My Sister, My Friend

It's been awhile since I've had time for my "therapy" also known as my blog.  Today, though, I need it.  Desperately.

For on this day, November 19th, in 1993, my life was changed forever.  Eighteen years ago I lost a piece of me.  The piece of me that always served as a reminder for me not to take myself or life so seriously.  My sister.  My wild and adventurous little sister.

I remember it just like it was yesterday down to what I was wearing at the time.  A black suit.  I'd gone for drinks and a quasi date after work.  We were partying when I got the call.  Well, this was before I actually had a cell phone.  My date, however, did have one, and my friend called him.  Funny, though...I cannot remember his name to save my life.

Any way, he was very sweet and handled the situation well.  He told me that we had to leave the club because his brother needed him.  Of course being the consummate party girl, I told him to just leave me there.  It is too early!  I can just find a ride home with someone else! Yes, I was a jerk, but that's not even the worst of it.

He was persistent, though, and practically dragged me out of the bar.  Once in the car, he told me that his brother had gotten into some trouble and he needed to go take care of things.  That's when I started blabbing on and on about how my sister was always in trouble and how my parents and I were always bailing her out of some situation.  I told him about the time I drove three hours to Lafayette, Louisiana, to rescue her from a supposedly abusive boyfriend only to have her turn around three hours later and go back to him.  This is reason #47 why Karma continues to bite me in the behind.

As he walked me into my apartment, we could hear the telephone ringing.  I rushed to get it before the person on the other end could hang up.  She didn't.  It was my friend, Amye.

Millie was in a bad car wreck.

What?!?!  Is she okay??!!??

No, she's dead.

Amye, tell me you're kidding.  Tell me this is a very unfunny joke.

No, LB.  She's gone.  She didn't make it.

I don't even remember my date leaving the apartment.  All I remember is wanting to get home to my parents as soon as possible.  But I was drunk, and the drive was six hours.  My mom would not allow me to take a chance and end up in the same place as my sister.

I cried myself to sleep that night.  I got up at the crack of dawn, eyes nearly swollen shut, and a severe headache to remind me of all the beers I drank the night before.  My mind was clear, though.  My sister was gone.  I had to get home to take of her like I always did.

I'd never seen so many people at a funeral in my entire life.  Still, to this day, I don't remember seeing more people at a visitation.  She had so many friends.  My family had so many people who cared about her and about us.  Her poor babies.  They were too young to lose their mom!  Justyn was around nine or ten.  Jade was only five.  And Jerry Michael...her sweet little boy.  He loved his mom, my sister, more than any other person in the world.  The middle child just like her, and they were thick as thieves.  It broke me to see them hurt.

It still hurts me to see how that loss has affected them over the years.  Her kids were my first loves.  I never knew what it felt like to love so much that your heart aches into she brought those three little angels into the world.  I only wish she were hear to feel that same feeling for my kids.  G looks a bit like her.  E has a bubbly personality like her.  Funny how that happens, huh?

When we lost her, our family changed.  Some things for the better.  My dad, who never spoke more than three words per day to me, will now talk to me for hours if I let him.  And we like each other!  Believe it or not, we are so much more like one another than I could ever have imagined.  He's one of the best storytellers you will ever meet.

Some things changed for the worse, though.  My mom was very close to my sister in a completely different way than with me.  Unlike me, my sister had no walls.  My mom could be who she wanted to be around Mimi and vice versa.  I was always the uptight, hard-to-get-along-with daughter seeking perfection.  While my mother and I were close, our closeness was much different.  I think my mom missed that closeness with Mimi until the day she died.  I can just imagine them in heaven together, smiling and laughing.

And for me, the good news is that I don't take myself and life too seriously anymore.  It's just too damn stressful.  My sister taught me that.  Thanks, Mimi!  The bad news is that I feel completely alone sometimes.  Don't get me wrong; I love my brother, and I love my dad.  They mean the world to me, and I'm glad we have each other.  But there is NOTHING like that bond of sisters.  Before she died, she and I had really grown to love each other.  We'd become very good friends.  I remember a cross-stitched picture I made for Mimi.  I gave it to her for Christmas, and made sure they put it in her casket before they buried her.

Our roots say we're sisters,

Our hearts say we're friends.

Mardi Gras, 1993.  Me (left), Beeg (center), and Millie (right) in probably the last photo taken together.

Mom, Remember That Time???

I'm probably so 2010, but I've just discovered Mama Kat and her fan-tabulous Writer's Workshop.  I like her writing prompts.  Since I'm not a writer, I don't do fiction.  Nor do I do self help stuff.  No informative nonfiction either.  I just like to ramble...um...I mean, write about me and all the craziness in my head.  Because I'm a bit of a narcissist.  And I have no life.  And my husband doesn't care to talk about all the crap spiraling around in my great, big brain.

