Whisper Me Daughter

By Laila M Ireland

There's nothing worse in the world than to be unwanted and unloved by one's parents—except being scourged, humiliated, and hurled into darkness, damning our years from the very beginning. The blackness of blankets, boards, and drapes hammered over window panes was meant to shut out the sunlight, obscuring us from peering out into the world as we remained hidden, hollering and hurting inside, undiscovered.

Father had no interest beyond the walls of our foreboding home, and though Mother traipsed in and out of our days, smelling of sweet perfumes wafting of foods we had never seen or eaten, they were both the makers of the dread. Our nursery years buried us beneath a wretched horde, haunted by rats, roaches, and the incessant whines of our younger siblings, often hiding in the rubbish. Most days, it was simpler to search, hush, and hide with them whenever Mother's torturous temper flared.

Father, an orange ember glowing in the darkened distance of those days, was either a beacon or a burning lure to us as we scurried out from the dung heaps, daring for deliverance. I soon learned that endurance without crying was what soothed Mother's rage—tears and wailing only made her rampages worse. She would bash my head into the walls and smile to discover that I had been biting my mouth shut, just as she had commanded. And that made her smile.

And so it had become a painful challenge trying to earn Mother's love. Even a chilling grin was kinder than the cruel glares accompanied by hateful words of the grief my existence caused her. I didn't like thinking that I was the reason for my mother's miseries. I mean, even Frankenstein yearned for the kindness and acceptance of his maker, at least in the tale I've been told.

I suppose if I had to liken myself to any infamous character, it would be precisely that pitiful, tormented creature strewn together out of madness. He was given to breathe a life doomed, a hideously sad soul, a disappointment shunned and abused by his creator.

In all of the miserable years governed by the shadow masters who were our parents, my yearning to be loved had been stronger than all of the afflictions and griefs we endured. Now, as I returned to those haunting years, breaking the barriers that once hid us away from the world, I hear the echoes of threats forbidding me to breathe words of truth. Guided by the hand of God, whose love for me is more powerful than all the dark, sorted secrets and sins, past and present, I am fearless, as Jesus whispers me daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laila M Ireland
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463727683

Laila M Ireland

There You Are is a haunting memoir recounting the horrific years of her childhood wherein deprivation, abuse and evil reined in a household of madness. Desperate to be loved by the deranged parents whose torture banished her to the blackness beneath their forbidden home; it was there, buried alive in the darkness that she found comfort in the arms of her savior, Jesus Christ. Now, after some forty years and having been visited again by God who has healed her from stage 4 metastatic lung cancer which spread to the brain, Laila writes to unearth the sordid sins that banished her from the world while testifying of the miracle truth that Jesus Christ is very real.

Book preview

Foreword

There's nothing worse in this world than to be unwanted and unloved by one's parents, except to be scourged, humiliated and hurled into a darkness damning our years from the very beginning. I mean, even Frankenstein yearned for the kindness and acceptance of his maker, at least in the tale I've been told. I suppose if I had to liken myself to any infamous character, it would be precisely that pitiful tormented creature strewn together out of madness given to breathe life a hideously doomed disappointment; shunned and abused by his creator.

In all the miserable years governed in the shadows of those masters who were our parents, my yearning to be loved had been stronger than all the afflictions and griefs we endured. I learned early that tears of sorrow and pain provoked fury and hatred so that I was forced to swallow all of my young anguish, except during those whispering hours when in utter darkness my true creator emerged, consoling me. Now, upon returning to those haunting years once hushed by threats, fears and the evil that once forbade me to breathe, I am guided by Jesus Christ, my God whose love is more powerful than all the dark, sordid secrets and sins of this world.

Chapter 1

As far back as I can remember, darkness had always cradled my days in its cold and often frightful embrace. Our home, a towering ominous structure was forbidden to me during most afternoons when my sister, Ann attended school. Get up, dummy! Mother would hiss, grabbing a fistful of my hair while dragging me out of bed. My eyes blurry from sleep, strained to find my older sister rummaging somewhere amidst the piles of dirty laundry in our big, barren bedroom. The awful stench of soiled garments reeked. She'd pluck through urine, mold and muddy clothes to find the very best for the joyous day awaiting. I longed for her return, from the lessons and laughter that had me pondering all the fun activities which were hers to share, to tell.

