Fake Sisters

            by Kate Donahue

 

At someone’s fiftieth birthday surprise party in a neighbor’s studio I can be seen, caught on video, leaning over Gwen’s stroller and pinching her to see if she would respond. Perhaps this explains Gwen’s later habit of pinching Megan who always sat in front as their babysitter pushed the double stroller. Now two years seems like nothing, but back then I was significantly older than the other two. I liked to have order, and I had them to order around. Unfortunately Megan and Gwen—or Gigi as we called her then— still had to take naps in the middle of the day and I could do nothing about this, though I did try. But the rest of the time I took charge and my two friends could not always accept my idea of what we should do or what they should do, so they would have play dates without me. They were already closer with each other than they were with me just because of our age difference. They had grown up like twins though they looked nothing alike. Megan’s dark tan made Gwen look whiter than florescent lights and her huge Afro of curls made up for Gwen’s wispy strawberry blonde. I thought I belonged in the middle, at least as far as looks went, but I did not. They had their private play dates without me.

            Gwen’s mother, Archana, would support them in their exclusive decision and make sure that I was not allowed into their house. She watched me boss them around and agreed that they deserved a break.

“They’re having a private play date today, sorry,” she would explain at the door while private giggles snuck around the corner.

“Oh. Okay, bye.” I sometimes wouldn’t leave just then but would sneak back to peek through the crack between the two halves of their blue Dutch door. All I could see was a strip of stairway that led to Gwen’s room, but I could hear their voices weaving school stories with Gwen’s teacher Barbie and beach vacation stories with Megan’s Baywatch Barbie (her skin tans in warm water!) and  Baywatch Ken (his beard disappears in warm water!). I would eventually admit defeat and return to my own Barbie and Stacey—so they wouldn’t feel left out—and feed them slices of hotdog.          

*          *          *

I was seven when I finally convinced Gwen to play checkers with me. She was five and  old enough to know that she didn’t like losing and should for that reason not compete. But, smothered by boredom, she finally agreed that playing checkers was the only thing left to do. I don’t remember the actual game but Gwen does, and whenever we reminisce on this time she makes sure to add her side of the story.

            “You kept making up rules as we went along, at least that’s how it seemed to me.”

            “I guess it would seem like that if you didn’t know the rules and I was just telling them to you as we went along and I remembered them.”

            I would have been upset too. I remember throwing tantrums because I had lost at something. I remember Gwen’s tantrum more clearly. I had made the last move, jumping three of her pieces in a row while reminding her that my move was, in fact, legal. Upon realizing that none of her red tiles remained she began to argue.

            “That’s not fair because you just made up that rule and who says you can jump backwards anyway!”

            “I did not make it up just now and I can jump backwards because my piece was a king.” Gwen could think of no verbal response to this, so she picked up my king and threw it to the floor. I just watched her. I had already won, I didn’t care if she destroyed the game now. She threw another of my black checkers, this time with a little more frustration behind it. Then black and red blurs were flying across the room, the radius of the flailing and yelling increasing until all that was left to dispose of was the board which Gwen, red in the face, threw with one last scream at the wall behind me. Her mother, Archana, was involved now and the tearful Gwen ran to her, screaming about unfair.

            I was a little shocked at the display, but I did not think Gwen’s anger was directed at me, She didn’t throw a single disc with me as her target. Her anger was directed more at the game that could make her so frustrated. She was pronounced tired and I was sent home.

*          *          *

There was a party in the backyard as there are multiple times a year. Megan, Gwen, and I, tired of running around the parking lot, decided to go back inside to my studio. We were used to treating our studios, and the whole co-op as a playground. The earthquake bars slanting from wall to wall were our monkey bars. We would scoot up, following them as high as we dared. From the arm of the couch, where we grabbed on to the thin metal pole, to the ledge by the wall. A rope with a knot on the end hanging from Megan’s loft bed was our swing. Originally it served as a jump rope but we quickly forgot its prior personality as we swung a little too close to her wall, then a little too close to her closet.

In my room, the realization that we had not yet explored the laundry chute came upon us.

Now, we had finally found our slide.

