The Teeter-Totter

By Sharon Carruthers and Corrine Vanderwerff

The diagnosis is one no one wants. It is a wretched, horrible illness and carries with it a stigma. No one wants that either. However, I have that disease, always have had mental illness, although my bipolar diagnosis was not handed to me until the age of forty. I hate it, loathe it, want to bury it or throw it into the depths of the sea, but I cant. You see, it is part of who I am.

It started in childhood and carried on throughout all my adult years. This is my story. It includes the teeter-totter ups and downs as well as the psychotic times and paranoia, hallucinations, and feelings of grandeur. My whole life is illuminated for you to read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449755270

Sharon Carruthers

Sharon Carruthers, a retired nurse, enjoys a stable and productive retirement, organizing and leading out in depression seminars, and Bible study groups. She supports bipolar individuals and their families. She and her husband, Douglas, live in Kansas. They have two adult sons and a delightful shih-tzu named Singlea. Corrine Vanderwerff, a freelance writer, makes her home in Sherwood Park, Alberta.

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Copyright © 2012 Sharon Carruthers with Corrine Vanderwerff

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-5528-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5529-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5527-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910191

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/12/2012

Contents

Acknowledgments

Not Again!

It’s Twins!

More Than a Sister

British Columbia, Here We Come

The Teacher

Fire! Fire!

Hormones and Things

Almost Free

Academy Life

On Becoming a Nurse

Not Me—Please!

The Practice of Nursing

College, Men, and Me

The Feel of Bipolar Depression

Living with The Beast

Here Comes the Bride

I Do and The Beast Returns

Down and Up Forever

Flip-Flop Again

Psychiatrist One

Psychiatrist Two and the Runaway

Mania and More Mania

Paranoia and Hallucinations

Employed and Back in the Cave

Horror from the Pulpit

Please! No! Not Me!

Psychiatrists Four, Five, and Six

The Beast and I

The Great Scream

And Guess What?

Police, Mania, and Me

Manic or not Manic?

High in Canada

The Beast

Then It Was

The End of the Beginning

In memory of my Mother Ruby Alice Brown

Acknowledgments

To my mother who was the North Star to which I turned whenever I was in trouble during my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. I could not hurt her, so I did not confide in her when my illness became very severe, and therefore, she always considered me to be as normal as anyone. This was very endearing to me.

To Corrine, without whose help and skill as a published author I could never have written this book. And to the manuscript readers, Grace, Merle, Joann, Dorothy, and Cindy who offered helpful suggestions and encouragement.

To my twin sister and very best friend, Carol, who was spared from having bipolar disease and who has always been my reference base for what I consider to be a normal human being. Without her help, it would have been difficult to accurately remember incidences in our childhood. I was blessed by the togetherness we shared as we laughed and cried over our recollections of the life that was.

To my husband, Douglas, who walked beside me during my illness, accepted me for myself, and always considered me a good wife.

To my sons, Michael and Jonathan, who showered me with the unconditional love that sons give their mothers.

To Stella, Janet, Kay, Cindy, Brenda, Mary Lou, Iris, Elsie, and Eunice, my dear friends who remained my friends even after I confided to them my bipolar diagnosis.

Finally, I wish to acknowledge all who walk the same path in life that I walk and your families. May you always have hope!

Chapter 1

Not Again!

You had us all worried.

Doug’s voice reached out to take me in as I gathered myself against the smooth lines of the passenger’s seat. I loved our Honda. I had fallen in love with it at first glance and bought it on the spot during one of my spending sprees. Everyone needs a passport to cross the border now, you know. After you left, I searched through everything in your apartment.

Doug had met me at the airport and was guiding our Honda south along the I-435 beltway. The asphalt ahead shimmered and pooled under the relentless Kansas sun. My thoughts circled around and away, stirring up more words in their wake. I sifted through them, searching for the ones that would prove I was just fine and as normal as he. A field of sunflowers stretched beside the road. I like sunflowers. Enormous sunflowers. I grew them bigger than anyone at home. My thoughts grabbed at the sound of where I belonged, and I felt myself sinking.

I didn’t think they’d allow you back into the States without your passport.

Doug’s voice held a hint too much of reproach, and Singlea stirred on my lap. He’d brought her to the airport to meet me. He always did because he knew how much I loved my little shih tzu. The shadows I knew too well hovered closer.

