She Ain't My Sister

By Linda Ivy Cooper

On one hand (She Aint My Sister) is a frightening book and
on the other, a hopeful one. It is very, very powerful.
Laurie Rosin, Book Editor

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456735357

Linda Ivy Cooper

Linda Cooper earned an English Degree and works for the largest newspaper in the New York Times Regional Media Group. This memoir is based on her childhood as an adoptee. She lives in Sarasota, Florida and has two daughters.

Book preview

SHE AIN’T MY SISTER

By

Linda Ivy Cooper

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 Linda Ivy Cooper. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/2/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3535-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2992-9 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2993-6 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011901060

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is dedicated to my brother, Forrest. I love you Buddy.

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

SIX

SEVEN

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

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Molly

Animals as well as humans will lash out at others when threatened. Birds will build their nests close to the ground and lay precious cargo there, only to have it threatened by other prey. Much like the animal kingdom, a mother will conceive a child with the enemy and then lay it at the enemy’s feet to be trampled upon. She will enter the arena in defense, and than join the other side. In the end, the child will be trampled upon by them both.

ONE

It’s funny how things are much larger when you’re young. Is it true what people say, that when we are born our eyes are the size they will always be and that our bodies take a lifetime to catch up?

Standing here looking at the old house, I wonder when my body caught up with my eyes or this house became so small. Maybe, just maybe, if I think really hard and keep my eyes wide open, the demons inside those walls will also become much smaller. The memories of those days are burned forever in my mind, and the losses remain immeasurable. Time has changed the spectrum of light to black and white, and the ghost and goblins lurk beyond the visual.

This is the house all right. Sure, the salty air has cracked the paint, and the beautiful lavender jacaranda tree is gone. The once manicured lawn was painted purple with its dying offspring. I have to remember to tell Jake. A smiling porpoise poised atop a yellow post now welcomes guests to 817 17th St., Bradenton, Florida.

The neighborhood is rundown, surrounding streets have been given over to subsidized housing. Old cars are parked in front of houses instead of in driveways. Housing restrictions were long ago discarded. Improvements have been made: gutters added to prevent street flooding. I can still hear the happy laughter of the neighborhood kids riding bikes through ankle-deep water after a refreshing rain.

At this very curb the step van carried us away from our home. The van was white and we kids called it the milk truck. It resembled an old-time truck like those seen in Mayberry: the kind that brought bottles of milk to Opie’s door for Aunt Bee to serve with breakfast.

Our dad had bought it used, and it served well as a work truck for his fire and safety equipment business. Most days it was parked in the driveway, but one particular day it was parked next to the curb where a black sedan now sits.

Mommy and Daddy had been fighting the night before a planned camping trip. I knew the outing was probably canceled, judging by the swollen eyes Mommy had that morning. When we came home from school, Daddy’s van was parked at the road. Sometimes I wanted to stay at school and clean chalkboards rather than go home.

They were at it again; all of the screaming and crying gave proof to that. Daddy told us that we were going camping and ordered us to get our clothes packed. Mommy didn’t want us to go and was fighting with him. I wanted to go and was eager to obey. It meant going to the woods, where we would be given freedom to roam the shores of the river. While we explored we would dream of places far, far away from here.

After packing a few things, we were ordered to the van. Daddy grasped hold of Mommy’s arms, wringing them with his masculine hands, which she was not strong enough to resist.

He held her captive near the door until we were settled into our seats. When he released her arms, her screams heightened to a panicked pitch and she came running toward us.

When she grabbed hold of the handles and pulled herself inside, her leg caught the jagged edge of a metal hook where the hose of a fire extinguisher was draped. It penetrated deeply into the shin of her right leg. Her screams the night before did not compare to the screams that escaped her unwrapped soul that day.

Please don’t take them. I’ll do anything, she begged.

Not this time! Get out, or do you want me to beat your ass right here? he said.

When Daddy had pushed her from the van, we drove away. Four frightened kids huddled together. I tried to avoid the puddle of blood on the floor and prayed that the river would bring an escape this time.

Please, God, take us to the other side of that mountain where the river flows.

Nancy and Poochie Cramer lived next door. They were close to my age, and I enjoyed having carefree days with them when allowed. Poochie’s real name was Ray, but he was only addressed as Ray by his father and didn’t seem to mind the nickname. They were spoiled and had lots of toys in their rooms, a swimming pool out back, and a red Irish setter named Rusty in their fenced backyard.

Nancy was petite with long curly hair. We treated her like our baby sister. She never seemed to want to go home, which seemed strange to me. We would be in the middle of a game when she would suddenly flop down on the ground and suggest that we take a break. It would be obvious she needed to go pee but resisted going inside. Her eyes would fill with tears and turn red. She would grind her butt on the grass until the urgency left her and than jump to her feet and resume her position in the game.

