Because...because...because...I love her: the story of two sisters

Today was my sister’s birthday. We enjoyed a small dinner together, complete with flowers and prosecco and a small cake sporting a tealight smushed on top (as I couldn’t locate the legitimate birthday candles). It was a lovely evening, and on my bike ride home, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for living so close to her now, after a decade of being separated by a big fat ocean. She is, in many respects, the most significant person in my life. She has provided constancy and peace to my sometimes fluttery and frenetic self, and she has been involved in most of my important life decisions, as a sounding board and objective, nonjudgmental advice giver. She is the one I call when I feel confused, disappointed, heartbroken, panicky, overwhelmed, afraid, excited, lonely, proud. She listens well, offers me perspective, and frequently reminds me of who I am on the days when I forget. She gives me hugs even though she herself is not a hugger simply because she knows I need them, and she often holds onto truth I need to hear until I am ready to hear it, always cushioning it patiently and lovingly in Larissa language. She understands, appreciates and respects how I view my world, how I live my life, how I make my decisions, even though my way is often vastly different from her way. I trust my sister probably more than anyone else in the world, and I feel genuinely blessed to have such a solid and safe relationship with her. There have been a few sticky spots over the years- obviously- but generally, for the majority of our teenage and adult life, we have been the best of friends.

Now, as for our childhood years, that is somewhat of a different story. There is photographic evidence of us playing together nicely- dressing up and acting out stories, building snow forts, playing with Barbies, making dances, colouring- but there are many many many memories of us playing together not so nicely. We fought constantly, so much so that our grandparents didn’t want both of us coming for our extended summer visits at the same time, so we took turns, alternating years. We fought, of course, about the most menial and ridiculous things. Once, in Florida, when we had received identical erasers in the shape of a slice of an orange, we fought about who owned which one, because one eraser had a millimeter more smudging than the other, and both of us had claimed that the minimally more used one was not ours. Simply ridiculous.

Our fighting was partially due to the fact that we were very different kids. I was a sensitive child- not wimpy or whiny, just soft and sensitive and incredibly transparent. My feelings were hurt easily, though I was quick to forgive. I was a people pleaser, a perfectionist, and a rule follower. My sister, on the other hand, exited the womb stone-faced, strong and stubborn. She was fiercely independent and much more introverted, an experimental thinker who wanted to know why she had to do things a certain way and often didn’t give two shits about doing something the same way as everyone else. She was also an excellent little liar and could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Many of our childhood fights involved me bossing her around or telling her she wasn’t doing things the right way (in other words, my way) and her telling me that I wasn’t her mother and she didn’t have to listen to me.

One of the best stories of our childhood sisterly interactions took place on a family summer vacation many many moons ago when I was nearly 12 and she was nearly 10, and our baby brother was a charming little 5-year old fella. We had recently moved to western Canada, and my parents decided that we were going to go on a family camping adventure through the western states and provinces. We had an old AMC Eagle station wagon, beige with wood paneling, and we loaded up that beast of a car with enough gear to last us six weeks- two tents for sleeping, as well as a kitchen tent, water jugs, air mattresses, Coleman stove, flashlights, tarps, ropes, buckets, the works. The station wagon was an oldie but a goodie- second-hand but solid, and surprisingly roomy. The trunk hatch had to be held up with a broomstick, and the five of us and all our gear fit only if everything and everyone was positioned in their rightful place.

We became an incredibly efficient team at setting up camp. Each of us had our assigned tasks. Sarah and I would set up one of the tents while my father set up the other, and my mom would organize all the kitchen gear. Ben would stand there with his hands on his hips filling up the air mattresses with steady stomping on a foot pump. Then water would need to be fetched, clothes lines hung up, tarps spread out, sleeping bags positioned. And we would stay at each site for a few days- in the Mesa Verde National Park, in the Redwoods, in the Rockies- hiking, exploring, chasing squirrels, making friends, building fires. We kept ourselves busy and made many fun memories.

The traveling between these fantastic destinations is where things got a little tricky. This was before the time of iPhones and Discmans and PSPs, so we had to find creative ways of amusing ourselves on the long stretches of driving. Our little brother kept himself busy mainly by coming up with approximately 5762 different verses to “She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes” and us girls counted wildlife, or kept track of how many different state license plates we saw, or played one of those games where you have to list off things you find in the fridge or names of cities, working our way from A-Z; you know- apples, butter, cabbage, dinner….

But sometimes we got bored, and boredom led to irritability, which led to poking and face-pulling and button-pushing and eventually the classic

  “Mom, she touched me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re such a liar.”

  “But you were on my side.”
  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

Sound familiar? This type of back and forth bickering obviously occurred several times throughout our six-week adventure, despite my brother often being placed as a buffer in the middle, or bribery from my parents who occasionally offered a quarter to whoever could be the quietest the longest. On one particular occasion, however, our fighting got to the point of ridiculousness. And if I remember correctly, what happened is this:

We were driving through the mountains on a difficult stretch of twisty, turny road that required my father to concentrate more than usual on his driving. We, of course, were incredibly distracting with our “She touched me” and “Stop it! Stop it!” My father asked my mother to deal with it, and she turned to scold us with a stern face, raised voice and wagging finger. Our ridiculousness continued. Then there was the famous and familiar blind back seat hand swat. You know what I am talking about- dad is driving and can’t turn to look at us, so he reaches his right hand back, flapping and slapping with a loud and firm “Enough!”

We didn’t stop.

So he did. He yanked the car over to the side of the road, threw on the emergency lights and told the two of us to get out of the car. Now. We scrambled out of the car, obedient but scared to death. Our father was a very creative disciplinarian so we had no clue what awaited us- garbage-picking, essay-writing, acorn-collecting, forced foster care? Who knew! We stood there at the side of the road with cars whizzing by, Sarah most likely with a stoic or defiant face, me- I am guessing- with a quivering lip, trying not to cry.

My father, red-faced, pacing, furious, grabbed two sticks and placed one in each of our hands.

  “There you go,” he said. “Do it. If you hate each other so much, kill each other. Get it over with.”

We stood there, frozen and confused, each limply holding the stick in our hand.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go. Do it.”

I think I was the first to speak (I am usually the first to speak). “But I don’t want to kill her.”

  “Why not? You obviously hate her. You can’t stop fighting. Why not?”

  “Becau-au-ause,” I stuttered through hysterical sobbing.

  “Because why?”

  “Because...because....because….I LOVE HER.”

  “And you, Sarah?”

  “I love her too,” she mumbled.

  “If you both love each other, why are you fighting ALL the time?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Shrugged shoulders and shaking heads. More hiccups and sniffles and sobs.

  “Then that’s it. Enough. No more fighting. In fact, I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you for the next half hour. Silence. Now, get in the car.”

We remained dazed and confused, sticks still in hand.

  “I said, get in the car. Go, go, go.”

We stumbled our way back into the car, aided by a little shove from our father. Once in the car, Sarah sheepishly spoke up. 

  “Dad?”

  “I said, no talking.”
  “But Dad….”

  “No. Quiet.”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “It can wait. Half an hour. Complete silence.”

Once a half hour had passed and our sobbing had stopped and the tension had lifted, Sarah dared to speak up once again.

  “Dad,” she tried, “Can I talk now?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, you know when we got back into the car back there?”

  “Yes.”
  “Um, one of my shoes fell off when I was getting in. I lost my shoe. I only have one shoe now.”

Next stop: a slight detour to get One Shoe Sarah a new pair.