Then I tackled all our papers at home and still no passport. Sharon! Everyone needs a passport now to cross the border! What made you think you could fly back from Canada without a passport? If you’d have gotten stuck there, I would have had to drive all the way to Toronto to get you.

My mind swelled with a Well, I’m here! But I could not speak. Doug tossed a frown in my direction. His words spun ’round and ’round, and my thoughts grabbed at them and meshed them with details from my spur-of-the-moment visit. I reached for the right words, the normal words, and I hated what was happening.

Carol and Laurie were very worried about you too.

I knew what he was saying, knew the meaning of it, and knew why he was saying it. I knew too well. It always had been this way, and I struggled to pull on my mask of normal—the one I always wore when I crashed.

Please, Doug! In the silence of my mind, I felt the words, could almost taste them, and yet they were nothing more than silence. Can’t you see the shadows falling over my eyes? Don’t you know how afraid I am? A part of me wanted him to pull the car over, to stop, to look at me, to really look at me and gather me into his arms, to pull me back, to change what was happening, and to make me into a real person again. Yet I didn’t want him to know. I never wanted him to know, and this time I knew in my heart I would fall even deeper.

Doug’s continued description of the might-have-beens of my latest travels carried us nearer to my apartment, and I shivered even more knowing I now faced rooms full of aloneness—rooms I had chosen on that spur-of-the-moment craze. I always spent too much, bought too much, and did too many crazy things, and his continued description of what could have happened assured me that he did not yet realize that what was to come was unstoppable.

I’ve been told it’s actually easier to drive across the border than to fly across. All that stuff, you know. Doug’s train of thought seemed to be carrying him away from me, and that was good. I read in the paper that some of those guys fly into the States via Canada, so it’s tougher to get over the border at airports than it used to be.

You guys shouldn’t have worried. There. I managed to say words out loud and real, and they sounded normal in my ears. I did not have any problems at all at customs. I just passed the officer my driver’s license and my Kansas and Missouri nurse’s licenses. I answered her questions and walked right out of Canada and into the United States. I’m here now, and that’s what matters.

Doug seemed satisfied. You’re sure lucky is all I can say, he replied. You know what happened while you were gone?

His usual trivia filled the car, assuring me I could still fool him. My ears slipped away from what he was saying, and I dreaded what was to come. My departure from our home had been hasty, unexpected; everything had moved fast. I’d leased an apartment on a spur-of-the moment whim one day when I saw the attractive set of buildings while driving home from work. Just days before the apartment was ready, I’d ripped pictures off the walls at home, collected all the pots and pans I wanted as well as cutlery and groceries, stuffed everything into my car, and drove off to hole up in a motel. That’s when the mysterious phone call came and the man others couldn’t see began watching me. We only had one vacuum cleaner. I’d taken it too because it had been Doug’s Christmas present to me a few years earlier and I needed it now.

Then Doug was pulling up in front of the apartment. He carried in my suitcase and my golf clubs. I trudged slowly behind him, carrying my precious little Singlea. It’s good to have you back, Share, he said once we were inside.

The glass doors framing the patio caught my eyes. It looked dirty out there. When I had rushed through the apartment before signing the lease, I’d pictured it to be all pretty with hanging flower baskets and lovely white rattan furniture and …

He slipped his arm around me and pulled me into his world for just a moment. It felt good, and I wished he would stay. Is there anything you need?

No, Doug, I’m fine.

I was not fine. I had seldom ever really been fine. From childhood I had always known that something about me was different. Now I faced life in this apartment without him because of it.

Chapter 2

It’s Twins!

My story begins in Saskatchewan, where I was born, and my early memories take me to a day when the summer sky stretched its clear, happy blue far above the rooftops of Moose Jaw, our busy little city, and across the vast prairie flatness. From where I sat on Gramma’s front porch step, I could just see the tiniest edge of our own front yard. We lived in a tall, skinny, yellow stucco house with a big yard and a pretty garden, but Grampa and Gramma’s house was big and square and white and had an even bigger garden. I watched the cousins, and of course, Carol was right there in the middle of them, laughing and talking and having fun. She’s my twin sister, but I’m taller than she is. That was my bragging right from almost the beginning. I was also the firstborn.