It was always with a great reluctance that I would scurry towards one of the filthy piles of unwashed clothes, hoping to grab a musty sweater, dress or shirt to pull over my head before mother sent me out into the dreary backyard. It was there in the damp grounds, I would have to occupy myself during those long and lonesome hours ahead.

Don't wear that one! Ann whined whenever spying me yanking something that belonged to her; meaning I'd have nothing at all to keep warm during the morning hours when mother's fiery temper flared quicker than the sun's early rise. It didn't matter that Ann hadn't worn the clothing for months or even that it was encrusted with stains. If it was hers, as most of all the laundry was, then nothing was intended for my grubby hands.

Mother always stood in the doorway of our bedroom sighing as she twisted her plump fingers around the ends of her black hair watching, waiting impatiently. Find your own stuff to wear! Ann would often say before sprinting out of our dreary, dim room. Her shoes clicked and tapped the splintery floorboards as she spun out into the world, happy to leave our dingy home behind. How I longed to chase after her, to be a part of everything that made her smile with excitement as she raced off into school days with a cheerful heart. If only I were older, my thoughts brooding as I wiggled in and out of whatever smelly articles I could find. If only I were bigger, prettier and not bashful, then maybe I could rush along with her to the school where children, books, and food were plentiful. If only.

It was hard straining my sights in the darkness of our dimly lit bedroom under mother's scrutiny, scrambling around uncomfortably aware of her nude and enormous figure dominating the doorway. There would be no rushing past her. My anxious thoughts tugged awkwardly at dresses from the unwashed piles of clothes. The stink made mother gag. Shove everything back into the closet! she'd scoff angrily, watching me push, kick and fling the entire mess out of sight, out of smell. If I took too long, she would drag me by the back of my hair down the long hallway towards the kitchen, through the pantry and push me out onto the porch without anything more than the thin dress I wore to bed the night before. You keep out of the house until I call for you. Don't come sneaking back in here or else! she'd warn, slamming the door behind her. The clicking sound of the latch locking me out meant no amount of pleading or crying would change her mind. My ear pressed tightly to the back door as the cold winds swept the tears from my cheeks, listening as mother maneuvered inside the hoarded home that she desired emptied of me during the daylight hours. According to her, she wanted to sleep in peace, something that could not be achieved unless I was banished. The thought of her snoring peaceably among the putrid, furry edibles, broken appliances, and all the rotting garbage she treasured made me sad as I waited, listening.

It was hope that kept me standing, wishing on those frigid mornings. For somewhere, in all of her cherished junk crawling and festering with maggots, cockroaches and mice was the only other living distraction that might of spoiled mother's slumber-my baby sister, Sarah. If awoken with a wailing bout surely mother would holler for me as she often did. Maybe then, I could stay inside and tend to her cranky needs, wants.

Sarah's crib stood like a white wooden cage at the bottom of our big room. She was a sickly baby always shoving her bony limbs through the splintered slats, watching with huge glassy, black eyes that incessantly dripped so that she appeared to be constantly crying. Howling, her tiny fists gripping the bars while she rocked back and forth watching, waiting for someone to give her the bottle of milk we rarely had. When Sarah smiled her tiny teeth were brown, rotted from the sugar drinks mother gave her to quiet the bouts of hunger.

I wished I could remain inside most mornings to tickle her small feet with my sticky fingers or whisper her the songs that Ann taught to me, whenever we stole sips from the bloated bottles that littered her bed. It was a funny tune that I often hummed that made Sarah giggle when she was awake and paying attention. I loved making her laugh as I wiggled my hand into her crib all the while trying to sing the tunes that made her eyes, stretch with amusement as I groveled for the bottles to drink.

