, the old, habitual scrutiny surfaced.
"Why are you wearing that ugly gray shirt?" she whispered, wincing as her upper lip stretched. "You look like a janitor. And your posture is disgusting. If you don't start standing up straight, your shoulders are going to match your face."
A week earlier, that remark might have stung. Today, it sounded like the dying rattle of a spent weapon.
"Drink your water, Olivia," I said softly.
"Mom said you’re working at a warehouse," she continued, her voice thick with disgust. "Are you really? Moving boxes? It’s completely embarrassing. What happens if somebody from my sorority sees you in high-vis vests? People already wonder why we look nothing alike. Now you’re working manual labor like you’re not even part of this family."
"I work at night," I said, stepping toward the door. "Nobody from your sorority is awake at 3:00 AM, Olivia. They’re sleeping. Just like you should be."
"You think you’re so righteous," she hissed, though the effort made her clutch her forehead in agony. "You're just jealous. You've always been jealous. You're happy my nose was broken because for once, people aren't looking at yours."
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
I turned around slowly, looking at her in the dim, stale air of that bedroom. I looked at the swollen tissues, the bloody crusting along the nasal packing, the vanity reduced to desperate, frightened spite.
"I don't think about your nose at all, Olivia," I said, my voice entirely flat. "I think about my rent. I think about my tuition. And right now, I'm thinking about how much sleep I can get before my shift starts at eleven."
"Get out," she whispered, turning her face to the wall.
Downstairs, Mom was waiting at the foot of the steps with a basin of warm water and a washcloth.
"Did you change her ice?" Mom asked, brushing past me without making eye contact.
"Yes."
"She needs her hair braided back loosely so it doesn't tangle in the bandages. Go back up and do it."
"I can't," I said. "I have to leave in forty-five minutes."
Mom stopped on the third step, turning slowly. The resentment in her expression was naked now, stripped of all motherly pretense.
"Your sister is in agony, Clara. You are living under our roof, eating our food, and using our electricity. The very least you can do is help care for your sister during the worst period of her life."
"I paid for my own groceries this week," I said, pointing to the shelf in the pantry where I had placed my marked cans and bread. "And I gave Dad two hundred dollars toward utilities on Friday. I have a receipt."
Mom’s lips thinned into a pale line. "You think you're clever, don't you? With your little bank account and your little night job. You think you’re better than us."
"No," I replied, grabbing my jacket from the hall rack. "I just realized that if I don't build my own life, nobody in this house is going to leave me any room to live it."
May you like
I walked out the door into the cool evening air. Behind me, the baby monitor chimed with Olivia's frantic, petulant call, but I didn't stop walking until the sound was swallowed entirely by the hum of the highway.
---
