Читать книгу Twins' Double Victory - Karen Jones - Страница 4

“Henry, you’ve got to get me out of this god-forsaken place,” Mother said to Dad when he came home after cutting down trees at the logging camp. “Living in this old shack in St. Maries, Idaho, is no place to raise our six-year-old daughters.

“I’m going crazy trying to keep Emma and Emily entertained while also doing everything else around here. I want to return home before the twins begin their first year in school.”

“All right, Eliza,” said Dad. “I’ll quit my job and we’ll move back to Washington if that’ll please you. But I’ll need to find work soon, or we’ll have a hard time making it.”

Within the month, Dad found a rental house in West Seattle and employment at a logging camp. From the porch of our Alki Point home, high off the ground, Mother gazed at our surroundings and declared, “We have a miracle view of Alki Beach, the Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains!”

“So we have!” Dad responded, giving Mother a kiss on her cheek before smiling down at Emily and me. We looked up at our father who stood five feet, eleven inches, and who almost popped a button on his shirt when he made his chest and stomach go way out.

“We should do all right now that I’ll be earning extra money cooking for the logging camp crew along with chopping down trees,” Dad bragged, flexing his big arm muscles.

Mother stared at our father, who was strutting like a peacock, causing our mother to grimace and Emily and me to giggle.

Three weeks later, Mother said to my sister and me, “School starts tomorrow. Let’s get your bath over with so you can go to bed early.”

We climbed into the galvanized tub of water that Mother heated on the wood-burning cook stove, and she scrubbed us clean using a washcloth and a bar of her homemade soap. After we slipped into our matching blue nightgowns and climbed into bed, Mother kissed our cheeks and blew out the burning wick in the kerosene lamp.

On our first day of school, Mother helped us put on our matching green dresses with white collars. She combed our wavy brown hair and handed each of us a tin lunch pail.

I liked our first-grade teacher, Miss Arlis, who taught us our colors, alphabet, and numbers. Each day we learned how to read more words, and after lunch, she read us a story.

On Thanksgiving, Mother said, “Girls, let’s put on your brown dresses and shoes so we can go see your Grandpa Dirks.”

“Who’s Grandpa Dirks?” I asked.

“He’s my father,” Mother answered, while lacing up my shoes. “And I want him to meet my sweet, well-behaved little girls.”

After turning off the main road in Arlington and driving down a narrow dirt path, Dad stopped the car in front of a big house overlooking a lake.

When Emily and I stepped out of the car, Dad said to Mother, “I’ll wait here. You need to talk to your father alone.”

Mother grabbed our hands, walked with us onto the front porch, and knocked.

A thin man opened the door.

“I’m Eliza, Dad, and these are my twins, Emma and Emily. Girls, this is your Grandpa Dirks.”

“What brings you here after all these years?” my grandfather asked, gruffly.

“Emma and Emily, go play outside,” Mother said. “I need to talk to my father.”

Immediately, we ran toward the barn, making the chickens scatter. “Gobble, gobble,” squawked one big turkey when we began chasing it.

Our fun ended when Mother shouted, “Get in the car, girls—we’re leaving!”

On our way home, Mother said to Dad, “My father is still guzzling whiskey, and his wrinkles and the gray streaks in his thinning hair make him look a lot older than fifty-two.”

“Daddy,” my sister interrupted. “We saw the biggest turkey and—”

“I’m never going back there,” said Mother. “He hasn’t changed a bit, and I don’t think I can ever forgive him for not being a real father to me.”

“At least you tried,” said Dad, when he saw Mother wiping tears away.

“I just wish my mother hadn’t died so young and my stepmother had been more loving.”

“The big turkey tried to bite me,” I said, hoping to get a little attention.

“Don’t be silly,” said Mother. “Turkeys don’t bite.” Looking at Dad, she asked, “Do they?”

Dad smiled at Mother, making my sister and me giggle.

The next week after school, I said to Mother, “I need help with my math.”

