Brain-d

You’re so pale, my mother says. You want some lipstick, baby? How about some lipstick?

She fumbles through the contents of her purse.

Mary sits in the corner of my room, slumped in the orange chair, text messaging. There’s a word for what she is. That word is bored, apathetic, my sister.

I feel the lipstick. Goes on thickly like a crayon.

There. That’s better. Isn’t that better?

Like this, my mother says. Her lips disappear, then reappear. The lipstick smears, but only on her lips.

I want to play that game with my mouth, but I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t.

My mother sighs. The same sigh she makes when she drops a carton of eggs on the floor. When she wants something to work and it won’t.

She makes a face like a fish and kisses my cheek.

You look so pretty. Doesn’t she look so pretty, Mary?

Yes, Mary says without looking up.

Look, my mother says. Mary, look at your sister. Doesn’t she look pretty?

Mary glances up. Her eyes say it all, Brain-d. Brain-damaged. Sure, Mary says.

The same story told again and again can only mean something.

* * *

My father and brother wait for us in the cafeteria.

I can walk, but I’m in a wheelchair. It makes people feel better when they help, even if you don’t need their help. That’s why I’m riding in the wheelchair.

Hello there, my father says. He pats me roughly on the head.

Notice anything different? says my mother.

My father looks at me. A haircut?

She’s wearing lipstick, Mary says.

Oh my, my father says. That’s why you look nice. Doesn’t your sister look nice, Buck?

I’m starved, says Buck.

Buck and Mary get the food. I can get my own food, but it’s Saturday and on Saturdays, I’m sitting in a wheelchair.

Thanks, son, my father says when Buck brings him a tray. Son is what my father calls Buck while lifting weights, while throwing knives, while shooting deer.

He has never called me daughter.

We pray. The same prayer said again and again can only mean something.

You had a great-uncle. Uncle Nig, my father says. You know what Nig was short for, don’t you?

Yes, Mary says.

He tells us anyway.

Old Nig was a real son of a bitch, my father says. Once he was out at the lake and there were some guys yelling at him from the other side, giving him a hard time. So you know what Nig did?

Yes, Mary says.

Shut up, Buck says.

Mary smacks Buck in the back of the head. You shut up.

Buck smacks her back.

Mom, Mary says.

My mother is feeding me mashed potatoes. I can feed myself, but it’s Saturday and on Saturdays, I open wide.

Don’t hit your sister, says my mother.

She hit me first, Buck says.

Brain-d, says Mary. I swear I don’t know what I’m doing here with all these retards when I could be hanging out with my friends.

Enough, my mother says to Mary. Good girl, she says to me.

So Nig was out at the lake and there were some guys yelling at him from the other side, giving him a hard time. So you know what Nig did? He swam across the river and beat them up. Kicked their ass.

Buck laughs. That’s hella dope.

* * *

I am back in my room, in my bed, alone with my mother, who is tucking me in.

Mary and Buck are with my father, waiting in the car.

Usually I watch TV in the lounge after lunch, but it’s Saturday and on Saturdays, I take a nap.

It makes my mother feel better to tuck me in and so I let her.

But that’s not the truth. It makes me feel better to let my mother tuck me in and so I let her.

My mother smoothes the blanket on my legs and pulls it up to my chin. She sits on the edge of my bed. You’re a good girl, she says. A sweet girl.

I remember when you were little. Before the accident. Can you remember before? When it was just you and me while Daddy was stationed in Kuwait?

I look at my mother. I try to make my eyes say yes.

You had all these imaginary friends. Mary and Buck weren’t born yet. I think you must have been lonely. And I was worried about you. Worried that you had all these imaginary friends and what that might mean. But then there was a little girl in your preschool class who had cancer and she died. The same day she died, you came home and announced all your imaginary friends had died and you never brought them up again.

It’s funny now, my mother says. It’s funny to think what I used to worry about.

My mother’s palm is warm on my cheek.

Mother, I say, In my dreams, I see a man, a red-faced vet in a wheelchair. Outside a liquor store. No one is paying any attention, but me. The man has no legs. Thighs only. Nothing below the knee. But his stumps are sticking out. He’s wearing cut-off, denim shorts. And he’s laughing. Red-faced and laughing because there’s a dog licking his stumps. Mother, when the dog is licking the man’s stumps is how I feel when I am alone with you on Saturdays, when you tuck me in, when you love me for what I once was.

But that’s not the truth. I make noises, not words. I make noises that sadden my mother.

I love you anyway, my mother says. Even if you can’t understand, I love you anyway.

When my mother leaves, she always turns out the light.

The same story told again and again.