Between Haircuts

Published: June 11, 2014 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

Taylor portrait Some women get their hair cut and colored every six weeks like clockwork. My grandmother and great-grandmother filled the dryer chairs lining the wall of their beauty shop every Friday, and the ladies of Raleigh always had their hair washed and set for the church service on Sunday.

It’s been years since Taylor saw her own reflection in the mirror, but her outfits are usually cuter than mine, and her hair always looks great. God blessed my sister with gorgeous hair, and it’s been thick as deep pile carpet since she had brain surgery six years ago. That’s why my mom always says, “If you ever want to get great hair, just shave it off first.”

I still share a stylist with my sister and my mom. I had an appointment with Debbie tonight, right after Taylor. Debbie’s current location is a shop on the second floor of a small complex of boutique shops in a historic part of town. It has no elevator, and the concrete stairs go straight up, like the scary attic ladder at my childhood home.

A thunderstorm arrived just as Debbie snipped the last stray hairs off the top of my head. As we stood by the large windows up front and watched the world fall down outside, Debbie told me how my dad came to Taylor’s appointment with my mom in the afternoon. After my parents helped Taylor out of the car, Dad put my sister on his back and carried her up the stairs.

I didn’t see it happen, but I imagined it as angry rain fell from the black sky and pelted the windows. The image of my near-16-year-old sister draped over my father’s shoulders, her eyes unmoving, her hair perfect if a little long, washed over me, a melancholy beauty. And just before I came to, it occurred to me that the last time Taylor got a haircut – just six weeks ago – she climbed those stairs.

A Full Life

Published: May 27, 2014 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

I worked for one of our local hospitals for eight years. But when I walked through its revolving front door today and took a right down the main hallway, I saw and heard the world inside through different eyes and ears.

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I turned to the left just as my dad approached me. He had on a suit, but his jacket and tie were missing, and his collar was loose. Without saying a word, he led me into my grandmother’s room, where she was locked in twisted slumber.

The compact room’s mint green walls made the room feel smaller. An ancient Zenith TV hung in the corner, its screen dark. I wondered what my grandmother would watch if she could still follow a story.

Rays of early afternoon sunlight slanted through half-drawn blinds and found an open booklet on the table. A black and white diagram indicated exactly where the stroke occurred.

Her once porcelain skin looked pale. Her white hair, always permed even in the years since she moved to the memory care center, sat limp.

As I stood near the end of the bed and watched the warm sunlight play on the sterile hospital equipment, my thoughts drifted to a trip to New York City with my grandparents in the summer of 1990. We stayed at the Hilton, where the housekeeper placed my stuffed dog, Brownie, on the pillow on my rollaway cot every morning. We ate chocolate mousse at La Cote Basque and cheese omelets at Mme. Romaine de Lyon. We took a limousine to FAO Schwartz and the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. We stood on top of the World Trade Center, and I thought we were on top of the world.

I wanted to tell her that story, but when I opened my mouth, nothing happened. Instead, I thought about how much I hate brain disease; how much it steals; how much more I would have done when she still knew my name, had I known.

In that same instance, I considered the full life my grandmother lived; the education she received; the things she achieved; the places and things she saw; the children and grandchildren she had. And I thought about how Batten disease is robbing my sister, Taylor, of all of those things; how we have a lifetime of memories with my grandmother, but when it comes to my little sister, Batten disease is stealing those, too.

Can I Call You in Heaven?

Published: May 8, 2014 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

Taylor had a tough day.

When I walked into my house tonight, I buckled my dog’s harness and leash and laced my shoes. I got home much later than usual and missed seeing most of my neighbors out walking their dogs or mowing their lawns. Though the quiet streets had a soothing effect after a trying afternoon, I found myself scrolling through the contacts on my phone, looking for somebody, anybody, to call not long after Daisy and I set out into the balmy spring night.

But after a minute, it dawned on me that I really just wanted to talk to my grandmother. So I put the phone away. I turned my face toward the darkening sky, and I waited for her to help me understand.

Mom told me that my little sister smiled and laughed today, even in her darkest moments. Tonight, I sat on the side of my parents’ bed and watched her sleep. She looked tiny curled up beneath the cool sheets. I memorized every detail of that moment, from the way the early evening light hit her deep, honey blonde hair to how her long eyelashes grazed her soft cheeks.

She looked like an angel.

National Siblings Day

Published: April 10, 2014 ~ 4

By Laura Edwards

Today is National Siblings Day, a celebration of the special bond between siblings. For five years, three months and 17 days, I lived the blissful life of an only child. Then, my brother Stephen charged into my world, bringing with him endless plastic sword fights, video game battles and wars of words.

We wrestled over the right to wallow in the family room recliner. Sometimes, we stopped long enough to pretend we loved each other for the camera. I probably poured that drink over Stephen’s head right after the photographer took this photo.

We showered some of the love we didn’t give to each other on our first family pet, Howie, who loved everyone except HIS brother – my grandmother’s dog, Simon. Howie, a good old soul, would have killed Simon given the chance.

Sometimes, I allowed Stephen to come in my room and even sit on my furniture. But I didn’t like it.