Sarah never fussed over sharing the way Ann had whenever I had sucked the curds from the swollen nipple that pacified her most days. Her eyes widened with curiosity whenever I shook, sucked, bit and pulled the rubber for a suckle that was never satisfying and tasted yucky to swallow. Then, too, there were times when I had sipped the last of her rations and like a little bird chirping in a frenzy, she'd weep. There was no hushing her as she stretched her arms through the bars wailing in pitches higher and louder. It was only when she began banging her head against the crib in a fitful tantrum that I'd race from the room, down the hall and into the bathroom where filling her empty bottle from the spout was a murky endeavor.

Quickly, rushing back to her with the water I'd hoped would suffice, it always made me marvel to watch her shake the glass to be certain there was any reason at all to suck the foul tip for a feeding. Sarah was smart, I thought watching her drink the dingy water until her little legs buckled and she fell back into the slumbers of what dreams kept her quiet, contented. My fingers wiped away what tear drops trapped in her long black lashes, I was happy she couldn't talk or tattle. If she could tell mother that Ann and I had been sucking away the cold rations of milk meant only for her, I was certain it would mean a beating that would end our thirsty thieving altogether.

How I loved our little sister, feeling happiness whenever she found the relief that seemed only present during fitful slumbers when she wasn't ailing from all that made her sickly. When mother's shouts failed to hush her incessant cries in the waking hours. And yet, as I made my way down those long rickety steps all I had hoped for was that Sarah would awaken hungry, howling and wailing on those merciless mornings when mother discarded me.

Every night before I went to sleep, my mother would warn, You better tuck those feet in, girl or else the devil will come to drag you back to hell where you came from when you twisted into this world. With that said she would stalk away, leaving me to cram my cold feet into the shredded mattress of my cot scraping and cutting, determined to anchor myself to the rusty springs in this world.

It was in those cold mornings when she ushered me out into the darkness long before the light had risen, that I would stand shivering while staring over the banister peering down into the blackness, wondering what awaited me below. My chest pounding with pain and anxiety, pondering mother's frightful words, warnings as I made my grievous descent into the forgotten backyard. All mine to hide in during those long and lonesome hours until Ann returned.

I imagined the devil himself to be hiding somewhere behind the twisted trees or beneath the stacks of putrid garbage that heaped like rotting hills surrounding the stairwell I maneuvered each day. The terrible fear that I would be taken back to that awful place where mother said I belonged, transformed shadows into creatures as I suffered to hide from the bad souls who gnashed their rotting teeth, clutching their empty bellies, writhing in pain with no relief in sight forever doomed.

My legs trembled in the heavy braces that encased them, making each step a staggering effort towards the abyss I imagined to be crawling with demons, eager to find me and tattle to the devil who let me escape in the first place. The boots attached to the metal braces hurt my feet, making my toes burn from the cold that seared beneath the torn soles. I held on tightly to the banister to keep from teetering as I made my awkward way down those dreaded flights.

Once below the enormous building that towered over the rotten grounds I'd sigh breathless, scurrying towards the far fences. That's where I'd first discovered them, the dainty flowers that wore frilly white collars the way clowns dressed. Their tiny yellow faces turned upwards towards the Heavens where I knew that God was watching over me. Smiling as I lay, admiring the frail daisies dancing in the putrid breeze. It was there, that I would bury myself beneath piles of old carpets, towels and whatever else I could find that tenants had thrown from their windows. Safe and smiling near my secret garden I could hide from the world that I somehow twisted into from the devil, that according to my mother had wanted to snatch me back.

On rare, but happier days I would hear the familiar screech of our kitchen window opening and, peering out from under the rubbish, I could see mother. She often dangled a paper sack or waved a fistful of food in the air while calling out to catch my attention. Come on and get it before the rats do Dummy! she'd say, shaking her head when I'd emerge knocking down crates and boxes to race under the window she dropped the scraps from. Sometimes, just as I knelt to gather up whatever slopped in the mud at my knees, I'd feel it. THUD! A painful bang on my head, which sent me reeling was usually from the empty tins that mother liked to hurl at me, scaring me back into the garbage mounds where I would wait until she'd shut the window and all was clear.

Scrambling back out, I'd collect all the tins that thumped my head, back, and legs. I liked scraping my fingers in the dirty cans crusted with soups, gravies and whatever else stuck onto the sides of those tins that fell from our window and bruised my brains. There was never any telling what mother would throw out next, only that she liked hurling things to make me squeal. Everything from scraps, to empty tins or garbage, went flying when I was there for the aiming. Each attempt made to hit some part of me made mother laugh when I shrieked from the beguiling blows.

