In Her Own Words

Exerpts from works in progress.

"Are There Group Homes In Heaven?"

Preface

On summery afternoons I’d sprawl across my twin bed and study the scarlet tanager that nested outside my window in a nearby tulip tree. I’d found a pair of old opera glasses that would spring open at the touch of a tiny button in the center of the brass that edged the green silk cover. The glasses magnified the bird so I could watch as he twitched his little bird head first one way, then another. He moved almost mechanically while on the limb and only achieved grace when he flew.

For hours I’d observe his habits, worry to see if his babies had hatched, stare as he worked along side his plain, khaki-colored wife to build and repair and clean the nest. No one knew I spent so many hours dreaming about the airy world of birds. No one knew how important birds would become to me later as I discovered them appearing over and over in my work, little flashes of bright feathers that brushed across the pages of my writing, reminders of how each species of bird is distinct from the other, yet at a distance, a cardinal could be mistaken for a robin, a crow for a falcon.

I know about confusion. And I know about the mistakes people make when one thing looks like another.

I grew up with a sister who was as confused as possible. I grew up in a time when doctors couldn’t tell the difference between one mental condition and another, when parents were blamed if a child was ‘not right,’ when mental illness was whispered about in the privacy of kitchens and in secret family meetings. I grew up in the years before talk TV, the years when people didn’t divulge their heartache, their disappointment. As my mother used to say, people didn’t air their dirty drawers for the world to see. I grew up in a time when private grief was the only kind around.

When trouble came calling in this world, no one spoke its name. When pain seemed like your best friend, nobody thought to mention it. Being a child of that time, I learned my lessons well. I kept silent when I watched my sister, Becky, mash her food to a sloppy mush before eating it, something she does to this day. I kept silent when she ripped the heads off all her dolls, arms and legs, too, and we’d find body parts strewn across the floor or tucked in some corner. I didn’t speak the night my parents and I came home from grocery shopping to discover she’d filed her front teeth into sharp points against the stone mantle over the fireplace. She was fourteen and we’d only been gone a half hour. And I kept silent when she went to an institution, her little girl body pressed against the window, watching my parents and me drive down the road.

Now, after forty years, I’m ready to speak.

This is my story. It’s not an earth-shattering tale, nor is it filled with answers about the deep questions of life. It’s only the story of a family—a mother, a father, and two daughters—who must weave together a nest of broken twigs, bits of string and an occasional feather, even though one of the family members is damaged and will never fly on her own. The nest must be strong, stronger than most if it’s to support the needs of each person inside. It must be long-lasting, where the bonds will endure beyond the usual expectations. It must be trustworthy, so when the parents die, they can go knowing their treasured daughter, the one without wings, will be lovingly cared for by her sister, me.

It’s the story of how this family manages, with little money and no expertise (like most families, I suspect) to love when love seems hard, maybe even impossible. It’s the story of two parents who are overwhelmed and confused about how to help their younger daughter—the one who talks to herself, the one who grinds her teeth and speaks in riddles—to find her place in the world, a safe place, a nest to call her own. And it’s the story of how these same parents discover moments of joy, even flights of freedom and how they share this with their girls.

It’s also my story—the story of how I learned to speak another language, the language of my sister, Becky. And how I found my own meaning in our strange conversations—a meaning I am still discovering.

There are no happy endings here, but it’s not a tragedy either. It’s just the story of one family’s struggle against despair, four people who chose to stay and fight the demons when it might have been easier to run away. It’s a story about how much we all depend on each other, how we truly are our brother’s (or in this case, sister’s) keeper.

Like life, these memories are a crazy mix of humor and grief, success and failure, good intentions and serious neglect. I don’t claim to have all the facts straight. These are, after all, my own moments of reflection. It’s a weighty thing to try to reconstruct one’s life but I hope my work will sing like the mocking bird—many voices blended into one song. Because I’m primarily a fiction writer, I tell part of my story through fictionalized accounts of what I imagine people are thinking, feeling. I hope these short stories will enhance the memoir and, like a crusty old parrot, I’ll tell them again and again, hoping for understanding, aching for grace.

And I hope my words will fly into the wind with the courage of my sister, a strange bird if ever there was one, yet one who soars when she gets the chance. Just soars.