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Strange Little McCayla

Saturday, August 9th, 2008

My youngest sister, McCayla, is finally coming back from California today-she’s been gone for over six weeks and has been anxious to go home. She’s been calling me quite a bit to tell me about her time there, and every time I talk to her I can’t help but remember all the things that happened when she was a little kid. Sadly, she doesn’t remember most of them, but at least this gives me an excuse to tell her all about them.

One of the incidents I was thinking about a while ago was shortly after my other sister Violet had been given a lipgloss kit. Violet was always really into experimenting, and had made a green lipgloss and thrown it in a bowl on top of her dresser.

As was typical for a Saturday, my parents went for a ride on their Harley and we were all home alone. I had thought that McCayla was just sitting in her room being the strange little kid that she was when Violet came downstairs and says “McCayla is really scared and doesn’t want you to get mad. She won’t come downstairs unless you promise you won’t get mad.”

“Oh, fucking hell. (If I said a sentence without the fuck word in it when I was a teenager, I have no idea what it was) Ok, I promise, I won’t get mad, but I hate it when you do this. Now, where’s McCayla?”

McCayla comes walking down the stairs very slowly with her hands in front of her face crying and repeating “promiseyouwon’tgetmadPROMISEYOUWON’TGETMAD!”

I brace myself for the worst, expecting who knows what. When her hands were free I fell forward grabbing the handrail on the stairs laughing until my stomach hurt.

McCayla, still bawling, attempted to tell me what had happened. “I was playing Indian.” Her face was covered in green patterns resembling tribal markings. Apparently, she’d found Violet’s lipgloss.

“It’s Native American now, kid. Oh…fuck. Ok, give me a minute to think, let’s go to the bathroom.”

I scrubbed her face while she bawled and it wasn’t coming off at all. No fading-nothing. I said I thought we were going to need to call someone and she FREAKED OUT. McCayla grabbed my legs and started screaming “Do not call Mom and Dad!”

I was trying everything we had in the bathroom. Being a teenager, it occurred to me that when I washed my face with hot water and put globs of Eucerin cream on my face it would clear up-so I gave it a go on McCayla’s green face-and for some reason I’ve never figured out it worked! Makes me really wonder about Eucerin cream.

I desperately wish I had pictures of McCayla’s green face to show people, I still see it quite clearly in my mind, haha…

betrayals

Wednesday, July 16th, 2008

Jack London went on crazy adventures in the wilderness and then used those adventures to inspire himself to write and publish books.

My crazy adventures have all been my unique experiences peering into other people’s lives.

I feel a need to write these things down and let them out. I want to write them down and show other people the things I see here-but it feels like such a strange betrayal to put these things to paper.

Most of these people did terrible things to me. The things I feel I can’t say, I can’t tell you about that I desperately want to-are all of the worst. Why am I so scared to betray my father by telling you that after I broke the cookie jar lid he chased me and then told me I’d better stay away because he knew he’d kill me if he could? Why do I feel like I’m betraying my mother by telling you about the pure evil insanity I’ve seen in her eyes?

Despite how horrific these moments are, they are also intimate. I don’t have moments of sweet intimacy with my parents, I don’t remember being held and told how wonderful I was-the only personal moments of connection I had with my parents were horrifying.

And so I would guess where other people would feel it a betrayal to tell you about how their parents sobbed, snot dripping from their noses and hearts aching when they moved out and went off to college, I feel it a betrayal to tell you about the time my dad got drunk and tried to run over deer in the back yard, or the stories of how (so far) three or their four daughters have moved out at sixteen.