The finishing touch to her face was always the same. She picked up a tiny brush and shaped her perfectly arched eyebrows. They were the most beautiful eyebrows I had ever seen.
Sliding into the seat in front of her vanity mirror after she had gone, I looked at my plain face. There were those cursed straight eyebrows. I was missing eyelashes that were stuck on the eyelash curler. I wore an ugly hand-me-down knit shirt that belonged to my brother and my pigtails were a mess. I would never be pretty like her even though her perfume promised something more.
On Saturdays she occasionally passed the time with me sitting on the sofa going through the pages of ladies dresses in the Sears catalog. Her long graceful finger with pearl nail-polish pointed out the dresses she liked. When I picked my favorite, it had polka dots or ruffles—or better yet, both. Her raised eyebrow and a non-committal “hmmm” started me looking beyond the flash and frills of things in life.
In a family of short, round people it was odd she was statuesque— nearly six feet tall. She purchased clothes at exclusive stores. I remember a sharkskin skirt, a rust-colored camel hair coat, a sable stole she saved up for and glass-heeled shoes covered with black lace.
Marcella introduced me to classical music and showed me how to twirl spaghetti on a spoon like a lady. When I turned thirteen, she took Mother’s sewing scissors and cut my long braided hair. I looked so different, and perfume didn’t seem too farfetched anymore.
I grew up, married and moved away from my family. As the years passed, Marcella’s stunning dark hair turned into stunning silver and she never lost her sense of style. There was always a special feeling between the two of us that our distance from each other never changed.
Marcella got cancer in her early fifties. Her treatment was so successful that the family went back into normal life soon after. Twelve years later the news came that her cancer had returned. She went shopping for new clothes saying, “I’m going to go in style when I go to the doctor’s appointments.”
The chemo took her hair and eyebrows and she became emaciated. I thought about the vanity mirror, the makeup, the perfume and my beautiful green-eyed sister. The next day I bought pale pink tissue paper. In it I wrapped pink nailpolish the shade of seashells, lacy pink underwear, glossy pink lipstick and cosmetics in pretty containers. The last thing I wrapped was eyebrow powder and a tiny brush. Like the dab of perfume she put on my neck all those years ago, the little pink packages were my promise to carry for her the hope of things she couldn’t yet see.
We vacationed at the ocean a few weeks later and returned the next year and then the next. We sat on the porch steps eating mounds of ice cream, collected seashells everyday and watched shooting stars at night. That’s how I want to remember her.
Marcella fought cancer for two more years. Three weeks before she died, she ordered new clothes from a catalog. I know I’ll smile about that some day. We dressed her in the 24-karat gold stockings she loved, a symbolic gesture recognizing her courageous struggle to meet cancer head on and give it her all.
Linda L. S. Knouse
ONLY THE TWO OF US IN SIGHT
Grandma lived only a few blocks from the Daytona Boardwalk, close enough to smell the salt in the air and feel the ocean breezes rustle the palms in our yard as if waving to us. My sister Josie and I spent long summers there. We took off for a day at the beach every chance we could. Josie let the screen door whap shut as we headed down the steps in our sun-faded bathing suits. No shoes. No towels. Oo, oo, oohing and ah, ah, ahhing all the way past the stucco and oyster-shell houses in the alley. I can close my eyes and see myself at the age of three trotting to keep up with Josie over the blistering pavement as we passed stores that sold cheesy, airbrushed T-shirts displaying Daytona and drippy sunsets. My sister was twelve and I thought she knew everything.
Josie squeezed my sweaty palm and took in a deep breath before stepping down onto the busy intersection. Glancing from side to side, she inched us along the highway, weaving between bumpers and tourists honking their horns. After making it to the shaded sidewalk and concrete barrier wall, we released our pent-up breath; her grip loosened and the feeling slowly came back into my tingling fingers. The powdered sand stuck to our scorched feet offering no relief. We hopped to the first tidal pool and wiggled our toes in the tepid, shallow water.
