Twins' Double Victory. Karen Jones
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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,