Then too, there were times when mother's meanness came crashing down in shards of dishes, broken appliances and anything else that sent me howling in pain for the grave that Ann and I had dug together. It was the nearest of hiding places to expire in whenever we played our peculiar hunger games or wanted to hide from mother altogether. Our grave was marked by all the rusty tin cans we used to make mud pies, the top covered over with cardboard, the headstone was one of father's motorcycle helmets, the marker of our favorite hiding place amidst the filthy backyard. This was our special place to go whenever we wanted to cradle ourselves in the dirt that surrounded us, where we could die together. It was during those painful times when Mother was especially mean, that I'd fall into that pit and cry endlessly for my older sister, Ann who often pretended to be my real mother. She was the one who would hold me tightly in her skinny arms and kiss away my tears, but always only after I had devoured one of her mud pies and climbed into the grave to die beside her. There we could both be eaten by the worms that would make certain no one could ever find or hurt us again.

Then, too, there were days when neither my mother's voice, nor the cheer of my sister's presence beckoned me from the shallows of those nursery years, rather the familiar chaos of men laughing, drinking and fighting that stirred me from the grave. Oh, what a happy delirium it was climbing out of the dirt in the knowledge that my father was home. Hearing his friends clamoring above, knowing that the back door to the home forbidden to me during the daylight hours was suddenly open, springing life back into my aching limbs as I'd climbed out of the dirt.

Smiling eagerly as I pulled my stiff, braced legs one after the other up the long staircase towards to our bustling apartment. The gagging stench of sweaty men, beer and cigarettes filled the musty air with all the comforting clues that my father was home. The blur of tall bodies as I searched for father made me dizzy on those nights when I strained to look for his boots. Always, he was sitting in his favorite chair, drinking and smoking. Dad! I'd gasp excitedly, smiling with relief to see my father grinning my way.

I pushed bravely past the adults to grab his extended hand, kissing it over and over until finally, I'd sink to the floor near his feet where he often allowed me to remain for uncertain amounts of time. I loved father who didn't mind my presence at all, unlike mother whose brown beady eyes glared at me from across the room. I would wrap my arms around his boot, pressing my face into his legs for the safety I sought when he was home.

Mother would traipse about passing out beers to his friends, smiling and laughing. Ann and I both marveled at her stunning transformations during those days when father's friends were scattered throughout the large apartment. The black hair ratted high over her head fell like silken ribbons down her back, her soft painted face resembling those pretty ladies in the glossy pages of magazines that we scribbled on for fun. Ruby, as she was known to all of her friends was another woman during those parties when even the cluttered, dirty confines of our home went unnoticed in her bright, audacious presence.

I sometimes spied her rushing off into the bedroom to change into another dress. She had huge breasts that were suspended by a big brazier and her usual bulging belly that bounced when she walked was gone, tucked neatly away under a tight girdled slip altering the familiar flabby stomach so that she appeared in all form smaller than she truly was. Beautiful, I thought whenever she allowed me to watch her evolve into the creature that father loved to show off.

Sucking in her rouged cheeks and puckering kisses at her reflection, suddenly she'd stare at me through the mirror. How do I look? she asked, the question always made me both shy and scared to answer.

Pretty, I'd reply watching her open the drawer that revealed her stash of candied caramels.

You mean SEXY! she said, correcting me. Go on, then. Take some! urging me to grab the candy. Then get your ass to your room and don't come out unless I say so. You hear, me? With that, she turned, leaving me to grab handfuls of sweeties, enough to keep both Ann and I awake for hours gnawing on the gooey treats, rotting our teeth.

We would huddle beside our beds chewing, giggling and daring each other to sneak out of our room and go on the prowl for whatever real food we could find, scavenge. Often waiting until long after the roar of motorcycles, revving of cars and the loud voices of people leaving. We would both tiptoe down the hall, quietly stepping around and over bodies sprawled out snoring. There were open chip bags and cans filled with pop, beers and even take out cartons with scraps of noodles, rice and everything else that was ours for the eating.

