Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(33)

“Oh, wow,” I say. Then I realize he’s no longer behind me.

“Hey,” I yell, “what am I supposed to do now?”

From a half-block behind me Dick hollers, “Keep pedaling!”

I do.

~

Once I learned to keep myself upright I tackled the more difficult maneuvers, like rounding corners, slowing to a stop, and waving to a neighbor. Day by day I grew bolder. In time I had a basket mounted across the handlebars, plunked Brandi in it, and circled the block three times. Pretty soon we were zipping around the entire neighborhood, houses disappearing behind us one by one, Brandi’s ears flapping in the breeze, the warm sun on my back.

We were Dorothy and Toto pedaling across Kansas—no cyclone, no wicked witch, no need for ruby slippers. I had something far more magical. I had my sister’s ability to rise above fear.



I still find myself thinking about Donna at least once a day, but the hole in my heart is starting to heal. I realize my sister is not really gone. She never will be. There is a wisecracking, ever-laughing memory that lives on, not just in my heart, but inside of everyone who knew and loved her. It is this memory that gives us the courage to move forward. Not forget; just move forward.

A short while back we had a reunion in Atlantic City, just the four of us—Mama, Geri, Debi, and me. We tried to weave a patch across the hole in our midst. It was early September; the sun felt warm and the smell of the ocean thick in the air. We bought bags of salt-water taffy and walked along the boardwalk reminding each other about Donna as she really was and retelling the stories of her life. It was a time for remembering but not for sadness. We did as Donna would have wanted; we celebrated her life instead of mourning her death.

Geri brought a roll of quarters for each of us to play the slot machines. Mama was an all-or-nothing woman. Her quarters were gone in the time it took to pull that lever forty times. Me, I still had most of my quarters at the end of the three days. I’m not much of a gambler; I like safe, sure things. I pick stocks like General Electric or IBM, I never cross before the light turns green, and I bring my umbrella if there’s more than a ten percent chance of showers.

This is the way it has always been, me the cautious, practical sister, Donna the carefree daredevil. Plenty of times I resented that and tried to pretend I was above it all. I looked down my nose at the outrageous things she did, but the truth is I was jealous. I always thought life was kind of unfair; it seemed like she got the best of everything. Now I realize, she didn’t get the best of everything, she just made the best of everything she got.

To most of us, “Blueberry Hill” is nothing more than a song, but to Donna it was a place. A place where dreams come true, a place where you can catch a firefly, find a four-leaf clover, get over a broken romance, and forget your troubles. I may never find my Blueberry Hill, but Donna gave me enough courage to search for it.





A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR


This story is a work of fiction, and it’s not. It is a memoir of sorts. It is the story of the last few years I shared with my sister, Donna. Most of it is true to the best of my recollection, but time clouds memories—especially memories of the things we choose to forget.

During these years there were many other people in Donna’s life: our sister, Geri, Donna’s son Charlie, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and the husband she married twice. These people all played huge roles in Donna’s life, but they are simply passersby in this story. This is my story. A story of sisters and the bond we shared.

Donna was an enigma. At times she lived life with wild abandon, but once her first child came she was ready to settle down. She loved Charlie, loved him so much she married him twice. She also divorced him twice. She had no choice. For that reason I think I also partly blame Charlie for the pathway Donna chose.

More than an accurate timeline, this is a collection of stories culled from memory. I chose not to include graphic descriptions of the horrors that come, but suffice it to say once seen it is something you never forget.

You may find spots where you argue with the story, where you say this wasn’t right, or she shouldn’t have done that. Unfortunately that’s how life is. It doesn’t always come wrapped in beautiful stories and tied with a bow.

Each day is a gift. Treasure it and remember it for what it is. There may come a time when that memory is all you have.