            I have seen two other laundry chutes besides mine and both were long rectangular chutes, white paint inside and a nice little door in the wall leading to it. Ours was actually a slide. The hatch on top opened without a handle and after about a foot or so dropped onto a wooden plank. Though our slide was only supported by its connection to one wall of the chute and two thin metal wires at opposite corners the structural uncertainty gave us little pause. I am the oldest, but I was the smallest. I was first.

            The lid whined disapproval at us when we swung it open and with a quick look into the others’ faces I put one leg into the black abyss, then the other, lowering myself onto the small triangular wedge at one corner of the chute. Then one more slow inching step and I was on the slide. The actual sliding part lasted less than a second and only as long as it did because of the unfavorable friction of the wood. The board was only about three feet long, it was the two foot drop to the pile of laundry that gave Gwen and Megan reason to follow me.

“Was it fun?” Megan called after me. I could hear her smiling in anticipation. “Move outta the way ‘cause I’m coming down!” As I scooted myself from the jeans onto the dirty red t-shirt, Megan landed beside me and wriggled into my side as she laughed and looked up for Gwen.

“Come on Gigi, there’s still room!” I shouted.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Gwen’s uncertainty rang out of the tunnel above us.

“Well we’ve already done it and we’re fine so hurry up!”

“Okay..how do I do it?”

“Just step onto the little corner—“

“Oh come on it’s easy!”

“—then lower yourself to the slide and let go it’s really fun!”

“ee!” she let out a squeal and was beside us.

All sitting atop the mountain of dirty clothes, we giggled together.

“See I told you it was easy.”

*          *          *

When Megan and Gwen, and I were in elementary school we asked for a tree house. There wasn't a suitable tree for the requested house so our fathers built a house among the trees instead. It was just a raised floor with a surrounding railing and roof frame. Our task was to complete the shell by adding walls and a roof. A hole near the back wall (the only wall) held a ladder leading to the lower level which was only dirt. We mostly used this basement to store play pots and bubble wands that cluttered our fort. We were afraid to go down there and so we dropped our plastic kitchenware down the hole and argued about who should go get it.

            To the right of the fort was a hedge maze that my mom planted but never pruned so the trees grew up instead of out. It wasn't much of a maze, more of a shady place were wet leaves gathered in the fall. In the mornings our neighbor's garden shaded our fort with bamboo trees and a bush of honeysuckle. Before we started building with wood we made tunnels in the honeysuckle that we used to get down from our fort instead of the ladder. We had a tunnel connecting our fort with the bamboo garden as well that functioned as our backdoor. When we finally got a couple two-by-fours and sheets of plywood from behind the storage building we decided it was time to build a second story. We hauled a ladder up into our unfinished house and began banging together our second floor with a couple of hammers. Our heads were half covered before we got bored. At this point we weren't sure if it was the beginning of a roof or the second level we had originally planned but we were tired and so left our project for the evening to go make bunk beds for our beanie babies. By the time we remembered our construction site we ran outside to find our structure reduced to its original frame. We confronted our fathers who told us that they had decided it was too dangerous as a second floor. Though this had been our plan we were outraged and furiously argued that it had been a roof and they had told us we should build. What hypocrites! We finally accepted that it would be easier to just use tarps for our walls and ceiling. The new blue hue of our fort suited us after we nailed in our blue camping tarps and we decided to stay the night out in our room.

            Our friends Maddie and Emma were invited and joined us in hauling a big mattress into our fort that we all squeezed onto like sardines. We were all comfortable when my dad crossed the dark parking spaces to go back inside after wishing us goodnight. The tarp above our heads was already beginning to bow with the weight of wet bamboo leaves. After our chatting died down we were forced to listen to the noises of the outside. The crickets didn't bother us but the prowling of our suspected drug dealer neighbor was a little more frightening and random rustling of leaves didn't calm our already uneasy selves. The wind whispered more fears to us and the night was more real than it ever was in our own bedrooms. Maddie was the first to suggest that we should go inside and the rest of us jumped on the idea. We abandoned our mattress and ran in our blanket capes for the nearest door. I fumbled with my keys. Rushing only prolonged opening the door. We were in but we didn't stop running yet. Our fear escalated as we all tried to stay in the front of the herd. Turning corners and almost tripping on our trailing blankets, we made it to my door and then finally my room. Out of breath and laughing with relief at our fear we explained our decision to my parents and set ourselves up on my bed, much warmer and more confident sardines.

