CHAPTER 1

Tree of family and relatives

My story begins in this sleepy little railroad town. It sits offthe interstate in the foot hills. With no through traffic,the town hasn't had much influx of new people or newthoughts in decades. This is a town of secrets. From the outside,a cute little town that hasn't been touched much by change. Thelandscape is filled with rolling hills and streams. There's a creek, bigenough to swim in, running right through town. Don't look tooclosely at the chipping paint and sagging porches. Everyone is relatedto everyone, a place no one ever leaves. A place where nothing is asit seems.

I live on a tiny little farm outside of town in a ramshackle house.I've lived there most of my life, except for a short stint in the city inthe very beginning. The house is a constant work in progress. Thefamily consists of me, two younger brothers and my parents ... or sothey say. I'm not sure. Can I really be related to these people? Is it reallytheir blood running through my veins? The younger of my two brothers,Sam, seems to be on the outside too. He doesn't seem like the rest. Ikeep him very close at all times, for safety. I don't want them to beable to get to him, his mind. The middle boy, Kenny, is meaner thana snake. They've gotten to him already.

Our small piece of property is surrounded by a larger farm ownedby Mr. Stanford. He has about a hundred acres. The old man hastaken a shine to me and my love for animals. He has a beautifulIrish setter named Joe. I love the way his shiny red coat feels slidingthrough my fingers. Seeing the old man out in the pasture, tall, lean,walking stick in one hand, his faithful companion on the other,makes me smile from the inside. I'm off and running. I cover thedistance between us as fast as my legs will carry me. If I'm lucky, weget to spend the day in the garden. He loves to teach me as we goalong, telling me about each plant and what it needs to be healthy andstrong. This is my favorite time, maybe because he feels I'm worthteaching. Whatever the day turns into, chores are always more funwhen they're someone else's.

Mr. Stanford lets me graze my horse Ginger in his pasture. Thegrounds are mine to roam whenever I want, my playground. Thebeautiful hills and cliffs are my refuge. By the time I reach the creek,the grime from home is washed away and forgotten. For the momentfreedom and laughter replace reality.

CHAPTER 2

Celtic symbol for mother.... Mother isher nurturing state, maiden in herinnocence, crone in her wise experience

Grandma, my angel. When I'm at Grandma's, all of Dad'sstupid rules go right out the window. I'm not allowed tobe held or rocked. "Don't want some spoiled brat." When I'mwith Grandma I get all the love and touching I want. She holds meand rocks me, singing me her funny little songs. How much is thatdoggie in the window? She loves me and she loves me right. When I'mat Grandma's I'm the favorite. She can barely turn around withoutstepping on me. I always want to be on her lap; women sitting aroundthe table gabbing, and there I am looking up longingly.

"Go play and leave Grandma alone for a while, now," Momtells me.

"No, no she's all right," Grandma says, "Come here, sweetJunebug."

I climb up and cuddle in her arms.

The connection most people have with their mother, that's theconnection I have with Grandma. Grandma and Mom all rolled intoone. The problem is, I don't live here. I only get her sometimes. Sheisn't my Mom. My support and safety is once removed.

I have one memory of when I was quite small. I'm left in thedriveway, in an old Rambler station wagon, while Mom goes in totalk to Grandma. I'm told to wait. I have on a little yellow dress andwhite hat; my feet don't reach the edge of the seat. I'm in the frontseat, can't see out and afraid to move. After a few minutes, I hearthe squeak of the old screen door and the swing of the gate. Momopens the back door of the old car and takes a little suitcase fromthe back seat. She then crosses around the front, opens the passengerdoor, scoops me up and carts me inside. I wasn't sad being droppedoff there. I got a little vacation. Only, after a few days of being there,the anxiety would start, as if they were calling me.

Why would you want to go back there? my brain yells. It's safe herepeople don't hurt you, and you're the favorite. In my gut there is thefeeling that I have to get back home, to make sure things are okay.The battle inside increases, until I'm asking to go home. Maybe it'sthe feeling of being dropped off there to get me out of the house?That became Mom's way of fighting for me after a while—droppingme off at Grandma's. The separation gives us all a rest for a second.Even though I love being here, it is a weird feeling to know why.

CHAPTER 3

Chinese symbol for father

My first memory of my Dad is far from a pleasant one.The three of us lived in the city for a short while at thebeginning of my life. Times were hard on my Mom;she was moved away from her family. She hadn't ever really beenanywhere, much less lived anywhere other than her sleepy littletown. She was far away with no car. Her pride got in the way ofadmitting what life was really like with her new husband and baby.The baby cried all the time, especially if her Daddy was around. Yes,I was already scared to death of him. They think kids don't remember thingsfrom this young of an age. I'm here to tell you they do. One particularday Mom had gone out to run errands. She was allowed this luxurywithin an allotted amount of time, whatever he deemed appropriatefor the task, a curfew of sorts. I was left alone with my Dad.