Come on, Sharon! our cousin David suddenly called. We’re gonna play tag!

At the sound of my name, something dark and scary swelled up inside me, making me feel stiff and afraid, and I couldn’t make myself say a word in reply. Everything was fine when it was just Carol and me, but when other kids wanted me to play … I could see Carol’s curls bouncing up and down as she ran around the house and toward the big backyard.

Sharon? David asked again.

I shook my head, jumped up, and fled inside the house to the safety of the adult world. Mom was sitting in Gramma’s wicker rocking chair, making conversation with Mrs. Perfecto. I hunched over, hoping no one would notice, and crept around the dining room table, behind a chair, along the side of the rocker, and slipped into place on the floor beside Mom’s feet.

Ruby, why doesn’t Sharon like to play with the other children?

Mrs. Perfecto was addressing Mom, but I felt her piercing eyes fasten themselves on me. I wanted to shrink into nothing. Why did Gramma have to invite the Perfectos to our family dinners anyway? Mrs. Perfecto looked back at Mom. I’ve never heard her say one word to anyone.

That was true. I didn’t like to talk—not to other kids, not to grown-ups, and sometimes not even to Mom and Dad. But I could talk as easy as anything inside my head and to Carol, who I let do all the talking to the others. She just sits near you and listens to our conversations. Doesn’t that seem a little abnormal?

But, Hortense, she’s only five years old! I could hear that certain tone seeping into Mom’s voice. She didn’t like Gramma’s friend any more than I did. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Sharon. In fact, she’s exceptionally intelligent. She’s just a little shy around other people, that’s all. Still waters run deep, you know.

Shy! I screamed inwardly. Mom! I’m not shy! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see I’m not like Carol or the other kids?

Even then I knew I was different, and as much as I didn’t like her, I knew Mrs. Perfecto was right. And I wanted Mom to see that too. I wanted her to know that I wanted to feel like running and playing and being happy like Carol and the others or to be like my big brother, Ron, but there was a terrible thing inside me that wouldn’t let me. I looked across the room to Dad. He’d been chatting with the other men and was looking at me now with a strange expression in his eyes. Did he know that Mrs. Perfecto was right?

Please, Dad! I said in the secret place in my brain. Please say something. This was his chance. I wanted him to do something to make this terrible thing go away. Please! Daddy! Please! Say that she’s right.

He just shifted his eyes away, and I sat there like a little stone statue, feeling lost and cold. Mrs. Perfecto’s words kept coming and coming. Well, Ruby, if you say so. I’ve heard that expression about still waters, but Sharon just seems a little odd. I looked up at Mom and saw her face getting all red. That was a bad sign, I knew. But Mrs. Perfecto did not seem to notice because her words marched right on. It wouldn’t hurt to take her to a psychologist and have her evaluated. The words she used may have seemed big for little ears, but I always listened to adult conversations. It was much more interesting than listening to just kids talk—at least it was for me. Mom stood abruptly, gathered herself, and marched off into the kitchen. In the wake of her determined departure, Mrs. Perfecto’s attention swerved directly at me. Go outside now and play! she snapped.

I jumped up to do as she ordered. She stood too and pulled out the white hanky she always carried in her pocket. I turned obediently toward the door but managed to keep an eye on what she was doing. She pinched a corner of the hanky with her long, boney fingers, gave it a brisk wave, and swiped it along the top of the kitchen doorway frame. Then she held the hanky up and inspected it. A frown gathered between her eyebrows and seemed to tumble downward, dragging her features into meanness.

Now why’s that old hag doing that? I asked myself. I had learned from Mom that old hag is what people call people they don’t like. But back when you were just a little kid, you did what older people told you to do whether or not you liked them, so I quietly took myself outside and sat on the front steps beside two of my little cousins who also were not playing with the others. I liked sitting beside the one because he and I got along really well without ever having to say a word to each other. Besides, mouth-watering aromas drifted out from the kitchen, hinting that dinnertime was surely at hand. We were having steak that day, and I could hardly wait. One of my uncles worked at Canada Packer’s Meat Division and knew all about steak, and he had brought it. Hunger pains pinched at my stomach and pictures swirled through my mind of steak bubbling in the pan with mushrooms and onions. My thoughts, though, kept swinging back to Mrs. Perfecto. Gramma’s probably cooking all this food just to show off to her. She might not meet the Perfecto dusting standards, but when it came to cooking, Gramma was the best. Everyone said her meals were masterpieces.