One particular night when we had both successfully maneuvered the squeaky floorboards, our stale goods encrusted on plates, spoons, forks all balanced within the hammock hems of our dresses, Ann stopped suddenly to pick up a beer can. I'll tell Dad, I whispered, scared the stinky drink would make her silly somehow.

Go ahead. I'll tell on you, she'd burped a flurry of lying threats that made me wish I'd kept my mouth shut. Wait and see! she said, sticking her tongue out before hurrying down the hallway without me.

Panicking, I spun about, fretting the darkness, the doom of being caught. She ran off, leaving me alone to carry those clamoring dishes by myself knowing that it was difficult to avoid those noisy floorboards that squealed outside of our parents' bedroom. I could feel the stickiness of sweat on my face, my neck bent and fingers ached as I maneuvered quietly down the hall. I don't know how long it took me to sneak back into our bedroom only that Ann was sleeping when I crept in. Huddling down, I could see the stash of dirty plates piled neatly under her bed shined clean from the spit licking I knew she'd given them. Her round, petite face appeared happy, smiling and contented beneath the glow of the street lights pouring into our bedroom. I found comfort staring at Ann's pretty expression while she slept. I pondered her dreams wondering if I were in them, too.

Mother always said that someone controlled all the lights in our city, When it's time he or she pulls a switch and all of San Francisco goes to sleep smothered in a blackness, she'd say, her words, forcing me to imagine a world without being able to see my sister's face in the darkness, haunted both my days and nights. I sat on my bed cramming my mouth with all the spoons, forks and scraps I had found, all the while pondering the person whose job it was to turn the world off and make the children sleep in total darkness. Sarah's nose whistled as I lay staring across the room at Ann's weird grin, the curtains, laid open, exposing our ghastly green walls and the petite, still figures of both of my sisters who slumbered unaware of my plight.

I could feel myself drifting, drowsy as I plunged my feet into the springs of my smelly mattress. Then, I heard it. A heavy breathing that got louder and closer. The deep, disturbing breaths surrounding me like an ambitious, hissing wind. My eyes strained to scan the room when suddenly, Mother emerged. Her billowing figure lunged from the doorway stepping closer into the light, hovering as I stared up at her glaring pale face.

I wanted to shut my eyes, to turn away, to scurry under my bed, but it was too late. Her dark eyes, vacant of the paint that once made her pretty, resembled holes burrowed into a huge head missing eyebrows as she glared at me with a deformed expression of disdain. Hunching forward, her big nude body appeared as though it were tearing, bursting over her breasts and belly were the purplish red marks that appeared like ripping scars under the dim light as she moved forward.

Standing over me in all of her naked ghastliness she appeared to be a giant creature, her hair tangled and matted in all directions, who in one swift sudden movement, clamped her large hand down over my face! The awful pressure of her palm pushing against my nose, her fingertips pressing into my cheeks, covering my mouth, stifled my screams. If only Ann were awake, she would pound her fists into mother, try to help me!

Writhing beneath the weight of her big sweaty hand, there was no escape! The more I twisted, kicked and fought for air the heavier her beastly breaths became. It didn't matter that had I tried to pry her hand from my face, I couldn't. I could feel mother's hatred as she crushed my head with her bare hands. The wicked glaze in her eyes while she watched me suffer filled me with fear as my entire body arched for the breaths she took. My eyes felt as if they were going to pop, my arms, my legs jerked, twitched uncontrollably. Mother's grunts became deeper, louder.

Tears spilled from my eyes, pain wracked my body, my chest felt like it was exploding. Soon, blackness came and I couldn't see, I couldn't feel and I couldn't breathe. The monster that was my mother wouldn't let me.