*          *          *

            Though we shied away from any real trouble, the three of us loved to sneak and spy and the hallways were the perfect place to prowl. We would run from footsteps and dart around doors then sneak back to peek around corners and listen in on conversations about someone’s job. Thrilling secrets were rare but it was more about listening in without being heard and following without being seen. Unfortunately, being two years younger than I, Megan and Gwen were not as skilled at concealing our fun from those we were spying on.

            “Don’t tell them we were spying on them,” I would warn them, but they did not quite understand the concept.

            “We weren’t just spying on you,” Megan would inform the suspicious neighbor.

            Once I was aimlessly walking down the halls while Gwen was at piano and Megan was at gymnastics. I was delighted when bending down to take a second look into a cement block I saw the impossible. A notebook. Amazing. Something exciting had presented itself to me, unless it was blank. Hoping it was not, I opened the cover and read:

            3:11 Richard gets mail. Almost saw me but I snrubled[unclear handwriting]and I got away. 3:14 Kathy Getty walks across the open space in front of Kate’s house. Wearing a moo-moo again. Will write more soon.

            With gymnastics during the week and going up to her weekend house in Nevada City on the weekends, I spent most of my time with Gwen, but I recognized Megan’s handwriting immediately. I eagerly scribbled out a note to her with the pencil that had been stashed with the notebook and returned both to the hole in the cement block. I couldn’t wait for her to respond but I didn’t want to tell her what I had found because I wanted it to be a surprise. Unfortunately Megan forgot about the notebook and I lost my patience after about a day. I told her what I had found and she admitted to having written it. We decided since we hardly saw each other anymore we could start talking to each other by writing in the notebook. Megan forgot about the notebook as quickly as she had before, and a bit disappointed, I did too.

*          *          *

Two blocks from my house is Head Over Heels Gymnastics. Megan had been taking classes there since she was two and both Gwen and I had participated on and off when we were sixish. Gwen, the least coordinated of the three of us had given up but Megan had taught me the basics. The summer before seventh grade I decided I wanted to try again. I waited for another friend to start with me but when it was clear that it was never going to happen, I started alone. I was used to being Megan’s older sister. I would be the leader and she would copy me. But in gymnastics she was my elder. She helped me with my skills and I wanted to be just like her. I finally caught up with her last April but she is still better than me and she still helps me with my gymnastics. Now I see Megan more than I see Gwen. In fact I spend at least 20 hours a week with her and often more. You’d think we’d be bored of each other by now.

*          *          *

For Gwen's fifteenth birthday Megan and I put together a treasure hunt. We had a long history of treasure hunts but we wanted this one to be different than all the others. There wouldn't be a clue on top of the showers in the public bathroom or one in a zip-loc bag floating in her toilet tank. This time we decided the clues would go further. The small green rectangles led Gwen from one location to another while we followed giving small hints when we felt we needed to speed things up. The treasure hunt was long, and seemed longer in the dark and rain.

            The excitement began with Gwen having to collect a clue from the bottom floor of our tree fort. The wet ladder groaned under our weight as we all clamored in. It had been some years since we had been up and we had to step over vines that crossed the floor as well as stoop to avoid being stabbed in the head by nails in the abandoned second attempt at a roof.

 "Do I actually have to go down there?"

"Yes."

Gwen was in disbelief. She thought there had to be a loop hole. Surely she only had to reach her hand down into that dark dripping hole.

"Is it actually all the way back there? I have to actually go all the way in?"

"Yes, you can do it."

            She handed us her damp clues that had led her to this hole and slowly climbed down the ladder. Gwen is tall and when she hit the ground her torso was still on the upper floor her legs left to brave the dark. She almost had to crawl to get to the back wall were the next clue was taped. I had only a little sympathy, for I had been the one to put the clue there in the first place. Finally her orange head resurfaced and we pulled her out, laughing as Gwen began to puzzle out the following clue.

            Victory was short lived. She had to interpret a map of our neighborhood and find pieces of the next clue blocks apart. But she still loves us.