The year I got my driver’s license, my sister Taylor popped into the family, upending our accepted norm and replacing me as Stephen’s main adversary in backseat tangles. I didn’t like speaking in public as a kid, but Taylor helped me chill out before the Carousel pageant competition during my senior year of high school.

She made an able, willing helper whenever Stephen or I had birthday candles to blow out.

She may have given him hell, but she still let Stephen carry her whenever the mood struck.

She made a great “senior” flower girl.

We met the “real” Aladdin and Jasmine together during two dreamy days in Disney World.

Siblings make great dance partners.

Taylor could convince our brother to try on silly hats in public.

He hugged her at the finish line of her second 5K.

Between the three of us, we’ve had our fair share of sibling battles. But we’ve learned to love each other…even my brother and me.

Because more than anything, siblings are bound by love.

Do you have a sibling or siblings? If so, what makes your relationship special?

What Matters

Published: March 31, 2014 ~ 0

By Laura Edwards

My husband and I live in a great neighborhood, and for the most part, we’re blessed with good neighbors. We bought our house eight years ago, and we’ve watched a few families come and go. We’ve grown close to some of them and liked just about all of them.

But there is this one family…

These neighbors – I’ll call them “Jack and Jill” because it’s Monday night and that’s about the extent of my creativity – don’t mow their lawn as often as they should during our North Carolina summers. They have interesting taste in landscaping. When they repainted their siding, they (inexplicably) skipped a couple of boards on one side. John and I started placing bets on whether or not they did it as a fashion statement. Their kids seem to multiply with reckless abandon (I really don’t know how many they have), which would be okay except that they don’t always watch them. Our house is perched on a hill, and we had bushes around our mailbox until a few years ago. Their oldest daughter invented a game in which she’d hide in the bushes and wait until I backed down the mountainous driveway, then jump into the path of my SUV at the very last second. I almost hit her a couple of times. Almost. This same daughter likes to crawl through the doggy door of my next-door neighbor’s garage when my neighbor’s away. Heck if I know what she does in there, but she can’t be up to anything good. They have dogs that would happily kill my dog, which would be my problem except for the fact that they routinely let their dogs escape, often while I’m walking my 13-pound dog down the street. And “Jack” is not allowed to borrow my husband’s tools. My husband owns every tool under the sun, and Jack borrowed one of them last year. John didn’t think it was possible to break this tool, but Jack proved him wrong – and didn’t say anything about it (even though it was obviously broken when he returned it). So he lost tool-borrowing privileges. Needless to say, there are days when I wish Jack and Jill would roll down the hill.

Spring is in the air, and I celebrated by going for a run when I got home from the office tonight. Later, on my cool-down lap, I passed Jack and Jill’s house and heard voices and laughter in the backyard. Without meaning to spy, my eyes flicked toward the house, and I saw the source of the noise: there was Jack, playing with his girls on their trampoline. One of them said, “Again, Daddy!” and he took her hands in his, and they jumped for the heavens, and her squeals pierced the scene lit by sunset.

As I set off for home, I thought about how much my dad would give to jump on a trampoline with my sister Taylor, who, thanks to Batten disease, can no longer jump or dance or run or sing. I thought about how blessed my brother, Stephen, and I am to have had so many incredible years with our dad, from sleep-away camps with the Y Guides and Boy Scouts to Charlotte Hornets games and fishing on the golf course and swimming in the ocean and all of our soccer and lacrosse games. And as the laughter of those girls faded into the night, I forgave Jack for his weird taste in landscaping and a couple of unpainted boards.

Cape Fear River Sky

Published: July 5, 2012 ~ 2

By Laura Edwards

My grandparents used to own a beach house on Oak Island, a finger of land at the southern tip of North Carolina. Nearly every summer, we spent Fourth of July week on the island; on the Fourth, my family and extended family packed an enormous picnic, piled into cars, drove across the Intracoastal Waterway and its marshy shores and into Southport – a town built where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean. We spread our quilts on the soft grass in front of the pier, watched the boats drift by and filled our bellies. As the evening wore on, the crowd around us on the lawn grew larger. My younger brother and I usually picked our way through the other blankets to the pier to buy snow cones and glow-necklaces before the sun sank beneath the horizon. And when the last rays of sunlight finally faded to darkness, the fireworks began.

My grandparents sold the beach house right around the time Taylor was born. I’ve been back to the island several times since then, and on each visit, I drove past the house. It felt strange seeing someone else’s memories (shells, driftwood), perched on the porch railing. I’ve been back to Southport, but not for the Fourth. In fact, it’s been nearly 15 years since I last saw the sky over the Cape Fear River lit up by sparkling streaks of red, blue, green, purple, orange, yellow, silver and gold. We’ve had to make new memories. But the image of that sky in my mind is just as clear as if I witnessed it yesterday.

Last night, we spent the Fourth of July at my parents’ house, more than 200 miles from our Cape Fear River sky. We had a much smaller crowd and different scenery, but we had amazing food and, afterward, our own fireworks show. Taylor sat in a golf chair and clapped each time Dad shot a Roman candle or bottle rocket into the night. As they exploded over the front yard, I called out the colors, one by one, to my blind sister.

sparklers