Chapter 2

Sundays were the best days for my sister, Ann and I as we'd race out of the apartment before our parents woke. These special mornings were the happiest for us as we plucked through dirty piles of clothes, finding the best of our unsoiled dresses to wear for worship, hurrying along the familiar routes leading to churches of any denomination with opened doors, inviting in the believers or like ourselves, the hungry strays. We squeezed in between adults to hear the messages of pastors preaching and choirs that sung heartfelt songs to the one and only God, who I knew was ever watchful over us. I always marveled at the way Ann could pick up a hymn book and sing along with the others as if she'd been praising the Lord her entire young life. She wasn't at all shy about singing. Her voice rising to octaves that sometimes startled others into noticing her, gawking in awe of the beauty in her voice just as I did, standing silently beside her. I worried too, that the members of the churches we frequented might catch on. Realizing that we were just two hungry children, stealing in to get our hands on the sticky breakfast rolls, toast, cookies, and coffee that most of them offered up after the services. Surely her angelic voice would get us caught and kicked out I had thought while elbowing her to shut up most weekends. Ann must have been filled with a faith greater than our grumbling bellies on those mornings, as she sung towards the heavens as though she herself were bringing those believers to the Lord's attention.

Quickly stuffing our pockets with the free pastries afterward, we'd rush back out in search of yet another Baptist, Lutheran or any other house of God where we knew goodies were to be gained. One neighborhood after another, we stole in to hear the last of preaching before raiding the pantries that bustled with sweeties, each of us saving a biscuit for baby Sarah. Stuffing our faces and packing our underwear with as many cakes as we could take on those mornings before we finally made it to our own faith-filled church, which never offered anything but for the big marble blessing bowls of holy water at its entrance.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we whispered, dipping our grubby hands into the sanctified waters that would cleanse away all of the crumbs of our sins, blessing us before entering the pristine palace of God's own home on earth. A curtsy before sliding into a pew was a requirement that I could never manage in my awkward braces, so it was I scampered off to my favorite praying corridor nearby. There, beyond an arched entrance stood in all of her pure majesty, Mother Mary; her face tilted downward appeared smiling to me as I scooted myself onto the cold marble in which she stood upon. Surrounded by a metal gate to keep her stature safe from those who, like me, wanted to touch her, to trace my fingers along the robes cloaking her still figure. Embracing the mother whom God had chosen to bear Jesus Christ himself was a dream out of my young reach, as I stretched my arms through the narrow bars, barely brushing my fingers along the tops of her cold toes. Wishing, wanting and sometimes even weeping at her feet. Jesus' mother must have been the nicest in all the world, I thought. Imaging what it might feel like if her hand actually brushed along the top of my head, while I slumped crying about how my own mother hurt and hated me.

Finding our way back home on those sacred mornings was always an adventure both fun and bewildering to me. The world beyond the filthy confines of our big backyard was largely bustling with cars, people, places and houses where Ann played in on those long afternoons when she didn't return home to retrieve me. My friend, Lisa lives there, she'd point, aiming a finger towards a building near, And I've got friends from my third grade class who live over in that house, and that fat girl, Bunny I told you about lives in there, she'd say, squinting her big brown eyes towards a brick house that stood between our apartment building and another that stretched to the corner end of our block. Hovering over the small store that always beckoned our young attentions with candy jars, bubble gum machines.

You stay out of sight, you hear? Ann would shove me hard into the doorway of our building whenever she saw her friend wobble down the stairs. If I can get her to give me anything I'll share it with you, but don't dare come out or I'll pretend you ain't my sister. Her mean threat was always enough to give me the courage to steal into the basement of our building, wherein the darkness the only light shining fell like pillars, tumbling in from shattered windows along the walls. Giving me glimpses of the cluttered labyrinth I would often get lost in for uncertain amounts of biding time. Stacks upon stacks of teetering furniture toppled everywhere from the other occupants of our building, that according to the creepy manager Mr. John, had either been left behind when they moved away or stored up in dead piles for the living relatives to come and claim if anyone ever came looking. No one ever did, he said, but that we could look and play in his basement all we wanted as long as we didn't take anything.

I didn't like being alone in that musty place by myself, but it was the quickest way to get to our backyard without having to climb the huge staircase on the second floor to our apartment, where Mother might be in a bad mood, waiting. All I had to do was climb, squeeze and push past the boxes, chairs, and furnishings that others had forgotten to find my way out on the other side. Never go near those rats, My father would warn whenever we told him of all the glowing eyes we'd seen scattered in the basement. Sometimes they made loud screeching noises when we threw in rotten food from the trash bins outside. Ann and I took turns in the frightful feeding that forced them out of the darkness towards the back door where we could see them big and hairy. They'll eat you alive, Our father would say, exhaling his words in thick cloudy smoke.

