Where the Light Learned My Name – Part I
Chapter One: Foundations
“I’m gonna marry you, daddy!”
It was a proclamation of innocent love. I sat on my father’s lap, grinning ear-to-ear, while he responded with a joyful belly laugh. My eight-year-old mind only knew that marriage meant forever, and I wanted to be with him forever.
“You can’t marry me, sweetie, that’s for grown-ups, not father and daughter.”
I pushed my lips out in an unsatisfied pout. It was the worst time of the week for me; he had just brought me back home after spending the weekend together, and now it was time to say goodbye. I wouldn’t see him again for two weeks — Mother’s rule.
Every time he left, I clung to him for what felt like hours, though it could only have been minutes.
After finally letting him go, Mother closed the front door behind him. She observed as I pushed my hands and face against the window, fogging up the glass, to get the closest view of him walking towards the classic Mustang in which I had just been a passenger.
There was a distinctive loud growl from the engine as he started the car and then backed out of the driveway. I didn’t even blink until the faded red vehicle had zoomed cleanly out of sight. All I could think about was our next visit. He was my best friend. My real-life superhero.
A loud voice suddenly protested from the living room behind me
“I want him to be MY daddy!”
My younger sister, Cora, came to stand with us, arms folded, a look of anger on her small, round face.
Cora was intensely jealous of me since her own father had never been in her life at all. Mother often pressured my father to take Cora out, but Cora had a mean streak, and he didn’t want an obligation to mind her.
Our mother didn’t really know what to say to Cora when she became angry. Exasperated and defenseless, she usually calmed her with promises of gifts or plans to go wherever she pleased.
Not wanting to get between them or endure my sister’s piercing glare, I turned and walked upstairs to my bedroom. Since we had our own rooms, I was able to read books privately or play with my toys if things got tense—and I had read a lot of books and played with many toys.
Despite my efforts to be alone, it wasn’t long before I heard my door creak open. Cora stood in the doorway, her small frame filling the crack of light, her expression full of purpose. She stepped inside but didn’t speak at first. She scanned my room the way someone scans a store, her eyes moving from shelf to shelf, until they landed on the baby doll in my arms.
“I want that doll,” she demanded.
Even at five years old, she had an intimidating presence. Her platinum hair framed an angelic face, all soft brows and high cheekbones, but her pale blue eyes held something sharper. She could look sweet and dangerous at the same time. Somehow, I was never afraid of her. I only knew she was my sister.
I hesitated, glancing at my doll, then looked up at her. “But I’m playing with it,” I said. “You can pick any other toy and then we can play together.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want that one. I like that one the best. You have to give it to me, since you won’t give me your daddy.” She held out her hand, prompting me to give it up.
I looked down again. “I can’t give you my daddy. I don’t have a choice about that.”
She watched me for a moment. Then her face changed. Her eyes softened. Her mouth pulled downward. She then held out both of her hands. “Please. It’s the only thing that will make me happy.”
It was well known that this doll was the most beloved of all my possessions. I held it when I slept. It was my relief when I felt lonely. It never judged me. It was always there for me. I gazed at the pale rubber face with its smile frozen in place. The painted green eyes suddenly felt real, like it was pleading with me not to let go. Guilt overtook me and I started to cry.
Like a cue card, Cora began to cry too—except her eyes held no tears.
I looked up at her and begged her to take anything else. My room was full of toys. She told me nothing else would make her happy – that I already had more than her. I had a daddy.
Feeling defeated, I held the doll close to my chest, said a silent goodbye, and handed it to her.
Her crying stopped instantly. Her eyes, which a moment ago had seemed to twinkle with sadness, now shined with a sort of greedy victory, and she yanked the doll out of my hands. She held the doll up in the air and began dancing around in circles. “It’s mine! It’s mine!”
After her celebration, she suddenly remembered I was there. She aggressively squeezed the doll in her arms as she looked down at me—still crying—then sneered. “Hmph!”
Pushing her chin up in the air, she turned her back to me and walked out.
Having said sorrowful goodbyes twice now, I suddenly felt exhausted. I lay down on my bed. As my eyes closed, I imagined my doll next to me and soon fell asleep.
Later, mother woke me up for dinner. I walked downstairs, not in the mood to talk to anyone, and sat in my usual place next to Cora. Dinner was chicken and mashed potatoes. Mother was offering salt and pepper to us, but Cora angrily slapped away the pepper shaker.
