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27 Chapter Nine Seeing Everything “Sue,” I whisper loudly, “wake up.” By the way she moves, I can tell Sue is waking. I tap her on the forehead. She ignores me. “You’re breathing too loud!” These words always work. “What do you want? You want me dead? I have to breathe!” Sue always wakes up grumpy. “I want to sleep.” Sue doesn’t know I have stuffed my dirty socks and underwear in her pillowcase. It is beyond me how she can rest her head on the pillow without noticing the lumps. I turn the pillow and place the dirty clothes on the bed side, not head side. I make sure not to do this too often otherwise Sue will check her pillow before getting in bed. It’s a lousy thing to do and I’m not really sorry about waking her. I’m sorry I can’t sleep and she doesn’t notice. I want Sue to wake up and talk with me. Our best conversations take place when the room is dark and the house is quiet. I don’t understand how Sue can sleep and she doesn’t understand why I put the dirty clothes in her pillowcase. “Check your pillowcase, Sue.” This always makes her angry. “Why do you do this to me?” Sue asks while she pulls out my dirty socks and underwear. “Because I love you.” This isn’t a lie, but the dirty socks and underwear make it appear as such. I know it’s a cruel thing to do and it will definitely upset her. Most things, no matter how horrible or cruel, seem to pass by without Sue expressing any emotion. Sue looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re sick.” Within an hour, I want to wake Sue and apologize, but her loud, sporadic breathing lets me know she is asleep and angry. She won’t believe I am sorry because I will stuff her pillowcase again. Sue sleeps. I don’t. She doesn’t know how long my nights are. I share a bed with a little sister who has loud, almost braggart breaths coming out of her mouth all night. I can’t wake Sue and apologize because Dad apologizes that way, says he’s sorry after doing something horrible, and then does it again. Sue and I talk about this before falling asleep. 28 Burning Tulips “He don’t mean it. He’ll do it again, won’t he?” I ask Sue. “Probably. But Mom believes him.” “Do you, Sue?” “No. He’ll do it again.” Sue looks like she’s falling asleep but there’s one more thing on my mind, the same thing that is on my mind every night. “Sue, did I act like Dad today?” “No! Quit asking me that.” In bed I know Dad apologizes about being in jail because he doesn’t apologize for being drunk and screaming those horrible words at us. He breaks all the dishes and kitchen windows, but apologizes about being in jail because he knows it will hurt us when the neighbors and kids at school bring this up. They always find out through the newspaper and the radio. He doesn’t know how quiet the house is when he’s in jail. On those nights we don’t have to worry about him driving home drunk, or coming home at all. We don’t set a place for him at the table. We even invite a neighbor friend over because we know the meal will be fun. And Dad will get a break from the factory and us. He doesn’t need to apologize, but he will. Dad apologizes because when he’s in jail he remembers his father who was always in jail and how that humiliated him. Sue always says I didn’t act like Dad, but Sue only speaks the truth in the middle of the night when the room is dark. That doesn’t happen often. Instead I lie awake, watching the Fire burn, the Fire Sue says she can’t see. “Sue, wake up. Don’t you see the Fire?” “You’re weird. There’s no Fire!” Now I know the Fire is for me. In time, the White Hands will come out. They look like tight white gloves and I know they belong to the Old Man’s face, the Old Man who steps above me while I lie in bed, glaring at me, never sympathetic...

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