In the 70’s, communes were beginning to develop in revolt toward institutions. As introduced earlier, with Religious groups serving as a microcosm of society,  one of the radical risks Lizzy’s community would soon take was to establish experimental small group living, which consisted of five or six Sisters living in a regular house.  

I didn’t feel any safer around Jen, who reminded me of my own sister and stirred up old familiar feelings of wanting my four-year-old younger sister to speak to me and be my friend. 

These days, we make nice on Facebook, however, months pass between contacts I initiate. I’ve almost forgotten I have a biological sister. Fortunately, I have, over time, developed deep relationships with sisters from another mother. 

One Sister in the small community was a composite of her father and blood sister. I was closest to Leilie, who was only five years older. They would talk for hours at night about how bad things were for both of us, especially with Cheryl. Fortunately, the pf rules were obliterated.

Sadly, things must have gotten to be too much for Leilie. With her creeping mental illness, and the sharp cutting tone and words, the shapeshifter began to remind me of my grandmother from hell. who used to come to stay the winter, the long cold dark winter. I know that's one of the reasons winter is not one of my favorite seasons.

The least offensive was Jody, who reminded me of my dear mother, who was always depressed and lacking energy.  If I could catch Jody on a good day, she was very nurturing and wonderful to be around.  My relationship with Jody, reminded me of how I always felt a need to fix my mother’s unhappiness. I believed if I felt the same discomfort, I would be carrying the sadness for Jody and my mother. 

********************************

 The Discovery 

 I remembers the very moment I knew who was responsible for her mother’s feelings.  My brother Nike, my mother and I were waiting in the car for our father to come out of his favorite club.  It was the same routine every time.  

Mother would go in to get him, be gone for a little while, then come out crying.  After another hour had passed, Mother would send Nike in; surely her husband wouldn't refuse his son.  

When fifteen minutes had passed and no Nike, she'd send me into that black hole. Though it felt like a consolation prize, I got to do my favorite thing. The traditional procedure to gain admittance through the club doors was to be buzzed in.  I felt important and so grown up.

When I got inside, I took the familiar walk down the dark corridor toward the smelly bar. I discovered why her brother hadn't come right back out. My father instructed the man behind the bar to give me a bag of potato chips and an orange drink. When he escorted this dutiful daughter into a small side room with a few round tables and chairs I looked to the right darkened corner.  

I was taken aback when the concerning mystery was solved as to why my missing brother had not hurriedly returned to the cold car. Nike was sitting there gorging on the same bag of State Line Potato Chips and slurping down an identical box of orange drink I became aware I was hugging with my small bent elbowed arm.

When we were almost finished our snack, my father told us, tell your mother I'll be right out. How many times I'd heard that line?   And how many times I believed it? The chips and guilt didn't settle well.  Nike and I edged our way back toward the car, returning to the cold, darkness where my hungry mother had been sitting waiting for my brother and me to return to her, with my father in tow.  

I quickly scrubbed around my mouth and all areas where any tell tale potato chip crumbs might have clung. Out of habit, I used my sleeve to remove the orange drink stain from my lips and cheeks. I was haunted by the awareness, an eternity had passed while Mother was in the cold, silent car lighted only by a distant telephone pole light while I had been in that warm lighted room, filling my face. 

On a few rare occasions I have found that authentic orange drink, however to this day, I rarely find my favorite sweet potato chips in any grocery store. I would be unable to munch out of any sentimental blue-colored bag with the red stripe on it without remembering that bitter moment.

I became a pretty good pool player out of all of this, because when Mother was allowed to stay inside, maybe in the dead of winter,  my brother and I spent hours in a special room upstairs.  

I don’t remember much about the room except for the very large elegant green velvety pool table in the middle.  I wonder now what we may have left for marks as our cue sticks skidded across the warm-colored covering on the table.   

These times were most comforting for me.  Here, I could be a worry-free child knowing my mother was downstairs, safe, warm and comfortable.  Nike and I also were sheltered from any cruel, bullying words.