Sisters

She sat down on her bed and sighed. She didn't even have any tears left. She was totally wrung out, and just grateful Annie was still alive, and hopefully would stay that way. She had a headache from crying all day. “She's blind. They can't fix it or do anything about it. If she lives, she will always be blind.” There was nothing else she could say. She just looked at him with the depths of her sorrow for Annie. It seemed bottomless and without measure. She couldn't imagine any kind of life for Annie without sight, or what would happen to her now. A blind artist? How cruel was that?

“My God…what does one do with that? I guess it's a gift that she's alive, but she may not look at it that way.” He looked as devastated as Sabrina felt.

“I know. It scares me. She's going to need a lot of support.” He nodded. That was an understatement.

“When are you going to tell your dad and Candy?”

“Tomorrow. We just couldn't face it tonight. It was too much, for all of us,” she said sadly. They hadn't even had time to properly mourn their mother, they were too worried about Annie. But maybe that was a blessing in its own way.

“But you know anyway, poor baby,” Chris said about Annie's eyes, and then took Sabrina in his arms and held her. He put her to bed as though she were a child, which was just what she needed. It was as though overnight she and Tammy had become the parents. Her mother was gone, her father was falling apart, and her sister was blind. And she and Tammy were carrying it all on their shoulders. With one single moment and act of fate, their whole family had been struck down, and nothing would ever be the same again. For Annie most of all, if she survived, which wasn't sure yet either. Nothing was anymore.

Sabrina fell asleep in Chris's arms, and had never been so grateful for any human in her life, except her mother. But Chris was a close second, and he cradled her and comforted her all night. She knew she would never forget it, and would be grateful to him forever.

She, Chris, and Tammy got up early the next morning. He cooked breakfast while the girls showered and got ready to go to the funeral parlor. Candy and their father were still asleep. Chris took care of the dogs, and was waiting at the breakfast table with scrambled eggs and bacon and English muffins. He told them they had to eat to stay strong. Sabrina had called the hospital as soon as she got up, and they said that Annie had had a good night and was doing well, though still heavily sedated so she didn't move too much and jostle her brain so soon after the surgery. They were going to start reducing the sedation the next day. She and Tammy were planning to go back and see her, but they had so much to do first, and all the “arrangements” to make. Tammy said she had always hated that word, and all that it implied, and even more so now.

They went to the funeral home and were back in two hours. They had done all the awful things they had expected, chosen a casket, funeral programs, mass cards, a room to hold “visitation” in, where their friends could come to visit the night before the funeral. There was no “viewing” because it was a closed casket, nor a rosary, because their mother was Catholic but not religious. The girls had decided to keep things simple, and their father had been enormously relieved to let them make the decisions. He couldn't bear the thought of doing it himself. They both looked pale and tired when they came back, and by then their father and Candy were at the kitchen table, and Chris was making the same hearty meal he had cooked for them, and he even teased Candy into eating. Much to their amazement, their father cleaned his plate, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, he wasn't crying.

Sabrina and Tammy had agreed, they had to tell them about Annie then. It couldn't be put off. They had a right to know. Sabrina started to tell them after breakfast, and found she couldn't. She turned away, and Tammy stepped into the breach, and explained everything the ophthalmologist had said the night before. The bottom line was that Annie was blind. There was stunned silence in the kitchen after she said it, and her father looked at her as though he didn't believe her or hadn't heard her correctly.

“That's ridiculous,” he said, looking angry. “The man doesn't know what he's talking about. Does he know she's an artist?” They had had the same reaction, so they couldn't fault him. But it didn't change anything. This was going to be a huge adjustment for all of them, but nothing compared to what it would be for Annie. It would be catastrophic for her, a tragedy beyond measure. Telling her would be the worst moment of their lives, other than their mother dying, living with it the worst moments in hers, forever. That was the hard part. Two impossible concepts for any of them to fathom, particularly related to Annie. Blind. Forever. It boggled the mind, and made the heart ache just thinking about it. The only thing worse was their mother gone forever.