Their parents were much older than ours, and I sometimes wondered if they, like us, had been displaced.

The man and woman that Jake and I called Mommy and Daddy were actually our aunt Jeanette, from my first mama’s side of the family, and her husband, Fritz. Jake and I had been forced to call them Mommy and Daddy on the very first night we joined their family. I made a great effort to avoid using these titles by getting their attention first and then speaking directly to them. It was not unnoticed they did the same when addressing me. I felt invisible.

Given the choice, I’m sure Nancy and Poochie’s parents would have rather had other playmates for them. Their bikes were better than ours, their house better, and their yard better.

When Jake wasn’t wearing a dress, a form of punishment inflicted on him by Daddy, they played with us. Poochie got for his birthday a prized iguana he named Sam. Sam was the newest attraction, and I was amazed his parents would purchase such an exotic pet.

Jake and Poochie were playing with Sam in the tall grass when he got away. The sole of our sister Daisy’s shoe found him. Sam was no longer part of the neighborhood, and Poochie was no longer Jake’s friend.

I’m so sorry, Poochie. Please don’t tell, begged Daisy.

Jake grabbed hold of Poochie’s arm and forced him to face him. Poochie hung his head to hide the tears that were already streaming down his face.

You know what will happen to us if you tell, Poochie, said Jake.

Let go of me, Jake. You killed Sam and I want to go home.

In the end, Jake had nothing to worry about. I think Poochie’s parents were as afraid of our dad as Jake was.

On the other side of our house, outside Jake’s bedroom, lived Mr. and Mrs. Hosie Singleton. They were an elderly couple who rarely came outside, except to check the mail and pick up the newspaper. Mrs. Singleton would on occasion show up at the back door to visit. She was larger than any woman I’d ever seen. I was astonished that she was unable to get out of a chair unless she began a rocking motion and on a forward rock would find herself standing. This ritual was imitated by laughing children when no one was looking.

She was a kind old woman and seemed genuinely concerned about us kids. She was always asking questions about us and, as always, Mommy put on a front. In the end, Mrs. Singleton had no choice but to be assured we were the happy family portrayed in Norman Rockwell’s paintings.

In those days parents were able to discipline as they saw fit. I’m sure Mrs. Singleton didn’t agree, but she knew better than to voice her opinion.

I knew she heard the beatings taking place outside her window and wanted to be assured that all were present and accounted for inside the room just eight feet from her wall. The four children living within her reach needed her desperately.

To further assure her, Mommy would go to her bedroom and bring out an Awake magazine distributed by the Jehovah’s Witness church she attended every other week.

Daisy, Sissy, and I shared the bedroom across the hall from Jake. Three twin beds were lined up against one wall. Bedtime came at nightfall and so did the nightly ritual of kissing Mommy and Daddy good night. I decided the first night we came to live with our aunt and uncle that my new daddy didn’t like me because I didn’t want to kiss him goodnight. As a terrified, neglected, often abandoned little girl, I would always feel uncomfortable at the touch of his hands on my skin.

We would jump into bed, covering our heads to escape the bug spray in the air. Daddy would screw off the lid of the rusty can and fill it with insecticide. After replacing the top, which was attached to a long sprayer, he would pump the handle a few times before the sprayer belched forth a mist that covered everything in the room. This was to keep the mosquitoes away, Daddy said. I wonder now about his German roots and think of Auschwitz, where Jewish prisoners were tricked into entering showers only to find out that the spray coming from the showerhead was not water but poisonous gases.

In the last ritual of the night, the light was extinguished and the door closed and bolted from the outside.

Please, God, don’t let me need to go to the bathroom before morning.

The only other person we had contact with lived down the road, a dirty, unkempt girl named Donna. Donna spent all of her free time at our house. I couldn’t understand why she would prefer our family over her own. In time, she told stories of dirty little practices taking place in her home, where she lived with her dad. We laughed when she told how he gave her alcohol as a baby, and how she crawled under a coffee table and was found fast asleep.

Mommy took her under her wing like a bird protecting its young. I was jealous of Donna and felt that she was receiving attention due us.

Dear God, will Mommy love me one day like she loves Donna?

Mommy was the martyr, just as she had been when she fought with her husband to adopt and rescue Jake and me from our dreadful past.

Our biological parents were never married. Our mama had worked at a nursing home and quite by accident ran into our daddy in the hallway. He was there visiting a friend, an elderly man who had begun teaching him the art of clock making, or so the story went. She would find out later that he was married with six children, the oldest one being exactly her own age.

