She Knows

Hammer pounding and knife stabbing. That is what it felt like. I can only imagine how it felt for her.

There was a time when we were as thick as thieves, as our mother likes to say anyway. We would tell each other anything, we would defend each other against everything. Despite me being five and her being eleven, we would even wear the same clothes. She was more than a sister, she was my best friend. 

Then one day she wasn’t. 

I can’t really say that I didn’t see this coming. It wasn’t really a, “and then one day” situation; it was a gradual build up of events, so conjoined in my memory that I don’t even know where to begin. One day we were friends then the next we weren’t. She began ignoring me which led to belittling all my problems. She stopped defending me, but I never stopped defending her. She started stealing from me. Simultaneously, she began stealing from my mother too. She stole from our mother cards, money, patience. One time she stole my mother’s credit card and screwed mother over so thoroughly that mother had to go to court so they wouldn’t take the house.

From me, other things that were probably less important than the house, but hurt just the same. My mother put me in an aerobics class at the YMCA, and she bought me these pure white sneakers that had holes moving from the heel to the toe on the innermost side of the shoe. The laces were white strings that had never been touched. I was so excited to wear them! On the day of the class I looked for them. Nothing. I checked my purple painted room with the black bed. Nothing. The orange painted kitchen was the next place and as I walked past the white stove and looked under the dark brown mahogany table, my heart began to race as fast as a car moving down the street with an inconsiderate driver behind the wheel. As a last resort the black leggings that covered my brown legs raced down the reddish brown steps into the basement. When my bare feet slammed upon the concrete floor after touching the last step, I ran right into her bedroom. She was laying upon the bunk bed which was her bed. 

“Where are my sneakers!”, was all I could say to her.

She said nonchalantly, “I don’t know”. 

I then ran to tell my mother. We all looked, but in vain. Due to mischief at hands unknown, my sneakers were no more. 

The next famous ordeal in living memory was the birthday cake. Growing up my birthdays had this magic to them, an allure. I still love them, but they are not the same. The cake for this birthday was a beauty. Years later I still remember it. It was the shape of a rectangle. The frosting was white. Around it were these red roses, and at the center there was nothing. Someone had to write something on the cake, which was going to be on the day of. One day I notice that my cake is no longer in the fridge. My mother, father, and I all look downstairs to discover the cake lying under the bed. I will never forget the anger I felt, the lump in my throat, the breathlessness. 

The next outrage was by far the greatest and most damaging. My mother had a third child, my brother. This was after their divorce. I really liked my brother’s father. He was a great guy. He always took my side in any argument with my mom and he was fun to talk to. None of this mattered to my sister, who was able to overlook all of this. Make no mistake, he helped her a lot too. This outrage and the damage it caused was unforgivable.

My sister went to a school outside of the city. Sometimes she would take the bus or my mother would drive her. Once I came along for the ride, and I enjoyed it. I love traveling, much like my godmother. Watching the trees race past the window, my eyes rushing to read passing signs. It is a joy! 

The school is where she also met her boyfriend at the time. He had planned a sleepover and invited my sister and some of her friends. My mother said Summer could not go. Summer protested this to her heart’s content. When this plan of action did not work she moved onto Plan B. She told some adults at her school that my brother’s father did something horrific to her. It was a whole mess. He no longer came over, lawyers got involved, and ACS. The ACS people would come over to my school and ask me questions. One time I was taking my English standardized test and they came. I had to stop taking the test to answer their questions. I was embarrassed and outraged. Not only was third grade ruined but it felt like my childhood. The worse part had not even happened. 

My father came over one night. This was sometime during the beginning. He had found out somehow and came over to the house to find out more. Looking back he was angry. I did not see this, in fact while all of it was going on, no one told me what it was about. It was just transition without context. 

“When you get older”, is what I was told. 

Eventually, I got older. The memories of that night still haunt me. The yelling from my parents. The anger in the atmosphere. My sister, sitting there as if she did nothing. Me looking anywhere but at my parents. This was true and despite what many on my maternal side would say, I did not see what happened. There was a pause from the yelling and I saw my mother on the ground. My father looked exasperated. His look when he thought she was being ridiculous. It was no secret that my mother had a flair for the dramatic. It also was no secret to those present that my father was royalty pissed that night. So, I cannot say what happened. My sister told me that I should have just said that he hit her, but unlike her lying does not come naturally. What does come naturally are the most vivid memories from that night. Both my parents called the police. The officers in the house. Watching from the window in the front room as the officers dressed in navy blue, escorted my father, wearing a black jacket, away in silver handcuffs. 

After years, pain, legal fees, and more pain, my sister would finally admit that she was lying. This felt redundant because the damage to a number of lives was already done. 

The saddest part about this, is not the fact that the people affected are still recovering from this, or my father refuses to believe that she was lying, it is that she never stopped lying and causing havoc. She still continues and has never stopped. Her latest victim, her husband and father of her child.

The truth is, every time I see her I let her know that the distance between has not dissipated. Every birthday I don’t call she knows. Every time I keep a phone call under thirty minutes she knows. A hammer pounding and a knife stabbing. That is what it feels like for me. I can only imagine how it feels for her.