“I hate pepper,” she said.
“You’ve never even tried it,” I said.
“But I know I hate it! Get it away!”
She was holding my doll in her lap. It was laying there haphazardly, facedown, which bothered me. It should be upright and treated with respect and love. I tried not to think about it.
She suddenly looked at our mother. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said urgently.
Even at her age, she still needed help with these things. My mother stopped serving the food and they went away together. She took the doll with her, making sure to glance at me as she turned the corner and out of sight.
Feeling suddenly vengeful, I grabbed the pepper shaker and sprinkled some onto her chicken. I knew my motive was wrong, but I also wanted to see if she really hated it as she claimed. She was never willing to try anything new. She always wanted what she wanted, no exception. On one hand, if she hated it, I got some relief from her taking my doll. On the other hand, if she liked it, I helped her discover something new. Either way, I felt justified.
Soon they came back and sat down and we began to eat.
At first, nothing happened. I thought to myself that perhaps I should have put more pepper since she wasn’t reacting. But after a few more minutes, she had slowed down her eating, gazing at her chicken as if studying every tiny detail. I became tense, barely touching my own plate.
Suddenly, she began screaming. “PEPPER! PEPPER! THERE’S PEPPER ON MY CHICKEN!”
Mother dropped her fork and jumped out of her seat in surprise. “No, Cora, I didn’t put any on yours! Stop screaming, now!”
Cora began sobbing uncontrollably but then suddenly stopped as she made eye contact with me. I looked at her with a guilty expression, and she pointed her finger at me. “It was Evelyn! She hates me because I have no daddy!” She began sobbing again.
Feeling extremely offended that she got my reasoning wrong, I immediately objected. “No! I just wanted to see if you liked it or not! You should try new things, Cora!” It was half true.
Mother had no patience. Cora was very difficult to deal with once she was upset.
“Evelyn, is that true? Why did you do that? Go to your room! No more dinner tonight!”
I thought about fighting back, thought about telling her about my doll, but decided that both were on the same side at this point, and it was probably best to go to my room.
Maybe I could sneak down later when Mother was asleep for a snack.
In my room, I looked for my large picture Bible and began flipping through the pages, feeling ready for the day to be over. I was suddenly reminded of my great-grandmother, whom I called ‘Grandma Great’. We were very close.
Grandma Great was a devoutly Christian woman, and my mother was also very religious, but not so much as she. Grandma Great told me all the stories of the Bible, how to be good and how to treat others.
I reflected on my actions and decided I hadn’t been the best of myself. I should have been more understanding. I should have just given Cora the doll to make her feel better, and I shouldn’t have put pepper on her food.
“I’m sorry Jesus,” I spoke aloud. “I hope you can forgive me.”
At only eight years old, I already believed that being good mattered more than anything. I loved going to church, I loved looking after others, and I loved my Bible. Flipping through the pages, I came across a painting of Jesus hanging on the cross. I thought of the stories. He was innocent and loving but he had been hated and sentenced to death. I suddenly felt that my love was lacking. The image brought tears to my eyes and in that moment, I decided that I was going to make the right choices from now on. Even if things felt unfair, I wanted to be good.
I stayed this way for a while until I heard Cora and my mother coming upstairs for bed.
After Cora’s door had closed, I tip-toed to my mother’s bedroom and softly knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she said.
I entered the room shyly, closing the door quietly behind me, and sat on the edge of her bed where she lay.
“Mama, I didn’t mean to be bad. I’m sorry for what I did,” I said. My eyes were watering again and I was afraid to look at her expression.
“Baby, I know that. But you know how Cora gets when she’s mad. You can’t do things like that. You need to let her be,” she said. She didn’t sound angry, so I looked up at her.
She gestured for me to come near with open arms. I laid down next to her as she embraced me.
“Do you know why I chose to have children?”
I shook my head.
“Because I wanted someone who would love me no matter what. You need to love your sister just like you love me. No matter what she does.”
Somehow, although her voice was soft and gentle, the words themselves offered me no comfort.
I was always on edge thinking of how far Cora was willing to go with her rage, and now I suddenly realized how far I was expected to tolerate it.
I didn’t respond and she didn’t say anything more; we fell asleep in each other’s arms.