On cue, I begin to cry and when he enters my room, I begin tohowl. He checks my diaper, and with his touch my cries grow louderand even more intense.

There's nothing to do but lift her and give her a little shake; seeif that shuts her up. No, that didn't work. How about a good smack?What do you know? That didn't work either. What now? He lays medown and leaves the room. My howls are deafening at this point.

He shuts the door, pops a beer, and paces in circles around thetiny apartment, the cries wearing on his every nerve. How long canshe possibly last? He's not able to bear it another moment—oh, wait,first another beer, that always helps—he then decides he's going tohave to teach me a lesson. He lifts me from the crib saying, "Youbetter shut up if you know what's good for you."

I didn't.

Another good shake.... More crying. A few more smacks. Finally,exhausted and in shock, I gasp for air. Then, the quiet. Only theheavy breathing from crying so hard, for so long. He leaves the room,proud of himself.

Mom returns right on time. "I taught that screaming kid alesson", he tells her, gloating,

"Finally got her to shut up. You just have her spoiled rotten."

She quickly takes the few steps to the baby's room. She's horrified.The bruises are already beginning to appear on her little baby's body,and she's quiet, eerily quiet. Tears stream down Mom's face. Holdingme in close to her body, she makes a beeline for the door. If she canjust get to the door, maybe she can get to the neighbors.

She never made it.

Screaming, hitting, crying. She was still fighting for me then.

The settlement was to move back home, back to the safety andcomfort of her family. Of course, there were promises of no morehitting. I watched this from my safe spot, in the corner from above.I watched it all. It was before I was called to the other place. I wasabout six months old at the time. We remember. Eventually we alwaysremember.

CHAPTER 4

Chinese symbol for younger brother

The boys and I are all three years and some months apart.I'm the oldest, then Kenny...Sam's the baby and my prideand joy. I feel as if I have birthed him myself. He is so weakand so tiny. My goal is for him to be a kid, to believe in fairy tales,Santa Claus, and the Easter bunny. I want him to have the part oflife I'm missing, the magic. He had a hard time in the beginning andhad to stay in the hospital for a really long time after he was born.The waiting: it was bad enough to wait that whole time he was inher belly, but now this. She's back home, and he has to stay there allby himself, and here we are like nothing's happening. It feels likeit's never going to end. Then finally the day comes when they getto bring him home. There is no sleeping the night before. I havebeen waiting for so long. The crib was set up outside my parents'room, in a little alcove. I'm not allowed to go with them into thecity to the hospital, so I wait, and wait, and wait. Grandma does herbest to keep me distracted, but I can't pay attention to her storiestoday. I hear the tires on the gravel drive and bolt from the house.I'm about to pee my pants I'm so excited. Mom has him pulled inclose to her chest.

"Wait, I can't see."

I have to be patient until they get him inside, I'm told. Morewaiting. It's like Christmas, the anticipation and all the waiting. Aftergetting settled inside, the blankets are pulled away, and I finally geta look at him. I'm stunned, speechless. He's the scrawniest, ugliestlittle thing I have ever seen. He kind of looks like an alien ... boneyhead, big eyes and really skinny body.

My attention turns to my mother's voice as she explains toGrandma, "They won't know about his brain function until he'solder. It could go one way or the other, either genius IQ or learningdisabilities. They just don't know."

My heart begins to grow with compassion for the pitiful lookinglittle thing. I decide then and there that he's going to be just fine. Ikneel by his crib through the night praying. I promise God that Iwill keep Sam safe if He'll let this funny little creature be okay. Momfinds me in the morning, still perched on the stool, knees swollen.I'm stuck between the rails of the crib. It takes a pretty good size jarof Vaseline to get me free.

Before long I began to see the results of my prayers. The littlething begins to grow stronger. I hold true to my word, try to anyway.The boy is rarely out of my sight. He is a ball of light. Once he finallygets going, he never stops moving and he never stops talking. Byage three or four he has bleeding ulcers. He's never touched. He's asensitive boy. I can't protect him from the feelings. With my prayersanswered, I have a job to do.

Kenny and I had it the toughest. Now Kenny's a big boy. Hepassed me up by about the age of five. Dad worked hard to makea mini-me out of Kenny. They even have the same name. I canremember Dad giving him sips of beer as a toddler just to watchhim stumble around. He thought it was hilarious. It didn't seem toofunny to me. Everyone would chuckle, watching. He was just a littleboy. I guess it was one of the many battles Mom decided not to fight.Kenny was taught that if someone hurt you, you hurt them back andhurt them worse. The accident part was left out. If Kenny got hurt,someone paid. He was a very handsome little boy, with a smile thatsparkled ... in the beginning.

