1
I was afraid to wake up my dad. He was stretched out on the couch in his den, late afternoon, his brown loafers kicked off on the shag carpet, resting on each other like rabbits. ‘This better be good, Amy.’
He never used my full name. It was Aim or A, or Acorn, Bun, or Bunny.
By the time he reached Ollie, she was soaked in blood.
Ollie had dared me to jump on the couch with her. Using the thick cushions as a trampoline, she made a swishing sound as she jumped, touching the ceiling and dunking an imaginary basketball. Only when she took a jump shot from the side, not realizing the power in her legs, she crashed into the picture window behind the couch. For a second there was silence, then the window splintered into a web of shards that rained down on my sister. She shook her head, and pieces of glass flung like water from a summer sprinkler. She froze in place, afraid to take a step or move. Tiny spots of blood blossomed from beneath her shirt and pants.
My father told me to call 911 for an ambulance, then soothed Ollie with his deep voice. ‘It’s going to be OK, honey. Stay still.’
Ollie hadn’t moved a millimeter, knowing that doing so would push the shards of glass deeper into her skin. Now in partial shock, she couldn’t speak. Later she joked that she looked like a giant tampon, but just then her wit was on hold. Our mother was away on a bridge cruise through the fjords with her friends. The pamphlet for the trip was on the kitchen counter with all her contact numbers, should we need to reach her. In the long minutes before the ambulance arrived, I suggested we call her. My father vetoed the idea.
‘Let her have her fun.’
The EMS crew arrived, stopping short when they saw her.
‘Whoa,’ the woman EMT said.
‘Shit,’ the guy said, then, ‘Pardon my French.’
The woman slid her hands under Ollie’s armpits while the man cut her shirt off from the back. As usual, Ollie wasn’t wearing a bra, and my father left the room. While the woman held Ollie up, the man plucked glass from her back. She was silent as they lifted her onto the stretcher. The woman covered Ollie’s front with a white sheet. Faintly, then vividly, red slashes soaked through like hash marks. I heard her moan, and they gave her a shot. I started to climb into the ambulance, but the man waved me away and pulled the door closed. Dad started up the car and said I should wait at home, hold down the fort.
I took out the broom and dustpan, the upright kind I used for a game I called Movies. I’d scatter garbage on the floor and sweep it up while complaining with my imaginary ushers about the customers and the sticky floor. The current situation presented more of a challenge. The couch and carpet were covered in shards, shavings, and glass dust. I upgraded to the vacuum. My mother was proud of her new Electrolux cannister; like a dachshund on wheels, the vacuum followed her around as she made her way through thehouse. It did a good job on the glass dust, but the hose started to buck with the bigger pieces. A puff of black smoke belched from the grid at the back of the vacuum, followed by the smell of burnt plastic.
I called the hospital but couldn’t get through. It was getting dark, and I started to panic. Here I was again, on the sideline of another crisis Ollie created, staged, and starred in. My sister was possibly bleeding to death, while my mother dealt another hand of bridge against a backdrop of majestic fjords. The brochure showed a lavish buffet, a room filled with animated card players, a sunset, and a moonrise. I wanted to call her, but I knew my father was right. Except it wasn’t about letting her have her fun; he knew she would make matters worse.
Dad returned from the hospital later that evening. There was blood on his sleeve. He hugged me hard and said Ollie was going to be fine; the cuts bled a lot, but they were largely superficial. I started to cry, and he hugged me again and told me not to worry. I wanted to lash out: why hadn’t he called? How could he have left me? But I didn’t want him to think that I was more worried about myself than about Ollie. He said he needed sustenance, which meant a trip to Chuck’s Steakhouse, a martini straight up with olives and a porterhouse, rare.
I loved to police the people in line at Chuck’s salad bar, observing how well they adhered to the honor system. When it was my turn, I’d make a show of using the correct tongs to take my fair share from each container, while Ollie would plunge the same tongs into every container, heaping coleslaw on her plate, then olives, and a stockpile of croutons on top. It wasn’t a crime, but it stood for everything I couldn’t stand about her.
The waiter took our order, and my father debriefed me. He said Ollie would stay in the hospital overnight; they had given her some strong stuff for the pain. A plastic surgeon had been called in to assess the damage. Her back was the worst, he said, but the scarring would be minimal. Not a single shard of glass had touched her face.
‘You’re a very pretty girl,’ the surgeon said. ‘You’re lucky.’
When Ollie came home the next day, she let me apply Neosporin on the deeper cuts on her back. I carefully traced each one with a worm of ointment.
‘Can’t you speed it up?’
I was too slow and met