“Get your daddy to help you. I’m busy chopping carrots for dinner,” Mother said.

“I already asked Daddy,” I said, hoping Mother would pay attention to me. When she ignored me again, I told a lie saying, “I smelled whiskey on my teacher’s breath today.”

“What did you say?” Mother asked, staring at me.

After I repeated the words, Mother said, “Go to your room. I need to make a phone call.”

I got Mother’s attention all right, but my lie caused Miss Arlis to lose her job.

On the first day that Miss O’Neal came to be our new teacher, she introduced herself and said, “Miss Arlis and I are good friends, and I’d like you to write a letter telling her you miss her. You may draw a picture with your crayons, and I’ll take the letters to Miss Arlis tonight.”

On my paper, I wrote, “Dear Teacher, I’m sorry for telling a lie on you. Please forgive me. I love you. Emma.” I drew a heart and colored it in red. A few tears fell from my eyes, and I smeared the letter wiping them off, but I didn’t have time to write another one.

After Miss O’Neal looked at my paper, she said, “Miss Arlis will be extra happy when she reads your letter.”

I glanced at Miss O’Neal’s shiny brown hair and silky, smooth complexion and smiled into her kind eyes.

The next morning, Miss O’Neal came up to me on the playground. “Miss Arlis wrote you back, and she wanted me to read her note to you. It says, ‘Dear Emma, I forgive you for saying unkind words about me. You are a precious girl, and I know you didn’t mean it. Your letter will always be special to me. Love, Miss Arlis.’ ”

After wiping tears from my cheeks, I entered the classroom to put the note on my desk. “Thank you, teacher, for forgiving me,” I whispered before hurrying outside to find my best friend, Della.

Running up to her, I said, “Miss Arlis forgave me and she loves me. Do you want to play tag?”

Della’s blue eyes lit up as she smiled and nodded a yes.

Laughing and screaming with joy, we ran and tagged each other until the bell rang. Miss O’Neal smiled at me when I entered the classroom, and I knew then that she was my favorite teacher.

At recess, Emily occasionally joined Della and me. But mostly, she liked playing marbles with Roger, a thin, blond boy who usually wore faded overalls and scuffed shoes. Today, Della and I raced for the seesaw, and her golden hair became more tangled the longer we sailed up and down in the gusty wind.

Two weeks later, on Christmas morning, Sis and I ran into the living room and up to our tree. From its fragrant branches hung frosted pinecones, bells, angels, snowmen, round striped ornaments, and glistening silver garland. Daddy smiled as he handed a gift to Emily and then one to me.

While feeling the warmth from the wood-burning stove, I quickly tore off the paper. “I love your light green dress,” I said to my new doll, kissing her porcelain head. “I’m naming you Molly.”

“Your name is Polly,” Emily said to her doll with a light blue dress. “Molly and Polly are twins just like us,” she exclaimed.

We ran to hug Dad and Mother before carrying our dolls to our bedroom to play house.

Several weeks later, Emily and I awoke all excited to be going to school on Valentine’s Day. Upon entering the kitchen, Mother whispered, “Girls, you need to be quiet. Your father isn’t feeling well, and he’s still in bed.”

My sister and I tiptoed around the house until we began our walk to school.

That afternoon, Miss O’Neal said in her bubbly voice, “I’d like you to make a valentine card for everyone in our class so no one feels left out.”

Emily gave her first creation to Roger. I didn’t tell my sister I liked him, too, and I felt jealous.

When Miss O’Neal dismissed class at the end of the day, Emily and I approached the long bridge we crossed when walking to and from school. “I’ll give you a nickel if you can walk on top of the railing the whole distance of the bridge,” I said to Emily.

Without hesitating, my sister climbed up on the railing clutching her bag of valentines in one hand and her lunch pail in the other. Arms extended, she displayed perfect balance while placing one foot in front of the other until she reached the end of the bridge.

“Give me my nickel, Emma,” she demanded, extending her hand.

“You have to walk back the other way first,” I said, not telling her I didn’t have a nickel.