Shit, there I go again.  Where was I???

Mama Kat.  So I'm tagging along with Mama Kat because I find her prompts intriguing.  They aren't fantasy but real questions.  More like playing Truth or Dare.  And I'm out of material.  It's been a slow week in LB Land.

My parents didn't whip my siblings and I very much.  Although corporal punishment was the preferred method in the South in 1971, I was lucky enough to have lazy parents who liked to holler instead.  However, I do remember getting a severe beating once.  My sister and I both.  We had to be about 4 and 5 years old.  Maybe even younger.

In those days, my mother was obsessed with order.  Everything had its place.  Away.  Out of sight.  There was nothing on the floor of the room shared by my sister and me.  Nothing under the bed or on the floor of the closet.  The dresser was clear of everything except for two small jewelry boxes.  Our bed was always made; our house was always clean.

For those of you who knew my mother, you can pick your jaws up from the floor now.  She was a neat freak at one time.  Real talk.

As I said, our room was immaculate.  The decor was typical of the 70s with the white dresser and matching white bed.  Our bedspread (no comforters back then) was bright yellow.  We had tile floors covered with a fuzzy little rug in the shape of feet.  Our closet doors were also decorated with decals of those fuzzy little feet.  The feet were arranged so that it looked as though they were climbing the closet doors.  Pairs in yellow, pink, green, orange.  Fuzzy.  Very 70s retro.

One morning, my mother came to inspect our room.  We were not allowed to come out until our bed was made and we were dressed.  When my mom entered, I could see her face drop.  Her smile quickly turned to a grimace with pouting lips, clenched teeth, and furrowing brows.

Who did this??  She snapped.

My little innocent eyes became as big as saucers as I looked over towards my sister.  What?  What did we do, Mama?  I had no idea to what she was referring but I was certain that my sister must have done something wrong.  I knew I hadn't done anything.  Besides, she was always getting into trouble.

She pointed to the closet doors where one of the fuzzy feet had been removed.  All that was left was the adhesive backing used to affix the decal.

Who did it???

Not me, Mama, I said. 

Well, I didn't do it either, came from my sister.

Well, I know one of you did it.  It didn't just fall off the closet door, she growled angrily.

My sister and I both stared at each other then stared back at her.  But we didn't do it, Mama!  We replied in unison.

Well, one of you is lying.  You are both going to get a spanking until I find out the truth.  She went to her bedroom and came back with my daddy's belt.  Bend over!

I can remember being so pissed at my sister.  After all, who else could it have been?  She had to have done it.  Now I was going to get a whipping because she wouldn't admit to it.  I remember saying to her, "just tell her the truth, Mi Mi."

After the first round of licks, my mom asked us again who took the decal off the door.  And again, we both denied any wrongdoing so she proceeded to give us a couple more licks.  This went on for what felt like an eternity.  We were screaming and crying and begging.

Finally, my dad came back to our bedroom after having heard all the commotion.  What's going on back here?  Why are you whipping them?  What did they do???

My mom told him the story about how the fuzzy decal was pulled off our closet door and how we refused to tell her the truth.  She was so angry.  My sister and I were inconsolable.


You mean that fuzzy decal?  He pointed to the spot where only the adhesive remained.

Yes, my mom replied.

My sister and I were unable to speak through the hysterics.  Our butts were on fire from that leather belt.

Well, I pulled it off, said my dad.  It was starting to come apart around the edges so I just pulled it off.  They didn't do it.  Besides, that foot is too high for them to even reach!

I was so mad.  And remorseful for blaming my little sister.  I could not understand why my dad would do something like that.  Or how my mom could be so pissed off about a damn wall decal.

Later on, I found my mom crying like a baby.  She had been in a blind rage, and was just then realizing what she'd done.  She hugged my sister and I both so tight I thought my guts were going to come out.  I almost felt bad for her.

That was the last time I got a spanking.  And I never let my mom live it down.  Of course, my reminders of that day were always in jest.  I picked on her a lot about it.  Remember that time when you whipped us for that??? ha ha ha... 

I suspect, though, she got an ill feeling in the pit of stomach every time I mentioned it.

Still I wonder if my dad did, in fact, remove that decal or if he just admitted to it so that my mom would stop.  I didn't consider it then, but my dad never really had a reason to go into our bedroom.  Nor was he the type to care about something as insignificant as decorative decals.

I suppose the truth will remain a mystery for all of eternity.  My sister is gone now so there will be no confession from her.  My mom is too.  And I doubt seriously my dad even remembers the incident.  It's etched in my memory forever, though.