Kids! Grampa finally called. I bounded up before he had time to add dinner’s ready. I always found a chair beside Grampa because he knew about me, and if I didn’t like what was being served, like peas, he would dole out a very miniscule amount. I grinned when I saw only three tiny peas appear on my plate. There, Little One, he said and winked at me. I smiled my biggest smile just for him.

The war years were over, but Carol and I often heard the big folks talking about the depression and how difficult times were in Saskatchewan. Grampa was considered to be better off than most folks because he was a dispatcher for the Canadian Pacific Railway and always had work. Dad was a carpenter, and sometimes there wasn’t much in our cupboards. The aunts and uncles and cousins also lived in the general vicinity, and Gramma often had all of us over for a big family meal.

Look how much steak this little one can eat! Grampa said when I finally came to my last bite. And she wants some of mine, too. I always ate as much steak as I could just to hear him say something nice about me. It made me feel special. But Gramma’s crowning touch was about to come.

What kind of pie would you like, Sharon?

As full of steak as I was, I wasn’t about to miss any of Gramma’s famous pies. This time she had made pumpkin pie with neatly scalloped edges and whipped cream swirled on top and lemon pie with a perfectly browned meringue. They were both so beautiful that even in my reticence to speak I found voice to answer, Could I have a piece of each, Gramma? Please?

Lands child! she exclaimed. I don’t know how you stay so skinny! You’ve cleaned up that entire plate of food. Just look at that, will you? And now you want two pieces of pie? She beamed down at me. If you can eat ’em, you’ve got ’em.

I ate both pieces and really wanted more but didn’t dare ask. Besides, by then my tummy was so full it felt as big as Gramma’s looked—she liked her own cooking as much as I did.

It was naptime, and I contentedly rolled onto Gramma’s big bed with the pretty hand-sewn quilt. Sleep came quickly. When I woke, Carol was fast asleep beside me. Mom always dressed us as though we were identical. After all, when we were born, the doctor had told her we were identical, and whatever the doctor said was gospel. Doctors weren’t so smart in those days, for even I could tell that we weren’t identical. I was taller and always drove that fact home whenever our height was measured. But it hadn’t always been that way. Even though I was the firstborn, Carol was the healthy, bouncy, thriving one.

We had arrived about a month prematurely, and Mom hadn’t even known she was having twins till a couple of weeks before that. All of the family were as proud as could be of our being twins, but from birth, I fit the category of what is now termed a failure-to-thrive infant. At the hospital, they didn’t think I would make it, but Mom was determined. She was not going to lose another child. Just the previous year, our older sister, Darlene, then five, had died during a diphtheria epidemic. Mom insisted on bringing me home from the hospital, saying she could care for me better there. Grampa routinely drove to Regina, the capital city of Saskatchewan, to get a special formula for me, and with that and the love and care I received, I did thrive.

But even as a little girl, I realized something about me was different. I had no idea what it was; I just knew. I also knew that even though I didn’t like to talk to people, my little brain kept my thoughts busily jumping from one idea to another. Even my hair was different. Carol’s was thick and curled into pretty ringlets. Mine—well, Aunty Sue, an expert hairdresser, had explained to Mom many times over that I had five rooster tails and that my hair was so fine it barely covered my scalp.

As I lay there in Gramma’s big bed, my nose began tingling, interrupting my thoughts. Gramma believed in Absorbine Junior and used it copiously for her lumbago. The covers reeked of it—just like Gramma herself often did—and I loved her because she would hold me on her lap and rock me in her rocking chair and the smell gave me comfortable thoughts of being snuggled against her comfortably padded body. She often said she could never remember a time when she was thin. I suppose that was because she was such a wonderful cook. She always hid candy in her bedroom too, which, when Grampa wasn’t around, she would share with us.

Even through the tightly shut door, I could hear the adults talking in the other room. Carol stirred beside me. The next thing we knew, an intense brilliance streaked by the window and a horrific boom frightened both of us right off the bed. We fled to the front room and buried our heads in Mom’s lap. Wind grabbed at the house, rattling it and ripping the awnings from above the front room window as easily as a lion rips apart its prey.

