“Sorry I no comprende the Engli.”
“No, still no comprende.”
I loved her and sometimes would hang around the store waiting for her cookies.
“Yaah, yaah… Ahhh. Windmills! Clogs! Ahhh!” shaking our heads in unison and phony relief.
“My breasts are she’s a floating,” I would blurt, arms forward, swatting at nothing. Caryn would typically be feeling around in the clearance bin, gathering a kind of fake frustration. “Ahh, no good vezenstarch!”
Caryn would then approach me, arms outstretched, zombie-style.
In this commotion I saw her jam some bikini underwear down her pants. A saleslady approached us.
“Are you okay?”
“Ezenztezin. Yah, gazentite.”
Caryn came to my side and we huddled together, holding in laughter as the crowd stared. Here, I thought I owed them a way out.
“Viva la douche!” I said, switching to a French accent, “Viva la douche!” raising our arms in victory, as if to say, all is fine. We had left the lingerie department a mess, but we both shared this sense of entitlement, that we could do what we wanted in K-mart, to make up for all those awful peanut runs.
We had gone to K-Mart to get my sister a cheap blow dryer, but had long forgotten. Which was ultimately okay because she doesn’t have any hair anyway.
My sister doesn’t visit much anymore. She moved to the beach a couple years ago; and the drive got to be too much, particularly since she started having seizures behind the wheel.
The seizure diagnosis, while causing great panic within my family, especially my mother, who wails hysterically from her remote island off Seattle, like somehow this would cure my sister, did finally explain things. For example, Caryn and I would be walking down a busy street and she would randomly drift into a busy intersection, causing complete chaos, then turn around as though nothing happened. “I know, I don’t like Coldplay either.”
She never remembered any of it. They were mini blackouts and no one actually addressed this behavior. I can’t speak for others, like her friends or Starbucks co-workers, but for my own part, I thought she was distracted, odd, like the rest of the family. But somehow I was to blame. Mom and Caryn concluded all of this was my fault. Maybe because I was the biggest asshole.
So, now she can’t drive of course, unless she goes on heavy medication which she refuses to take because of the weight gain.
“I’d rather be thin and never leave the house, than fat and social.”
Thus, I don’t see her anymore. I do miss her and our shenanigans. And it’s possible that is why I keep up my hearing impaired act so insistently with Muhammad.
Rhonda Talbot weighing in on sisters, seizers, family matters, theft, fake disabilities and well, weird.