Josie took me up the stairs and onto the boardwalk where retired couples in straw hats and with zinc-white noses strolled, stopping to take turns posing for a picture by the famous pier. We waved to the carnival workers busy helping the children and parents in and out of cable cars. I pulled back on Josie’s hand to make her stop so that I could look up at the cars lifting over our heads, watching the kids’ dangling flip-flops moving out to sea. We stopped to say hello to our worn-out friend, Pappy, a stooped-over leathery man with shaky hands and a stubbled chin. He wore a dingy apron into which the tourist children dropped quarters to ride Pedro, his faithful donkey and moneymaking partner. I never got to ride Pedro. We did not have quarters to bring to the beach. But we patted Pedro’s cushioned nose and Josie lifted me to stroke his stiff, fuzzy ears.
I wandered down to the edge and dug my toes into the slick sand, plopping down in front of the little waves that lapped and foamed around my bottom. Josie would grab my hand, swinging me up on her hip with a “Whee!” I clung to her like a spider monkey, my arms and legs wrapped tight.
“Loosen up, you’re choking me.” She pried my arms loose.
“I’m scared. Don’t go so deep.” I buried my face in her neck and squeezed.
“Don’t be such a baby. I’ve got you good and tight. Get ready. . . . Jump!”
We leaped up and let the wave slap our stomachs and chests. Josie wrapped her arms around my waist and twirled in the ocean making giant circles. I laughed and giggled, all dizzy, as the waters swirled and pressed around us in a kaleidoscope of land and sea. We played and played, each wave swelling higher and higher, making it harder for Josie to keep her balance. We tumbled in the whoosh of the surf. The angry waves bulged and buckled, knocking us back with its mighty force. The undertow dragged us out to sea, prying me from my sister’s arms. Her grip slipped.
Josie scrambled for me, arms flailing, nails clawing to keep a hold. I sunk, ears filling with water, muffling our fighting sounds. I opened my mouth to scream, water rushed in and down my throat, seemingly anxious to fill hollow spaces. I searched, head turning from side to side in the blurry water. Where was my Josie? Looking up, the shimmering distorted light called to me in the unreachable distance. I thrashed and fought but sunk further down, hit bottom with a thud, hip and thigh scraping grit and shell. I pushed at the water, as if it were a sheet on grandma’s laundry line, hoping her smiling face would appear. Something solid brushed against my wrist. I felt fingers grasping then slipping in the salt water. Then she was gone. My throat burned, and the waters swirled black as I sunk further from the light.
Fingers tugged at my hair, touched my face, my jaw and moved to my bathing suit strap, hooked it and yanked me up, grabbing my tangled hair along, lifting me through the surging waters. My head broke free into the air and light. I sputtered and coughed, gagged and sneezed. Josie pounded my back, her shrieks filled my ears. A blur of people rushed toward us, concerned faces, offering arms. Josie shook her head no, and held me tighter. She rushed to shore, my body jolted against hers in the run. As the sea splashed and swished about her legs, her feet plodded onto wet sand. She dropped to her knees. I clutched tighter, refusing to let go.
I cried and gulped air until burps and belches bubbled in release. Josie rocked and shushed me. Josie tucked me in her arms and legs, closer and closer. I held on, hooking my legs around her stomach, my arms around her chest, goose-bumped and shivering in the warm, late afternoon sun. I heard Josie whisper, “Don’t tell Grandma, all right? She would worry about us and not let me bring you to the beach again—you wanna be able to come to the beach with me, don’t you?”
Her words trembled. I nodded hard and sucked
the salt out of a lock of hair plastered against my cheek. Josie went back to rocking me, resting her chin on top of my head. I laid my head against her chest, listening to her heart—tha . . . thump . . . tha . . . thump—answer mine.
At sunset, Josie and I walked the shore under a rose-washed sky. Happy and silent—only the two of us in sight. We played the game of smashing the foam and stamping out the clam air bubbles with our big toes, counting to see who got the most. Our feet hit concrete only when the last rays of light dimmed and the ache for food called us home.
