Runaways

excerpt from my memoir-in-process

the author & her sister in easier times

This post is another in a series of excerpts from my memoir-in-process Aggressively Handmade. Keep in mind that excerpts are published in order of writing, which isn’t necessarily the order in which they will appear in the book. Thank you for reading!

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Although we shared parents, my older sister Em¹ and I didn’t have much else in common. We did both love the Trixie Belden mystery series and were a little against the spoiled Nancy Drew and her crew. Em enjoyed building and furnishing Barbie houses with me, but not so much playing with dolls. We both helped with swimming lessons for the Red Cross in the summertime. While Em was working with more experienced swimmers in the deep end, I was trying to talk toddlers into putting their faces in the water in the kid pool.

Superficially, we couldn’t have been more different. Em didn’t care about clothes, makeup, or anything stereotypically girly until later on in high school, around the time she got her senior photos taken. Then she had to ask me to show her how to apply eyeshadow, how to get mascara on her lashes without poking herself in the eye.

Our varying levels of interest in the religion we were raised with perfectly illustrate how upbringing is always only ever part of the equation. At church, I’d get swept up by the emotion of the service, the hymns, the prayer requests, the pastor’s pleas for us to save ourselves from Satan’s wiles. And the altar call at the end. But when I wasn’t in church, I didn’t really think about God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit. I sensed a force in the universe around me that came through when I was riding my bike, alone, or laying on my bed with a book, alone. But not a single member of the holy trinity entered my mind unless someone else brought it up.

Em was different. Though at first resistant to the tremendous amount of time we were expected to be in church, at some point and for reasons I never understood, Em became a true believer. And an earnest seeker of God’s will in her life. I envied her certainty that He had a plan and would reveal it to her in good time. I alternated between believing I would be left behind after the Rapture and wondering if heaven and hell even existed.

We two older girls always shared a bedroom with our little sister until our brother moved out his last semester of high school. So we should’ve known each other better than anyone, but somehow Em was always a bit of a mystery. She spent a lot of time outside, barefoot, in all temperatures. How did she get so tough, seemingly untouchable, even by the ice on the ground? And what was she doing outside? My allergies were terrible, so I was mostly on the couch reading, playing Barbies with little sis, or practicing my violin. Maybe Em was sitting out back in a lawn chair, reading Beowulf, working on her tan? That book was on her bedside table for quite a while, but I never saw her reading it.

Although Em’s skin browned easily, when we were putting on nightgowns at bedtime, I sometimes saw thumbprint-sized bruises on her upper arms. I assumed because she was bigger than me, that, like our brother, Dad was probably harder on her than me. He increasingly lost control of his temper as we three older kids became a tiny bit more independent. He accused us of rolling our eyes, smirking, or otherwise being disrespectful.

He stopped saying outright “no” to things we asked for and started saying “maybe.” Then stringing out the time between the request and a decision at the last minute. Which was always “no.” Dad’s casual cruelty and ever-shifting rules finally became intolerable. During our one year of middle school overlap, we were so miserable that Em and I started hatching a plan to run away from home. Since we weren’t allowed to have our bedroom door closed unless we were dressing, our plotting was done very quietly.

In murmurs, we worked on a list of provisions. It wasn’t easy coming up with ideas for portable food. Most of what we ate wasn’t pre-packaged since Mom grew a big garden and canned all summer. And cooked the vast majority of our childhood meals. The few items of convenience food Mom picked up at the store were kept under close watch. If we wanted a snack, we were required to ask first.

We listed things we thought we could stockpile over time in a way that would be overlooked. Fig Newtons topped the list. Then apples. Chocolate chips. Yep, that was pretty much it. Then notes about items of clothing that could be layered in cold weather and worn on their own in the heat.

The one thing we disagreed about was what was essential versus not. Em would talk about how it was important to pack light so we could move fast. I had a favorite hat I wore everywhere at that age. It was a white, floppy fisherman-style hat with bright pink, blue, and yellow flowers on it. There is no family photo of me wearing it, so I assume everyone agreed that the hat was hideous. Em told me I couldn’t bring it. Nor could we bring our little sister.

One Saturday morning as we were sitting on our bedroom floor between her bed and the bunk beds strategizing, Dad suddenly appeared in the doorway. “WHAT are you doing in here?” He bellowed so loudly we both just about levitated. Dad was paranoid, but this time he wasn’t wrong. We were talking disrespectfully about him behind his back. Very much so. And not just on this one occasion. The recurring theme was that we couldn’t believe Mom stayed with him despite his over-the-top “discipline,” his moods, his selfishness.

“He says we can’t afford church camp, but he buys whatever he wants.”

“I know! Just look at all his books. His tools. His shoes.”

We tried to save loose change for the journey, though we often forgot and spent it. I started stealing two Fig Newtons every time there was an open package. It is not easy getting into a tight plastic sleeve of cookies noiselessly, but I did it. I’d tuck the Newtons in the front of my waistband, one over each hipbone, and walk very carefully through the living room where Mom always seemed to be when not in the kitchen, back to our room. It was only twenty steps, but felt like forever. Em stored the supplies first in an empty Pringles can, then in an oatmeal canister, under her bed. In fact, plotting and storage were her main contributions to the planned operation.

If Em had a plan of where we would go and how we would live on our own at ages twelve and fourteen, I was never aware of it. I don’t remember the conversation where we decided to bag the plan. We both knew it was out the window when we sat on her bed and ate everything we had set aside for our journey. Except for the apples.

The following year, Em was off to high school. She joined the water polo team and grew enormous biceps. Even her neck looked strong. Then Em and her best friend went to Mexico on a mission trip and she came back even more spiritually activated. While I was busy trying to make my homemade clothes look as hot as my friends’ department store outfits, Em doubled down. She joined the medical careers club at school and decided she would pursue some kind of medical training that she could put to work as a missionary back in Mexico or wherever God led her.

Later, while our dad was slowly imploding, Em was off attending Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. I was embarrassed to tell people where she was going to college. And ashamed for being embarrassed. Even the members of our strict Nazarene church acted surprised. Moody was famous for their rules about students’ behavior, such as requiring women to keep their elbows and knees covered when out in public.

Em was unfazed. She wasn’t looking to pair off, although she did eventually start dating. No, her goal was, and as far as I know, still is, to remain in a state of grace with her God. If that meant revising the history of her beliefs every time she became more conservative in her religious practices, so be it.

It’s hard for me to imagine wanting to be part of any cultural structure that has systematically suppressed women’s voices, condoned child abuse, and instilled hate for too many reasons to count. I don’t try to understand anymore. I’m at peace. Most of the time. But I will admit that I can’t look at a Fig Newton and not remember that intense year of our shared longing for something better. And those shriveled under-the-bed apples destined to rot in some landfill, no longer of use to two would-be runaway girls with pockets full of chocolate chips and a quarter in each shoe.

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1. For her privacy, not her real name.