There were times when even the reddish glow of their eyes, suspended in odd positions in the eerie blackness, couldn't deter me from creating the rooms of my childish fantasies. Dragging chairs around coffee tables, balancing broken lamps on nightstands and clearing sofas of whatever junk obscured the seats. I imagined what my bed would be whenever sprawling out beneath rummaged garments. I liked to pretend that I was waiting for my real mother, Ann, who would appear any random moment with pockets full of goodies she'd gotten from our neighbor. Her best fat friend, Bunny and call me to the table I'd set up just for our meal together. I smiled at the thought of real pies, unlike the dirty mud pies she liked to force me to eat just so I could share her grave on other days when food was scarce and the only warm place I could huddle in were her lanky arms. Here, in my conjured room, we could munch, sleep and do whatever we wanted without having to pluck worms from out of our filthy feast or from our tangled hair. This could be our new home, I'd thought often snuggling under an array of moldy smelling pillows or clothing I'd gathered, before drifting off into a fitful sleep that always made me panic to stir from.

Quickly as I could, I would scramble to get out of that damp, dreary place. My heart pounding to find the back door where I had hoped Ann would be waiting ill-tempered to see me. She was never there to be found on those late afternoons when my childish dreams distracted me. I'd peer around to see if she were hiding. Nothing. She was nowhere. I was alone. I'd dig my hand in my underwear and pull out whatever cookie or scrap I'd been saving for Sarah and cram it in my mouth, chewing and swallowing my sadness in one big selfish gulp.

Upstairs, beyond the small utility room that reeked with the gagging odor of cat litter and the putrid dirty water from a broken dishwasher that had never been drained. I would stand in the kitchen doorway, listening. If there was music playing as it often was, it meant that only mother was home. She liked listening to sad songs about women who were cheated on by their men and that sort of wailing was not tolerated by our father, who had always insisted she turn it off. Threatening to break the damned thing, if he was forced to listen to such nonsense. It also meant that she was probably in a bad mood and wouldn't hesitate to grab the nearest ashtray, tin opener or any other heavy object that might be nearby for hurling my way. If I summoned the audacity to go inside, disturbing her grievous entertainment.

It was simpler to hide somewhere outside and wait for Ann to fetch me or my father to call my name, than it was to give mother another reason to hurt me. Sometimes, when the skies turned purple just before the darkness, I could hear my sister's boisterous voice giggling and chatting in the near distance. I knew it wasn't coming from our apartment, Ann never brought any of her fabled friends to our home. She was next door playing with that chubby girl, Bunny, whose long ponytails were often strewn up at the sides of her fat face, resembling rabbit ears that dangled with pretty ribbons matching her outfits. I was jealous of the fat girl with her endless supply of goodies to stuff the gawking faces of the neighborhood children. She had a bedroom that made Ann whine to mother, complaining about the things we didn't have. Ruffled bedspreads, big pretty pillows that matched pink and white curtains. Games galore, stacked on shelves surrounding dollhouses filled with real tiny furniture and dolls that wore different dresses every day. I was envious of the attention that my older sister gave to her and all of the fancy things that made Ann brave enough to snap at our mother while I watched fearfully, amazed. All I got are naked Barbies! Ann would cry, stomping the floor with her black spit shined school shoes whenever mother was too lazy to get up, to smack her silent for carrying on and giving her a throbbing headache.