We ate—eyeing each other across the table in silent understanding. Josie bathed me and we stood at our grandma’s bedroom door and told her good night, focusing on the red glow of her one, nightly cigarette. At dark we slid between the white sheets and lay with our faces close to the screens, cooled by the mist from evening thunderstorms. As sleep moved over me, I felt the pulse of the waves nudging, swaying and rocking me to sleep in rhythm with the sounds of the nearby sea.
Carol D. O’Dell
IN SEARCH OF A SIMPLER TIME
We were partners in crime. What started as mischief became a yearly ritual we looked forward to every Christmas.
There were more children than money in our large family, but every year our parents managed to make Christmas a celebration to be remembered.
But one of my fondest Christmas memories is the secret shared only with my older sister, Barbara.
Our crime was committed while shopping for our siblings. Our father would give us a crisp $5 bill with stern instructions that it was to be spent only on presents for our sisters, then drop us at the nearest dime store, with instructions to shop and then wait by the door until he returned. Once our shopping was completed, Barbara and I would sneak to the soda counter, climb up on the tall round stools, plunk down our leftover change and count to see if we had enough. We always did. Grinning, we ordered hot fudge sundaes, then sat there, conspirators in crime, skinny legs dangling as we giggled and licked the thick, gooey chocolate from our spoons.
Fast-forward fifty years. Barbara was diagnosed with incurable cancer. We were told there was no cure, but “palliative therapy” would make her more comfortable. Every day for weeks, particles of energy were bombarded through her brain. Fatigue and nausea became daily companions. Next, chemotherapy, with all its unpleasant side effects. However, with the help of new medications, soon we were pleasantly surprised to find that Barbara no longer experienced nausea. Her appetite even returned. That is when we began our quest. We were determined to find the perfect match of our childhood memory. The ice cream must be the hard kind, the harder the better, since the thick, hot fudge will cause it to melt right away. It had to have a cherry on top and it absolutely must be in a glass dish shaped like a tulip. That was the recipe.
We spent the entire time she was in treatment in search of the absolutely perfect concoction. We didn’t tell anyone else what we were doing; once again it was our secret.
Treatment day was always Monday; by evening she could barely keep her eyes open. The week became a blur of growing fatigue, confusion and weakness, but by the weekend, Barbara would begin to rally and by Sunday she was ready.
“You think we will find it this time?” she’d ask. We’d laugh then climb into the car.
We ate a lot of ice cream that year, but it always seemed something was slightly off-kilter. Soft ice cream wasn’t the same as the hard-packed we remembered, chocolate syrup didn’t give the same sensual delight as the thick goo of our childhood, the cherry on top was missing, or even worse, it was served in a paper container. The exact replica seemed impossible to find. Week after week we searched for the perfect combination. We were on a mission—in search of a childhood memory and a simpler time.
“We didn’t find it, did we?” Barbara sighed one morning. I knew exactly what she meant.
“No, but we’re not giving up!” I replied. “Are you up for a road trip?”
The next day we took a longer trip than any we had previously attempted.
By the time we arrived at the ice cream parlor bedecked in 1950s décor, she was drained. She needed help just to get out of the car.
As the waitress held out menus, Barbara spoke softly. “We won’t need those. We already know what we want—hot fudge sundaes. Do you use hard ice cream?”
“Of course,” the waitress replied.
Barbara beamed at me. “I think that we might have found it.”
Soon the waitress returned carrying two tall tulip-shaped glasses filled with cold, hard, vanilla ice cream smothered in rich, thick hot fudge sauce, topped with a squirt of whipped cream and a cherry. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked as she plunked them down on the counter.
I turned toward my sister. Our eyes locked. The silent, secret question hung in the air between us. Was it? Slowly we picked up our spoons, plunged them into the sweet, cold confection and took them to our mouths. As I licked the thick, rich chocolate goo from my lips, I looked toward Barbara and saw she was doing the same. We began to first smile, and then giggle.
