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To support her habits, she stole cash and jewelry from my mother. She had tiny cuts all over her chest and bruises on her thighs.She ran up my mother's credit cards and wrote checks on her accounts. She was dirty in places, covered in the grime of asphalt.A nurse called my mother at work and told her what had happened. My sister had a deep cut in her forehead that would require sutures.My mother told the nurse not to do anything until she got there. It sounded like the name of a character from a Victorian novel. I was always encouraging her to build model airplanes with me or to play Parcheesi, but most of the time my efforts just backfired. "You don't believe me, check it out for yourself." He told me her porn name. Don't worry, she told me with her eyes, we'll talk about this later. When we were growing up, I tried to be a good brother to my sister. Part of me thought she had but was just pretending she hadn't.I thought maybe now my sister would get some of the attention he had been siphoning off for so many years. She dropped out of school, started doing coke and drinking, and developed a major case of bulimia. She already had a woman's body, and I was ashamed to look.
I saw it with my own eyes." "It's true, brother," his wife said. I was only four years older, but it felt like we were a generation apart.As soon as she was safely out of the parking lot of our apartment building, I got in my car and drove to an adult bookstore in Enfield, CT, a town and a state far enough away from where I lived that I could be sure I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. But every Saturday morning, as I sat on my bedroom floor listening to their records, she came knocking. It was only when she was pounding on my door, begging me please and apologizing for everything she'd said about the Beatles, that I let her in. I found her in her bedroom, in bed with my brother. I don't know if my brother was molesting my sister; I don't know if it's even possible for a 9-year-old to molest a 6-year-old. I felt like my brother had taken my sister away from me.When I got home, I went straight into our bedroom and lay down on our bed. When she was 18, she was driving drunk and slammed her VW into a tree. She always wanted to listen to the same song over and over again. She'd try to sing along with it, but her voice would crack every time she came to the bridge: There was one Saturday morning when she didn't knock on my door. The relationship between my brother and sister would become even more troubling three years later, when my father died, only a day after being diagnosed with leukemia.Then I looked at all the pictures from cover to cover before choosing one woman to focus on. Her head had cracked the windshield, leaving a deep scar between her eyebrows. She was on a page called "Party Girls Hotline." She was with two other women. First there was my sister, then there was another blonde, then there was a brunette. The cancer had been spreading inside him for years, completely undetected.I was paging through the phone-sex ads when I saw a picture of my sister. The brunette was kissing the blonde on the cheek, digging her fingernails into her ass. It was devastating for all of us, but it was particularly devastating for my sister. After my father died, my brother spent entire nights in my sister's bedroom.
She couldn't wait for my mother's doctor; just the day before, she had met a guy who invited her to Palm Springs, and she didn't want anything to interfere with that.