The Hand

My sister and I would find tiny plastic hands on a regular basis – lodged in sink drains, asleep in

bags of Lays, tucked under stacks of Sunday morning pancakes. Though both of us wanted them

gone, neither of us handed Mama our dilemma. We prayed over bowls of Campbell’s alphabet

soup and made our beds each morning. We’d slip notes to the exterminator, but he claimed to see

nothing. My sister, who grew convinced they were the devil, snapped. She placed her hands over

her face and refused to remove them – during meals, games of cards, bath time rituals. She even

shunned her beloved piano. Mama moved the piano to the attic and took my sister to the doctor.

That was the last time I saw her for two months. For a week, no hands appeared. One Tuesday,

in the dark, I coughed. A small hand dropped to the oak floor. I knew Mama couldn’t risk more

hospital stays. Mileage on the car was just another mouth to feed. I kept my hands down and

swallowed what I was fed. When my sister returned, she wore silence like a winter coat. Hello?

I’d ask. She wouldn’t answer. I’d uncurl my palm to reveal a hand missing a thumb or another

with twelve rings – one for each of my years, but she remained disinterested. Mama kept her on

medicine. She spooned it before bed and then again in carefully monitored increments. Mama’s

hand would shake as she moved the spoon from the bottle’s throat towards my sister’s lips. Push.

Prod. Again. We weren’t allowed to play with dolls. Mama believed they were nothing more

than a reminder of conventional roles. My sister no longer had the attention span for games of

cards or Chutes and Ladders. Hide and Seek was off limits -- too many hands in unexpected

corners. I’d collect and count the hands alone only to find more in spaces I had already cleared.

My sister and I maintained a pact to never disclose, until my sister uttered her final words from

her hospital bed – “Are the hands real?” Our mother’s blue eyes lit up like fireflies. “I thought I

was alone -- my father’s curse for having you out of wedlock. Instead of taking a hand to me he

handed me a lifelong sentence.” My sister lifted her hand, then took her final breath. The three of

us formed a fist with no visible fingers. Mama and I pooled our collections. We tucked over five

hundred hands in a Florsheim shoe box and removed their ability to point. The hands would tap

but no longer replicate. We focused on my sister’s plot. Too soon for her stone we’d sit on a

blanket, eat turkey and Swiss on rye, and read my sister’s favorites. Around us, tiny fingers

sprouted like weeds. Neither of us mentioned the hands that appeared in the soil. Each of us

resigned to the secrets we had sewn. Now, Mama is also gone, and the home is no longer mine.

Most Sundays, I drive by the house. A small hand waves from the window. I don’t know it’s to

say hello or stay away.