Look at that! I heard Grampa’s big voice boom. Chain lightning! Look at that, Norman! Bolt lightning, too! Thunder boomed and banged with a ferocity that only the Saskatchewan prairies could produce.

Rube! Gramma shouted at Grampa. Shut the kitchen windows! She rose out of her usual quiet demeanor to meet the moment and had taken the storm in hand. I peeked around just as another flash of lightning painted a pale hue over her wrinkled face. Ruby! The bedroom window. Sue! Check the basement for signs of flooding. Norman! The door! Gramma quickly barked orders but failed to assign anything to herself—because of her lumbago, I thought. Even then things medical interested me.

Dad scrambled toward the door, almost tripping over one of the young cousins still sound asleep on the floor. The screen door’s gone! he shouted. He was usually a very quiet man and rarely sounded that excited. Hail started pounding against the windows, and I just knew they would break. But they didn’t. Carol and one of the toddlers had begun crying. I closed my eyes, covered my ears with my hands, and drove my head deeper into Mom’s lap. What if Gramma and Grampa’s house caves in? Just the night before, Daddy had told us the story of the three little pigs, and my fertile imagination created a series of house-falling-down scenarios.

Do you suppose it’s a tornado? Aunty Sue’s strained voice caused me to raise my head and open my eyes. I saw terror in the adults’ faces. My tummy squeezed tight—storms always terrified me, but I didn’t cry like Carol or say anything. Suddenly, the noise stopped. Just like that. The storm had passed as quickly as it had come.

We ought to go home, Ruby, and check out our own house. Dad was already standing. Carol and I kissed Gramma and Grampa good-bye. Rain still fell, and the four of us waited briefly for it to slow before crossing the street and going down the sidewalk and around the corner to the walkway into our own home. As much as I loved Gramma and Grampa, I was glad to get away from all the others and the fear that one of them might try to talk to me. Even then I felt very stupid about that.

Everything looked fine around our house. Ron, our sixteen-year-old brother, threw open the door to welcome us.

Sorry, Mom, he said. My throat got to feeling sore, so I fell down on my bed for a few minutes and went right off to sleep. I really hated to miss seeing the Perfectos too. Even I could tell he was stretching the truth. Guess I slept until the storm started. A winner, wasn’t it?

Sleeping in the afternoon? Mom didn’t think so. You know, Ronald, your grandmother worked very hard at making this dinner special. She tried to sound annoyed with her firstborn’s behavior, but how could a mother be angry with a son who had wavy red hair and a wickedly broad grin? I wondered just what he’d really been doing. He hated those family gatherings—maybe even more than I did.

And twins, Ron looked our way. I sure hope you didn’t get into one of your down-and-dirty scraps for the great lady.

Ronald! Mom smirked. The day with Mrs. Perfecto had been a strain for her too. As much as she admired Gramma’s friend, she felt she could never measure up to the older woman’s rigid standards. Dad just grinned at Mom with his usual adoring grin. He loved her so very much, and I hoped that someday I could be loved just like that. Then she turned and what she said took any thoughts of playtime right out of Carol and me. And we did not like it. Now you girls hurry up and get ready for bed. And right now. She spoke in the absolutely no-nonsense tone she used when she needed us to be in bed earlier than usual.

Oh, Mom, we said in unison. We managed the unison thing quite often. We just got home, and we want to play, At that point, Carol took over the talking. We were really good all day and had a long nap, and besides, it’s still light out. Of course, summer days are very long where we lived on the Canadian prairies. We both looked up pleadingly.

Out of desperation at this cutting short of our day, I spoke up. I told Carol I would play dolls with her when we got home. I hated to play dolls almost as much as I hated to talk, and Mom knew it. She also knew how much Carol loved playing with dolls. Would it work? It didn’t. She marched us up the narrow stairs, stuck us into our pajamas, kissed us good night, and ran back down to Dad.

What was that all about? Carol asked.