Mission accomplished. There we were—not two overweight, middle-aged women enjoying an afternoon dessert with more calories than either needed. We were two giggling little girls, perched on high stools, skinny legs dangling, sharing the precious bond of sisterhood, carried back to a time when life was simple and “palliative treatment,” were just words that had no meaning.
Nancy Harless
THE WAGON
Last month on her sixty-third birthday, I reminded my sister of the following incident. She asked if I remembered it or if it were just part of our family lore. I’m not sure, but I do remember a ride in our red wagon.
Adored by her parents, aunts and uncles, for the first sixteen months of her life my elder sister basked in the attention that is showered on an only child. Then I arrived on the scene, and she had to divide that attention with a red-faced, bawling little creature who needed quiet times for sleep and craved to be held in her mother’s arms.
As we grew older, we often fought over rights to panda bears and other toys meant for our mutual enjoyment. Exasperated by our constant bickering, my parents finally told my sister, “If you can’t play nice and share the toys with your little sister, we’re going to give Beverly away to your cousin Jerry.”
My sister knew a good thing when she heard it. One day as I continued to encroach on her territory, she put me in our little red wagon and began to pull it along the sidewalk. Coming to a corner she was not supposed to cross by herself, she waited. Our mother came running down to the street corner, yelling, “Stop!” After she caught her breath, she asked my sister, “Marilyn, where are you going?”
“I’m taking Bee to Jerry’s house; he can have her!”
Beverly McLaggan
MY SISTER, MYSELF
The first time I visit my father’s bungalow at the University of Nigeria, I perch on a vinyl settee in the parlor and drink milky tea while my father rambles on about the student riots, the military government’s Structural Adjustment Program, his college years with my mother, what he recalls her saying about her family’s farm in Washington State—never a pause for me or anyone else to speak.
Meanwhile my stepmother, another stranger, flits about the room, dipping forward with black-market sugar and tins of Danish biscuits, slipping coasters under our cups the instant we lift to sip. From the darkened hallway come the slap of flip-flops and giggles.
“You have children?” I ask politely, as if this were a question for a daughter to ask her father, as if it were not the question I traveled halfway around the globe to ask.
When I was not quite two, my father, a graduate student from Nigeria, returned home, leaving clothes and books scattered across the floor of his rented room. He was to attend to family business, scout out job prospects and come back. Though my parents had split, and my mother was raising me alone in Seattle, she maintained relations with my father for my sake. “I want you to know that this is not a good-bye,” he wrote to us
from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, nervous about reports of ethnic and religious tensions awaiting him. “I shall look forward to our meeting so long as we are all alive.” My mother never saw him again.
Now, more than two decades later, my stepmother nods at my question and glances at my father. She is light-skinned and solicitous, with a wide nose and a voice like the breeze of the fans she angles at me.
“Yes, yes, there are children.” My father waves his hands. “You’ll meet them later.” He is short like me, his weathered skin dark as plums. A strip of wiry black hair encircles the back of his head. There’s a space in his mouth where a tooth should be. I don’t see the broad-shouldered rugby player who stared out from my wall all those years. The only feature I recognize is that round nose.
A blur flashes tan and red in the hallway. I glance up to see a velvety-brown girl in a scarlet school uniform receding into the dimness, familiar eves stunned wide in a face I could swear is mine.
It’s not possible, I tell myself. Even if the girl in the hall is my sister, we have different mothers of different races. How can we look so alike? For twenty-six years I have been an only child, the only black member of our family, our town.
My father explains that during Christmas we’ll travel to our ancestral village, where I will be formally presented to the extended family and clan elders. I do not mention that for me Christmas has always been white.
After my mother moved from Seattle to my grandparents’ farm, I grew up hearing Finnish spoken, with a wreath of candles in my curls on St. Lucia Day. Mummi, my Finnish grandmother, and I spent all December at the kitchen table cutting out nissu, cookies in the shape of pigs and six-point stars from the almond-scented dough. Before baking, we painted them with tiny brushes, like the ones Mummi used for tinting family photographs. Sheet after sheet of cookies emerged from the oven transformed, the egg paint set in a deep satiny glaze.