Kenny rarely spoke. He didn't say a word until he was three yearsold. Everyone thought something was the matter with him. He justdidn't have anything to say. He watched. When he finally spoke, itcame out in complete sentences. He was taught that women werestupid, and that included Mom. He challenged her at every turn, inhis silence. He appeared to listen while doing whatever he wanted.I remember one time—Mom's after him about something and askshim if he wants a spanking, His reply, "Well if it'll make you feel better."They had little, if any, expectation for Kenny. He could have F's andD's without a word, while I'll be in trouble over a B. I noticed a lookthat would enter his eyes. I think he did it on purpose just to see ifanyone cared. They didn't. More fuel for his fire.

Dad got him sweet on the liquid gold with all those sips. Theywould head out to cut firewood with a twelve pack, well beforeKenny was old enough to drive.

Dad wanted Kenny to be tough. He enrolled him in boxing.Kenny wasn't mean on the inside. He just had to act like it. He didn'treally like hitting people; he was made to. I guess it became a wayof life. By high school he was smoking, drinking and fighting. Theboy everyone was afraid of—following right in Daddy's footsteps."Mini-me" accomplished.

By the time he was thirteen, he and Dad were about the samesize. Then the games really started. The rest of his time there, Dadspent making him feel little. It was hard to watch, really hard to standby and watch someone get hurt.

We only had one television, until Kenny got one. Dad put an oldtelevision in Kenny's room on the wall that we share. He was allowedto keep it on all night....

Kenny would try and coach me on being invisible. He had itdown. Stay out of his way and be quiet. Stay close to the edges of the roomand stop talking. Stop with the questions. It was the talking part I nevercould seem to master. It didn't seem to matter anyway. Kenny knew;Dad was just waiting.

CHAPTER 5

Tree of family and relatives

My two best friends, here, were Ginger and my little dogChi-Chi. Ginger's original owner purchased a fox trottingmare with foal. The mare had bred with a quarter horse,which made the foal worthless ... to them. I fell in love; we were aperfect match, both out of the loop. She had just been weaned fromher mother when she came to live with us. She has this beautifulapricot coat with a crooked white blaze down her nose. I got to nameher. I don't care what they say, she's perfect and worth everything tome. We've grown up together.

My friend Chi-Chi was acquired through a trade. Much to mypoor little brother Sam's horror, Dad left that morning with his ponyand came home with a Chihuahua. While loading the pony in thetrailer, Dad explained to Sam that he was trading his pony for a dog.Sam had in his head a dog—a real dog of his very own, one that hecould run and play with. He was so excited.

Hours later, here comes Dad, trailer empty. We meet him in thedrive, all four piled around the cab of the truck waiting. He can'tget out fast enough. He's already chuckling, anticipating the look onSam's face.

Sam impatiently asks, "Where's my dog?"

Dad points to his shirt pocket. Laughing, he takes this teeny-little-thingfrom his pocket and holds her out to Sam. "She rodethe whole way home, right here in my pocket," Dad says, pattinghis chest.

Sam looks at her in total disbelief, the tears welling up in his eyes."You traded my pony for that? You said a dog."

The tiny creature fits in the palm of my father's hand. Dad isexplaining, "When she gets all grown up, she is only gonna be aboutthree pounds."

At this point, Sam's tears begin in earnest. "How could you leavewith my pony and come home with a mouse?"

I feel sorry for him but intrigued at the same time by the tinylittle creature.

"This little thing is worth a hell of a lot more than that pony,"Dad tells him.

Sam doesn't care about that. All he knows is his pony was tradedfor a puppy no bigger than a mouse. Storming off to his room, Samfeels totally betrayed.

For me it's love at first sight. She's so tiny, "Can I hold her?"

Handing her to me, Dad talks about breeding her. How couldsomething this small have babies? Three pounds? I can feel her tinyheart beat in the palm of my hand. I nuzzle her to my cheek.She's perfect. Chi-Chi becomes my baby. I carry that little dogeverywhere. Wherever Ginger and I go, she goes. The three of usbecome inseparable.

CHAPTER 6

Rangoli is a symbol from India....It reminds us to not value the works of manand possessions over God and the worldof the spirits

Until high school, I went to a small Catholic school right upthe street from Grandma's. It was perfect, my not being sogood with people and all. I went to school with the sametwenty five kids through the eighth grade. We went to church everymorning and confession every Friday afternoon. Church twice onFriday, counting confession. The only day I didn't go to church wasSaturday. The school was situated next to the grand old church. Wewere marched to church each morning in a line taking our places inthe pews, little kids in the front. We were seated according to grade.The church was magnificent. I would lose myself in the paintings ofthe angels and stars on the ceilings, everything trimmed out in gold.The priest would stand with his back to us, uttering words in Latinthat no one could understand.

On confession day, I would sit waiting for my turn to go intothe little closet to tell the priest my sins for the past week. I wouldthink and think, knowing I did terrible things. Dad thought so,anyway. I just couldn't remember what they were. So I would conjureup something and hope the Hail Mary's would help me stay out oftrouble.