I don’t know. She even forgot our prayers, I whispered. We did a lot of whispering when Mom sent us to bed, and we weren’t the least bit happy about being dumped in so early. I slipped off the bed. Mom had pulled down the blind to make us think it was nighttime. I pulled it up and looked out the window. The sun hovered above the horizon, shining with the tantalizing brightness typical of our long summer evenings. What can we do? I asked. As usual, Mom had taken away all our toys and dolls. Just then we heard the back door slam.

Well, there goes Ron, Carol said. He was so lucky. We never got to stay up late like he did. Let’s go see what’s in Mom and Dad’s room. My twin had a way of coming up with some exceptionally fun and interesting ideas. We crept quietly to our door, opened it ever so carefully, and after listening to make sure they weren’t coming to bed, stepped softly across the hall and into their room.

I know what they’re doing, I whispered. They’re waltzing. I couldn’t hear any music, but I knew. They loved dancing!

Carol went to the dresser and opened Mom’s pretty blue Nivea cream jar. Let’s paint the windows, she whispered.

I wasn’t so sure about that one. Mom’ll kill us if she finds out!

I don’t think she’ll mind. Carol could be so sweet and so convincing. After all, she knows she put us to bed too early. She dipped her whole hand into the jar and smeared a beautiful white wavy swirl across one window.

Oh! I was careful to keep my voice very, very quiet. That looks really pretty. Let me try. I dug my hand deep into the jar. I’ll paint this one by the dresser. I always thought Carol’s art looked way prettier than mine, but feeling the creamy white stuff flow off my hand and seeing the swirls and patterns I could make by waving my arm up and down and twisting my fingers was ever so much fun. We were just finishing the last window when a certain sound echoed up to us.

I think I’ll go up and check on the girls, Norm. It was Mom’s voice. It’s just too quiet up there.

I felt a quick intake of my breath and looked at Carol. There were footsteps on the stairs. Bouncing up onto our toes to avoid making too much noise, we both scampered for bed, diving hastily under the covers and pulling the sheet up over our heads. I squished my eyes tight, hoping Mom wouldn’t notice anything.

Carol! Sharon! Come here immediately!

That tone of voice was not to be trifled with. We slid back out of bed, letting our feet thud to the floor, and with head down, I followed Carol’s slow trudge back to our parents’ room. On the way, my heart sank even further when I saw the lumpy smears of Mom’s Nivea cream lingering on our hands.

The atmosphere in the bedroom almost vibrated with warning signals, and Mom’s stance was far from welcoming. Did you girls do this? She pointed first at the windows and then at the empty Nivea jar, and then sat herself on the edge of the bed. Come here, she ordered. You first, Carol—over my lap. A few barehanded swats set Carol to bawling, very loudly. You’re next, Sharon.

Still crying, Carol headed toward our room. I just stared at Mom.

I said come here, Sharon! Now!

I inched a little closer.

Mom reached out and snagged onto my pajama bottoms. You know you deserve this, Sharon, she said and made me bend over her lap.

The whacks hurt, but I didn’t cry easily like Carol. Mom kept at it until a little sob at last burst out. I fled to our room. Carol was still quietly sniffling and kept at it until she cried herself to sleep. I don’t know how long it took Mom to clean the windows, but for a long time that night, my little mind spun with worrying questions.

Would Mom send us away for being so bad? Would Carol and I be separated forever? What would I do then? Would she send us to that orphanage she always talked about whenever she tried getting me to eat porridge? My mind was running on overdrive like it always did when we’d been exceptionally bad, and my thoughts spun in a dozen directions, worrying me about what would happen if I didn’t have Carol. She did most of my talking when I needed something from Mom or Dad or when we were out with friends, and that helped make me feel safe. Mom couldn’t be so mad that she’d give us away—or is she? I touched my hind side. It still felt hot. I hoped it would have a big blue bruise and then Mom would be sorry for spanking me. At that point, something in my mind turned upward. Already during quiet times like these when I retreated deeper into my brain, I did a lot of talking to Jesus, just like Dad and Mom taught us to do.