Emily turned around on the railing and took a few steps forward before she lost her balance and fell onto the ocean sand below.

I hurried toward Sis, yelling, “I’m coming, Emily, I’m coming.” Tears trickled down my cheeks as I continued, “Emily, I’m sorry. Please get up.” I rubbed my sister’s arms and legs and patted her cheeks, but she lay there, eyes closed, not moving.

Running for my parents, I screamed, “Emily is dead! I killed my sister! The bridge—she’s under the bridge!”

“Call the ambulance!” Mother yelled to Dad before she darted away, with me racing after her.

When Mother reached the bridge, she fell to her knees and began kissing Emily’s forehead, crying, “Oh, my baby, my poor baby.”

“The ambulance is on the way,” Dad announced when he showed up a few minutes later, out of breath. “It’s a good thing the tide hasn’t come in yet, or Emily could have drowned,” he said, just as we heard the blaring siren in the distance.

Mother insisted she ride to the hospital in the ambulance with Emily. After I climbed into the front seat next to Dad, we followed the screeching sounds and the flashing lights, which added to my mounting fears.

While I was sitting on the chair between my parents in the hospital waiting room, Mother demanded I tell her exactly what had happened. After blurting out the story between bouts of sobs, she glared at me and said, “Emma, how could you do such an awful thing to your sister? What were you thinking?”

I wanted to hide my tears of shame, and I longed to feel my mother’s forgiving arms around me and to hear her words of comfort.

When my mother put a hanky to her red eyes, I heard my father say, “Don’t worry, Emma. I know you didn’t mean to hurt your sister. She’s going to be okay.”

“Oh, Daddy!” I cried, looking into his grayish-blue eyes. I climbed onto his lap and leaned my head against his firm chest, feeling the heaviness of worry for my sister and the deep regret for what I’d done.

It seemed like eternity before a tall, young doctor dressed in a white smock came into the waiting room to give us a report. “Mr. and Mrs. Beckman, I’m Dr. Weldon,” he said. “Your daughter is in a coma that we’re hoping will only last a few days. She has no broken bones, but unfortunately, she has nerve damage in her back that could limit her ability to walk correctly. You may come back tomorrow to see her.”

On each day that followed, we returned to the hospital to hear the same thing—my sister was still in a coma, and there was nothing new to report.

On the fourth day, Dr. Weldon walked into the waiting room, smiling. “Emily came out of her coma late last night,” he said. “This morning she had feeling in both legs, and she took a few steps without assistance and ate a little soup. Emily might walk crookedly for a while and her bone growth may be affected, but she’s a lucky little girl and she’s making remarkable progress.”

“When can Emily come home?” Mother asked.

“I’m hoping to release her from the hospital in a few days, but you’ll need to keep her home from school until she can walk straight. Emily is resting now, and I think it’s best not to wake her.”

Mother reached into her large purse and pulled out a stuffed pony that she’d sewn from spotted brown material and tan yarn. “Please give this to my little girl and tell her I love her,” Mother said, wiping tears away.

When we left the hospital, I climbed into the back seat of our car and cried silently, longing for my sister to be beside me.

Five days later, my sister came home from the hospital. On the following day, I was happy to bring home Emily’s schoolwork and help her with the assignments. I knew my sister had forgiven me, and I hoped Mother would, too.

The next day, Mother came into my room and knelt down in front of me. “Emma, I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything to you sooner. But I was so scared about Emily being in a coma, she’s all I had on my mind. I know that you didn’t mean to hurt your sister, and you’ve learned a valuable lesson. I do love you, Emma, and I forgive you.”

“Mother,” I said, reaching my arms into hers. “I really didn’t mean it,” I added, shedding tears of relief.

“I know you didn’t, Emma. You’re a good girl. Now wipe your tears, and I’ll let you spread the chocolate frosting on the cake. And you may lick the spoon, too, but don’t tell Emily.”

I smiled at Mother and skipped into the kitchen, almost floating on air.