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.
Chapter 2
WE’RE GOING FISHING
On our birthday in July, my twin and I ran down to the water in front of our home wearing the navy blue bathing suits our father bought us last week.
Unable to swim, Sis and I splashed water on ourselves until I accidentally flicked the cool liquid into Emily’s face.
“Mother said not to get our hair wet,” Emily cautioned before she threw a handful of water back at me. Soon our fun escalated into a water fight with us laughing uncontrollably.
We didn’t care about our hair looking like limp strings until we walked into the house and Mother shouted, “How could you girls ruin your hair after I rolled and styled it for your birthday!”
“Let them be. It’s their birthday, for goodness’ sake,” scolded Dad, handing the matches to Mother while halfway smiling at her.
Mother lit the little candles as she sang a happy birthday song, and tension between our parents faded by the time the first bite of chocolate cake entered our mouths.
Our mother appeared radiant as the sun beamed through the window, shining on her curly brown hair. Winking at Emily and me, she said, “I can’t believe my girls are seven years old today. It seems like yesterday you were both babes in my arms.” She smiled at Sis and me as if she longed for us to be little again.
Then Mother pulled something out of a drawer in her china closet. “The bathing suits were from your father,” she said. “I sewed these dresses for your birthday.”
“Oh, Mother, I love red!” I said, feeling the soft corduroy material.
“Thank you, Mother,” said Emily, rubbing the fabric against her rosy cheek.
Dad looked dashing in his gray suit and vest as he gave Mother a playful smile, making her blush.
“This is my favorite birthday!” I said.
“Mine, too,” Emily echoed.
Six weeks later, Dad wore a grin when he came home from the logging camp. “I’ve rented a house about thirty-five miles from here in Tacoma,” he announced. “It’s closer to work, and we should be moved in before school begins.”
“Henry, you need to consult me before you up and decide to move,” Mother said with a scowl.
After our mother set a dish of spaghetti and a large green salad on the table, she glanced at my unhappy expression and waved her arms as she blurted out, “But I just love moving any time—it invigorates me.”
When our mother looked at all of us and burst out laughing, I said, “Mother, you’re acting silly.”
“Well, it’s better to laugh than to cry,” she said, looking at Dad’s startled expression. “Let’s eat. I have plans to make.”
Before school began, two men from the logging camp came in their truck to help Dad move the heavy furniture to our rental house.
On our first day in second grade, our teacher, Miss Forester, wore her auburn hair pinned back with curls falling down to her shoulders. “I’ll not allow any student to make fun of another or be disrespectful,” she said. “If you get into trouble at school, your parents will be notified.”
After the first day, almost everyone obeyed Miss Forester. Everyone, that is, except for Rudy Goodnight, a chunky boy who liked to pull the girls’ hair ribbons.
The teacher sat me beside Marcia, who soon became my best friend. We loved going up and down on the teeter-totter and pushing each other on the swing. When Emily or another child wanted to join us, Marcia always agreed. She was thoughtful and sweet, but she didn’t react kindly when Rudy rushed up behind her and untied her pink ponytail ribbon.
“Give it back!” Marcia yelled, chasing Rudy around the swings until he fell on the sand, out of breath.
“Here it is—you win this time,” said Rudy, smiling before walking off.
Marcia just shook her head and responded, “That’s Rudy.”
One rainy day early in October, Emily and I rushed into the house, and I accidentally knocked Mother’s floral vase onto the floor. Staring at the broken pieces, Mother shouted, “Emma Beckman, go to your room, now!”
Seconds later, Mother opened my bedroom door and said, “I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to yell at you, but your grandmother gave me that vase when I was your age.” After sighing, Mother added, “Your father is still at the logging camp, and I’m going to bed to try to get rid of my headache. You’ll find some chicken legs and apple salad in the icebox for you and your sister.”
In the morning, Mother was singing in the kitchen and acting like I’d done nothing wrong.
“I’m going to stay out of Mother’s way,” I told Emily. “She’s angry one minute and happy the next.”
“Sometimes even Dad doesn’t want to be around her,” said Emily. “I wonder if she’s sick.”
The following week, Dad limped into the house with a cast on his left leg.
“What happened to you?” Mother asked, raising her eyebrows.
“A log fell on my leg and broke it,” Dad explained, heading for his chair in the living room.
While