Sister Stories

My earliest memories don’t include a time without my sister. There are pictures, of course, of the time before memory, of my infant self in my older brother’s lap, stories our mother told of early trips to the doctor’s office for shots, of Peter crying out to the nurses in his 3-year-old voice, “Don’t hurt my Linda.” My brother, always the fierce defender even as a preschooler.

There are also pictures of not-yet-one-year-old-me pulling up to peer into her crib, to look at the big-eyed bundle who would become my ever-present shadow, my sister, my Irish twin. Side-by-side cribs held us separately until we moved to twin beds.

There are no pictures of the two of us jumping the gap between the beds. My earliest memories include the gleeful abandon over what our young bodies could do, over and over, back and forth, passing in mid-air. We leaped and jumped, landed and rolled, giggled whooped with end-of-the-day punchiness. We chased each other after lights out until one or the other (and often both) crash-landed in a heap on the floor – a wild tangle of limbs and pajamas, pillows and hair.

Yes, we were indulged.

Mom worked night shifts as a nurse in those days. Grandpa, Granny, and Great Aunt Mary (“Rary”) were happy just to hear us happy. Fatherless children oblivious to the scandal their mother had incited deserved a bit of indulgence. We always softened into sleep eventually. When mom was home, she yelled from downstairs, “Settle down, Girls. Don’t make me come up there.” It was a mostly empty warning, but on rare occasions she appeared at the top of the stairs with wooden spoon in hand. The threat of a stinging swat quieted us quickly, and we fell asleep, often in the same bed, one curled around the other like puppies.

We were dressed alike, shared the same birthday cake, blew out candles in the same breath, and received pairs of the same gifts. We shared the same brown hair color and cut, the same green-blue eyes. There are dozens of pictures of us standing side by side in matching outfits for Easter, for Christmas, in twin pajamas, hair rolled into pink plastic-cushioned rollers, the top of my head only slightly taller than Beth’s.

We watched the opening of the Carol Burnett Show and dreamed of dancing on television in colorful costumes like a school of fish moving in unison. One birthday, we woke to find two pairs of white leather go-go boots at the foot of our beds. We marched up and down the staircase with fringe fluttering, the rhythm of our shiny new heels announcing our joy to the world. Each crisp, clean step reverberated up our 3 and 4-year-old legs and echoed through the house. Maybe someone yelled, “Stop that racket,” but we didn’t hear them over our own drumbeat. Our doting relatives smiled and laughed at our antics.

We milled around the kitchen after Sunday supper like love-starved kittens weaving between the grown-ups’ legs. They sat on metal chairs around the gold-speckled Formica table, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer or coffee, gossiping and talking about the news. We watched the clock, antsy for the moment when both hands pointed straight down. Six-thirty meant it was time to race into the back room to sit side by side, knee to knee, as close to the little TV as we dared to watch Tinkerbell circle the spires of the Disney castle in a ring of fairy dust. She tapped her wand and transported us to the land of make-believe. It was easy to believe in fairy godmothers and charming princes. Magic was real. If you were good like Cinderella, you got the help you needed, found your prince and a perfect glass slipper. Happily ever after was the water we swam in.

We lived on one side of Rary’s duplex on West Market Street in Scranton. Rary was the family matriarch, our grandfather’s older and only sister. Always larger than life, she was a foreboding nurse supervisor who never married and ruled the nurse’s station and the family without question. She knew what was best for everyone and was trusted beyond measure. When Beth and I snuggled in with our heads on either side of her wide lap, she traced our ears with arthritic fingers and sent us off to sleep with goosebumps running down our backs.

Rary taught us to leave a saucer of milk on the front porch before bedtime for the leprechauns. I held the glass jug in my arms like a prize, and she helped us pour it into one of her delicate flowered saucers.

“What if Peaches drinks it before the leprechauns come?” Our Siamese cat sniffed at the saucer, her motor purring at full volume.

“The faster you fall asleep, the faster they’ll come.” Rary hustled us upstairs and into pajamas. I dreamed of little people under the porch, coming down from trees in the back yard. Three shining quarters for our piggy banks were always in the saucer the next morning.

Sometimes after Mom left for work and Peter for school, Rary proclaimed it a “Castle Day.” We buttoned our fuzzy-collared coats, pulled on woolen hats and gloves, and walked a few blocks to the imposing department store downtown. She held our small hands in her beefy ones as we stepped onto the escalator to go up, up, up to the dark interior of the third-floor restaurant. Musty and muffled, sounds of the near-empty restaurant were hushed by thick carpet and heavy drapes. Beth and I sat on throne-like booster seats in a corner booth of fake red leather while Rary ordered three mid-morning brownie sundaes.

I can still taste the soft dark chocolate of warm brownie, the smooth cold vanilla ice cream, and the thick drizzle of hot fudge that made the rest of the world drop away. Encouraged in this way, we were princesses in our very own castle.

Imagine our surprise years later, when Prince Charming did not appear with a glass slipper, when our fairy godmother could not remove obstacles with the wave of a wand, and the Castle revealed itself as the ancient crumbling ruin of an out-of-date department store.