Shut up! Mother barked, You're lucky you've got anything at all, she'd say while strumming through the pages of some magazine she pretended to be reading. Mother's long fake lashes blinked with the speed of Ann's complaints as I stood marveling in nervous anticipation of her furious temper. Suddenly all at once she would slam her eyes shut and in a violent instant, hop off the sofa and chase Ann around the living room, swatting at her with devilish determination. I'll put you out of your misery you ungrateful brat! she hollered, stumbling over the broken hoard of radios, toasters and umbrellas. Often banging into me when I was unlucky enough to sneak out faster than her temper flared. It was usually then that her anger unleashed its fury, forgetting that it was Ann who started it all. She would stand there smiling, watching as mother beat her frustrations out on my backside, head, legs and feet. Whichever part of me was flailing about for the painful punishment she deserved. The harder mother hit me, the more excited Ann became. Giggling, while I howled like some hideous animal trapped by mother's wrath, unable to scurry away fast enough to the safety of my underworld outside the home. It wasn't right, I'd cried hobbling away on those painful evenings when mother's angry energy ran out and she'd sit together with Ann on the sofa, chatting on. I can make all sorts of stuff for your dolls, Mother's voice exasperated, promising. She would, when she was feeling better pull out her old sewing machine and give it a spin at designing all the clothes Ann's Barbies would sport in stitches, better than anything Bunny's dolls wore. Oh, I can't wait! I could hear Ann squealing with delight in those rare moments when our mother's own voice sounded softer than usual, wistfully speaking with a kindness neither of us were accustomed to hearing, believing.

Whenever I spied Ann over the fence in Bunny's backyard, I felt that familiar ache in my chest that always made tears well, blurring my sights while peeking at them through the fence holes, watching, waiting and wanting my sister all to myself. It was under the stairwell that they made a girls-only clubhouse where I could see my sister's cheeks swell with happiness, gobbling cookies while Bunny pulled her sticky locks into ponytails like her own. I get to keep these ribbons? Ann asked, expecting the same answer she always got, These are old ones, I've got new ones. You can keep 'em. She'd yank at Ann's tangled hair, mangled with pastel ribbons that matched her plaid blue dresses and red sweaters she always wore. Ann liked being fussed over in ways that she doted on me whenever she pretended to be my real mother. I watched while the fat girl struggled to untangle her long black hair, fixed fancy bows to frame her petite face, and supplied her with sweeties in exchange for her friendship. Sometimes, the two of them sat balancing plates on their scabby knees. I'd find a hole closer to see what they were eating; biscuits and gravy, casseroles Bunny's mother made. Best of all was the chicken meals I could savor if only I was really quiet and didn't let on that I existed. Ann would shove her greasy fingers through the fence holes for me to lick clean, but only if Bunny wasn't looking.

It was those times when I suckled her bony flavored fingers through the splintery holes that I wished I, too, could be friends with the fat girl my sister wanted to be like. I imagined myself squatting between them with ribbons in my own hair while munching away listening to the stories about nasty boys who liked sniffing underwear and pinching Bunny's big breasts because they were soft and jiggly. I could be her friend, too. I thought happily whenever licking, sucking and cleaning Ann's dirty fingers through the fences on those nights that 'd been forced to pluck the painful splinters out of my tongue for wanting, wishing.

Mary, My father's voice startled me one night while I had been spying through fence holes in search of Ann. Come inside, he beckoned, my heart leaping faster than my feet could carry me. I was surprised that Ann was already home, sitting at the table where little Sarah was rocking back and forth in a baby chair shoved in securely at its edge. Our father told me to sit down and put a bowl of broth in front of me. Let's pray, he said, bowing his head so that his dark black hair fell over his face. Lord, bless this food as you've blessed this family with a new baby to come. Let it be the son, I believe it is in Ruby's belly. Thank you. Amen.

Amen! Ann chimed, tilting her bowl to suck down the hot soup.

You girls eat up, he said, smiling. Then you get to bed. Your mom needs rest and quiet. You hear me?

Yep, Ann answered and looked my way. Did you hear him, Mary? she asked and in that instant her bowl flew across the room like an unsuspecting fly that father just viciously swatted away from the table, followed by a shattering bang. Ann howled at the top of her lungs. The hot broth dripping from her hair, face, and dress. She stared up at our father in horror.

Don't you ever refer to me as 'him' ever! he warned. It's Dad, he corrected his tone stern, his expression void of any sympathy. With that said, he turned and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving us to ponder his prayer and the bulge growing in our mother's swollen belly when she came into the kitchen, smiling at us.

Your father's weird. Don't piss him off, she said, opening the refrigerator