A View from Paris

A year ago, when Kyle came home from the third grade, dropping the F-bomb, our house became a full-fledged F-Zone. It was fuck this and fuck that, and Mom, where’s the fucking Pop Tarts? I joined in, too, but Mom said be quiet, don’t use words like that, you’re the oldest.

I said it wasn’t fair, Parrot was saying it and she was two years younger than me and still eating with her hands.

Mom said that was the point. She didn’t know any better.

And stop calling your sister, Parrot, Mom added. Her name’s Paris, like the city where anything can happen, and I just shook my head.

Then Mom spent the rest of the afternoon telling Kyle to stop playing video games and complaining that she had to go back to the grocery, and who’d eaten all the bananas anyway? She’d bought a dozen yesterday, and they were all gone.

I told her Parrot did it, and she said, nonsense, Eliza, don’t blame your little sister. Besides, she wouldn’t have done it unless she’d seen somebody else do it, and I said maybe Kyle ate some, and she said he must have eaten a lot or Paris would never have gotten it into her head to eat the rest of them.

That’s when I turned to Parrot who was sitting by the window, banana in hand. I knew what she was doing. She was always waiting for the paperboy, who wouldn’t be here till morning. I couldn’t imagine what she found so interesting about him. Every morning she’d be the first one up, just waiting for him to pass by. And then again, when she got home from school and after dinner and right before bed, she’d sit by the window and wait for him, like she expected he’d come around the corner any minute.

Short curly blonde hair plastered to her broad forehead, she looked like a little cherub without wings. Except for her sticky fingers and drooly chin I would have hugged her. Except that I wouldn’t have. I hated how she’d look at me with those large deep-set eyes, spaced so far apart. How she’d throw the peeling at my feet and howl with delight. How she laughed at everything and how nothing ever made her cry. Nothing. And so at that moment, as I stooped to pick up the peeling and wipe the banana gunk from my shoes, I really hated her. Not that deep-set brooding kind that sits dull in your gut corroding your innards, just the flashing kind that bursts up hot in your eyes and throat and makes you want to say hurtful things like SLOW and STUPID. Which is what I did. I called her STUPID. I said it three times, “STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID,” all hot and angry and jumbled together. And I told her she’d never do anything first. That she was a born repeater. A puppet of sorts. Like God had her on strings and could make her dance or fall or do all kinds of stupid things like eat a dozen bananas just because her older brother did.

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But that was last year. Now I’m the one by the window, banana in hand. Mom says I need to stop torturing myself. Every big sister says things like that, and Paris didn’t know half of what I meant. Then she says I need to come away from the window. That was her place, and nobody ever knew what she was looking at anyway.

I know Mom’s just saying that. In a year, she’s become frazzled and old, with her hair graying at the part and her mascara clumped and smeared around her eyes like she’s been crying, which she does all the time now. And Kyle’s just yelling, “Fuck you!” at the TV screen.

So I wait till morning. Around 4:30 I get out of bed and tiptoe passed my parents’ room. Dad’s snoring and Mom’s head is turned into the pillow, and I don’t hear anything but the soft hum of “I Dream of Genie” on the TV that Kyle left on when he fell asleep on the couch with Mom’s afghan half-covering him and his legs poking out.

The hardwood floors are cold against the soft soles of my feet, and I whisper run to the nook by the window where Parrot used to sit. And now I can wait and watch to see what she saw.

The morning light is just peeking out peachy-orange and ready to burst. I lean into the window, all frosty and cold, and my breath makes little clouds on the panes, and I think of Heaven and how Parrot – Paris – finally did something first.

And the leaves in the trees whisper to one another. And not a car on the road. Just a few birds singing loudly and happy like everything’s just the same as it used to be.

And then, I see something dark move past. A paper thumps on our doorstep. And I strain to catch a glimpse of the boy pedaling on now, trying to see what she saw. And then I do. He’s riding a unicycle.