Our real mama was petite and pretty with captivating blue eyes and blond hair. She had seven siblings, four being girls. She did not resemble her sisters, and this became a reason for lifetime jealousy and arguments. Her four sisters were large, much like their dad, with dark hair and fair complexions.

After running into each other a few more times in the nursing home, Mama and Daddy began seeing each other after work. Mama liked to spend her time in the sunshine, where her hair glistened. Her looks and charm dazzled my daddy. He left his wife and children and they ran off together. Mama’s family forbade her to ever return.

We would discover those details when I reached adulthood and met Thelma Lee, our half sister. I would be told that her mother had been committed to a mental hospital and that our half brothers and sisters had been moved to other homes. Three of them were young enough for adoption and were eventually placed in new homes. The older three lived their childhoods in an orphanage. The youngest daughter committed suicide in her early twenties. Thelma Lee even speculated that Daddy had had an unnatural relationship with the clock maker. I wondered if Mama knew our daddy’s sordid past.

Happy in love with peace and freedom became our real parents’ theme during those days of the Beatles and the Vietnam War. Mama’s blond hair and charm, however, would not protect her against a man with hidden demons. Her blue eyes lost their luster and she lived for simple self-preservation.

Along with their freedom came responsibilities that my daddy should have expected. The first was the arrival of Jake. The year was 1960, and he was born in Dothan, Alabama. Daddy insisted naming him after himself. Jake didn’t find out until later that Daddy had also given his first son the coveted title.

They lived on the run, committing crimes to support their lifestyle. Daddy wrote bad checks from the joint account he had with his wife. If the storekeeper refused the check, they stole what they wanted. Stolen cars were left beside the road when the gas gauge showed empty.

I, Molly, came the next year, born in Lakeland, Florida on Tuesday, October third. When I grew up and requested a copy of my birth certificate I discovered that my true birth date was Friday, October thirteenth. I figured that unlucky date must have been why they didn’t keep me.

Nights were often spent in abandoned houses. Daddy carried a knife. With a jerk of his hand the blade would pop open. He would slide it beneath a window or door lock to release the hinge. Jake and I would be lifted over the threshold, where sometimes we were left until their morning return.

The next year, the backwoods town of Dade City, Florida, was the birthplace of twin girls. Thelma Lee had come to visit from the orphanage. Mama was near her delivery date when she fell down the stairs of the apartment house where they were squatters. Daddy watched from the window of the bedroom where he was hiding. It was Thelma Lee who ran to her assistance and who later nuzzled the twins at night for warmth against the unheated house. The pediatrician suggested adoption for the twins to save their lives. Giving children away came easy to our daddy.

I wondered throughout my teenage years what had happened to those two little girls. Yvonne and Yvette had entered our lives and had quickly been whisked away. Had they been adopted together and were they happy? Most of all, did they have wonderful parents who really did love them? I knew Jake also had suffered the deepest imaginable heartache the day his babies left our lives and our real dad threw their clothes away.

Eventually, Yvonne and Yvette located Jake and me, and all of the answers were revealed. Sometimes it’s better to not know the truth. A fairytale can be an escape mechanism.

On that hot July day when at last we were reunited, the scene took on a different face than I had expected. They too had suffered separation from a mother. The effects of the separation would last a lifetime. Happily they had clung to each other. For that we were thankful.

Photographs taken beneath the oak tree of Jake’s house showed four disconnected adults with different lives, intertwined only by blood. Three adult women would struggle for the attention of their brother, as if in competition for his long hoped for love.

Discord was rooted as pairs took sides. Pair one was unable to understand why they had been banished from a family where they belonged, and pair two wished they had gone far away from that family. Once again the bell was tolled, the white flag was waved, and the pairs parted, never to be drawn together again.

Studies have been done about whether children remember their early years. Just let them ask Jake and me. We remember all right. I remember being scared and lonely, and of my real mama fighting with Daddy to get the pillow off my face as he tried to stifle the cries of a hungry, cold child. I remember a black and white checkered booth seat in a diner, and being allowed to eat until I was full. Our real parents left Jake and me there with the bill and a note for the waitress to call Grandpa. Grandpa and Granny lived in Tampa, but no matter the time, he would drive the distance to get us.

Grandpa often rescued Jake and me, taking his two hungry, neglected grandchildren in just long enough to get our bellies full before we were whisked away again. Sometimes Grandpa would take Mama in too. In the middle of the night on one of those occasions, I wanted a drink of water, but Mama refused to be awakened. Grandpa hit her with his crutch and Mama stormed out of the house.

Grandpa jerked his crutches around when he heard me whimper.

She’s not worth crying over, he shouted. "How many times will it take for you to learn that she doesn’t really love you or your