My Sisters

I awakened to the sound of my sisters laughing.

And I thought I was in Vincennes, Indiana, again. I reached down to touch my bedspread, a faded chenille. I squinted to see by the light of my aquarium, the one we bought in Evansville after I saved my allowance for months. I listened for the clink-clink-clink of Lady’s dog tags, as she walked from room to room, her beagle nose sniffing and her loving brown eyes taking us in. And I could smell the damp of the basement stairs which ran alongside the wall of the room we shared.

The sparkle of their laughter drifted up to me as I lay in my bed. Jane and Meg, my little sisters. We were here, all here, together in the same house, waking up under the same roof for the first time in years.


JANE ARRIVES

When Jane was born, my father told me, “Now you have a little sister. You’re responsible for her.” I was only three at the time, and it was a heavy responsibility. When she went back to the hospital after being diagnosed as anemic, I prayed, “God, I don’t know who this ‘Janie’ character is, but I hope she’ll be all right.” I remember that I was trying to be good by putting my shoes away. I said my prayer as I stared at the head-and-shoulders of hanging doll whose torso was a series of pockets. Grandma Marge had made the organizer. It was blonde like me, a preview of all of us “Campbell girls.”

THEN ALONG COMES MARGARET...

When Margaret was born, my father said, “She’ll be the best thing that ever happened to this family. You’ll see.” I had heard my mother tell a friend, “I want a baby so badly I can taste it.” I wasn’t sure why you’d taste a baby, and I hoped I’d find out. Margaret was breech, so Mom had to kneel butt-up on the floor for hours so she’d turn. Margaret obliged, and quickly then changed her mind and went back to her original position. Because I was ten, a ripe old age, I was in charge of carrying the basket of her diapers downstairs to our basement and putting them in the washer. The fates intervened briefly when the Kenmore motor burned out, sending the smell of burning rubber billowing through our house.

I did, and have, felt responsible for Jane and Margaret most of my life. Wrongly, I know, because they are both fabulous, capable women.

And I awakened to the sound of their laughter because they’d flown here, from their home in Florida, to care for me.

So I wasn’t in Vincennes. I wasn’t in that little house where I grew up. I wasn’t waking up in that sad broken-down two bedroom rental, with that warped screen door, featuring a prominent “S” for Springer, our landlord. I wasn’t back in that family of origin which draped such a heavy mantle of duty on my shoulders.

I was in my bed, hearing the arpeggio of my sisters’ laughter, trilling up and down. I was supposed to take care of them, but bless them, they came here to take care of me after my surgery on June 16. And as I lay there, and thought of them, and loved them, I thought, “It was worth the surgery just for this, this memory of hearing their laughter again."

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THANK YOU

My thanks to so many of you for the kind wishes, the cards, the emails and of course, the prayers. Things were a little "rocky" for a while (don't worry, I'll tell all!) but I'm home and getting better every day. Please be patient, as it's taking me a bit to respond.