Dear Jesus, I prayed. Please don’t let Mom give us away. I promise to be good, and I sure won’t paint Nivea on her windows ever again. My mind turned me in a new direction. Maybe I should play dolls with Carol tomorrow. I always preferred looking at pictures in books or going down to the basement to watch Daddy build things. Maybe I should do what Carol likes. Then those other thoughts came: I think Daddy loves me more than he loves Carol. I know Mom loves Carol more than she loves me. Who wouldn’t? Carol always says they love us both the same, and she’s always so happy, and everyone has fun when she’s around. And I am… shy? Mom seemed to think so. She might be right. But no. I knew better. I hope we can go play in Grandma’s backyard tomorrow. And then there it was, that fragment of my favorite song. Jesus loves me … Mom and Dad always told me that Jesus did love me, just like the song says. Little ones to Him belong … The other kids won’t be there, and there will be just Carol and me … More pieces from the song drifted through my head, mixed into my thoughts, and wrapped around the worry in my heart. Gradually the chatter in my mind spun slowly away into drowsiness.

At that point, none of us had any idea of what lay ahead.

Chapter 3

More Than a Sister

Get up! Carol was shaking me. Get up! We can go to Gramma’s for all day!

My eyes flew open. Gramma’s? We never knew what fun things we might get to do there, and my mind jumped into overtime. Grampa might let me light his cigarettes! Gramma didn’t like that, and in her quiet way, she’d say, Rube! But I loved the smell of matches and would just smile at her, climb onto his lap, light the cigarette, and Grampa would laugh. Grampa and I were great pals; I always felt safe with him. There were other things Gramma didn’t like, and neither did Mom. Sometimes when Grampa’s brother was visiting, Gramma would shut the front room door and tell us not to bother the men. I knew why, too, because sometimes the adults talked about certain ones drinking too much, and even though I didn’t understand why, they made it sound like a bad thing. My brain always sponged in details and filed them away for later. On the days the front room door was closed, Gramma always had other fun things for us to do.

For the whole day? I asked.

Yep! Mom’s going shopping with Aunty. She said hurry. We’re going after breakfast, so c’mon! She gave the blankets a tug and then ran for the stairs.

I jumped out of bed, found my clothes, threw them on, and rushed after her with my shoelaces flying. My mind was always in too much of a hurry to conquer the process of lace-tying. Downstairs, I climbed onto my chair. Porridge! I made a face. I hated the yucky, gray oatmeal. It looked slimy and slithery and made me feel all gaggy and sick. Mommy, I tried to sound winsome. Could I just have some dry cereal, please?

Sharon! Mom used her no-nonsense tone. Eat your porridge! Now! Do you have any idea how good it is for you? The orphans in Korea would love to have something as good.

Mom had given me her porridge-and-orphan speech many times, and you’d think that by then she’d know better than try to get me to eat the stuff when she was in a hurry. I shook the bowl a little and the mass jiggled. Tiny waves wrinkled across the milk and to the edge of the bowl. Across the table, Carol had almost finished hers. She always ate hers, but I’d rather go hungry than put one bite of the horrid stuff into my mouth. I drew a line through it with my spoon and separated it a bit, but it still looked disgusting. I slid my elbow onto the table and, jaw in hand, glared at it.

Look, young lady! You’ll have porridge for supper while the rest of us are eating chocolate ice cream. I plan to buy some on the way home today. Not even promises of a treat like that could move me to eat, and I slipped out of my chair without another word. Mom shook her head, scraped my porridge into the garbage, and hurried to finish getting ready. Promise me there’ll be no fighting, she instructed when she was ready to go, and taking our hands, she hurried us over to Gramma’s.

Now be good girls, and remember, no fighting! Mom said again as she delivered us into Gramma’s welcoming arms. The word fighting lodged in my brain. Carol and I were well known in family circles for our classic performances.

I’ve set up the croquet game for you. Gramma was smiling.

My skittish little mind was racing around. Since she was keeping us outside, I was sure that Grampa’s brother must be there and that she had closed them and their whiskey behind the front room door. Sometimes I wondered if that had anything to do with church. Gramma, Mom, Dad, Mom’s brother, and his family went to church every week, and sometimes when the preacher wasn’t there, Mom’s brother preached. Dad liked to read his Bible, and sometimes he preached too. We twins were always supposed to say our prayers and—

Remember how you take turns hitting the ball through the wires, and the first one back home wins.

Carol and I looked at each other. Gramma didn’t have to tell us that. From the time we were toddlers, we had known rules, and from the games we’d played before, we also had a good idea about how this game would go. At least I did.

When you’re finished, come in and we’ll make pull-taffy.

Gramma made the