Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story
Bette Lee Crosby
For Donna…
I love you and miss you still.
Sisters
My sister killed herself, and I will forever carry the weight of it being partly my fault. I didn’t hand her a weapon, but I looked the other way.
I didn’t just look the other way; I envied her lifestyle. If given the chance, I would have gladly become her: carefree, irresponsible, and living every moment to the fullest. Of course, back then we had no way of knowing what harm could come from a bit of fun. It was simply a few drinks and a cigarette.
I was the eldest of three sisters, and, according to Mama, responsible for any and all wrongdoing of my siblings. This rule applied regardless of my involvement or lack of involvement in the event. Whether the baby smeared crayon across the bedroom room wall or Donna came home carrying the smell of a skunk, Mama held me responsible.
“You’re the oldest; you know better,” she would say. “It’s up to you to watch your sisters and make sure they stay out of trouble.”
“But, Mama,” I’d argue, “I wasn’t even there!”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re the oldest and you’re responsible.”
Curtailing anything Donna did was like trying to slow the winds of a hurricane. Even now as I look back and try to remember how it all began, I know I couldn’t have done anything. Donna was who she was, and nothing would ever change her. She was a female version of Fonzi, the popular character from the 1970s show Happy Days. She was the popular girl, the cool girl, the one everybody tried to emulate. Looking at Donna in those teenage years, you could easily believe she was destined to live a golden life. But things don’t always turn out the way we expect.
In that last year, I asked her, “If you could do it all over again, would you do anything differently?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
That was about the closest I ever saw Donna come to having regrets.
In the Early Days
For as far back as I can remember, Donna would set her eye on something and go after it with such gusto that she couldn’t possibly fail.
The earliest evidence of this came when she was seven and entered a Dairy Queen Contest. The prize was whatever the winner wanted—a sundae, a banana split, a blizzard, anything. She just had to put her name on the entry form and drop it in the box. The minute that slip of paper left Donna’s hand she began planning what she’d choose when she won.
She dropped her entry in the box on Monday, then went back on Tuesday to check when the drawing would be held.
“Saturday,” the kid behind the counter told her. “Not until Saturday morning.”
For the whole week she counted off the days. Five more days ’til Saturday…four more. Three more, until at last Saturday came.
At eight-thirty on Saturday morning, Donna was there, ready and waiting, but the Dairy Queen didn’t open until ten o’clock. So she sat on the curb and waited. When they finally slid the service window open she hurried over.
“Is it time for the drawing yet?” she asked.
“Not yet, kid,” the clerk answered. “About noon, that’s when we do it.”
Disappointed, but not defeated, she sat back down on the curb and continued to wait. That’s when I came into the picture. Donna had been gone for several hours, and Mama sent me to search for her. Having accomplished my mission I plopped down on the curb beside her, and she told me the story.
~
“The guy at the window told me pretty soon,” Donna says. “He promised pretty soon they’re gonna pull the lucky name.”
She smiles this big, wide, toothy grin and with all the confidence in the world tells me, “I’m gonna win. I know I’m gonna win. If you stay here, I’ll share some of my banana split.”
You hate to tell your kid sister she’s nuttier than a fruitcake, but… She’s the only kid there, nobody else in the entire parking lot, and she’s been sitting there for more than three hours waiting to win this banana split.
“Mama told me to bring you home,” I say.
“Not now!” she says with a gasp. “He’s almost ready to announce the winner!”
I know spending another hour there is sure to get us both in trouble, but what the heck. I wait while she goes up to the window for what was probably the fourth or fifth time.
“Is it time yet, mister?” she asks.
“Yeah, it’s time.” With that the guy sticks his hand in this box and pulls out a piece of paper. Without showing it to anyone, he looks at her with wide-eyed pretense. “Holy cow, I can’t believe this! What did you say your name was, kid?”
“Donna, Donna Sue Motley.” My sister’s face now shows an ear-to-ear smile.
“You’re the winner,” the guy says with a reasonably straight face. “Yeah, you’re sure enough the winner.”
“I’m the winner! I’m the winner!” Donna screams, jumping up and down. “I knew it, I just knew it.”
“Okay, kid, you can have a banana split, a sundae, or anything else you want.”
“I want a banana split,” she says, “with two spoons.”