cheeks as I continued, “Emily, I’m sorry. Please get up.” I rubbed my sister’s arms and legs and patted her cheeks, but she lay there, eyes closed, not moving.
Running for my parents, I screamed, “Emily is dead! I killed my sister! The bridge—she’s under the bridge!”
“Call the ambulance!” Mother yelled to Dad before she darted away, with me racing after her.
When Mother reached the bridge, she fell to her knees and began kissing Emily’s forehead, crying, “Oh, my baby, my poor baby.”
“The ambulance is on the way,” Dad announced when he showed up a few minutes later, out of breath. “It’s a good thing the tide hasn’t come in yet, or Emily could have drowned,” he said, just as we heard the blaring siren in the distance.
Mother insisted she ride to the hospital in the ambulance with Emily. After I climbed into the front seat next to Dad, we followed the screeching sounds and the flashing lights, which added to my mounting fears.
While I was sitting on the chair between my parents in the hospital waiting room, Mother demanded I tell her exactly what had happened. After blurting out the story between bouts of sobs, she glared at me and said, “Emma, how could you do such an awful thing to your sister? What were you thinking?”
I wanted to hide my tears of shame, and I longed to feel my mother’s forgiving arms around me and to hear her words of comfort.
When my mother put a hanky to her red eyes, I heard my father say, “Don’t worry, Emma. I know you didn’t mean to hurt your sister. She’s going to be okay.”
“Oh, Daddy!” I cried, looking into his grayish-blue eyes. I climbed onto his lap and leaned my head against his firm chest, feeling the heaviness of worry for my sister and the deep regret for what I’d done.
It seemed like eternity before a tall, young doctor dressed in a white smock came into the waiting room to give us a report. “Mr. and Mrs. Beckman, I’m Dr. Weldon,” he said. “Your daughter is in a coma that we’re hoping will only last a few days. She has no broken bones, but unfortunately, she has nerve damage in her back that could limit her ability to walk correctly. You may come back tomorrow to see her.”
On each day that followed, we returned to the hospital to hear the same thing—my sister was still in a coma, and there was nothing new to report.
On the fourth day, Dr. Weldon walked into the waiting room, smiling. “Emily came out of her coma late last night,” he said. “This morning she had feeling in both legs, and she took a few steps without assistance and ate a little soup. Emily might walk crookedly for a while and her bone growth may be affected, but she’s a lucky little girl and she’s making remarkable progress.”
“When can Emily come home?” Mother asked.
“I’m hoping to release her from the hospital in a few days, but you’ll need to keep her home from school until she can walk straight. Emily is resting now, and I think it’s best not to wake her.”
Mother reached into her large purse and pulled out a stuffed pony that she’d sewn from spotted brown material and tan yarn. “Please give this to my little girl and tell her I love her,” Mother said, wiping tears away.
When we left the hospital, I climbed into the back seat of our car and cried silently, longing for my sister to be beside me.
Five days later, my sister came home from the hospital. On the following day, I was happy to bring home Emily’s schoolwork and help her with the assignments. I knew my sister had forgiven me, and I hoped Mother would, too.
The next day, Mother came into my room and knelt down in front of me. “Emma, I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything to you sooner. But I was so scared about Emily being in a coma, she’s all I had on my mind. I know that you didn’t mean to hurt your sister, and you’ve learned a valuable lesson. I do love you, Emma, and I forgive you.”
“Mother,” I said, reaching my arms into hers. “I really didn’t mean it,” I added, shedding tears of relief.
“I know you didn’t, Emma. You’re a good girl. Now wipe your tears, and I’ll let you spread the chocolate frosting on the cake. And you may lick the spoon, too, but don’t tell Emily.”
I smiled at Mother and skipped into the kitchen, almost floating on air.
Chapter 2
WE’RE GOING FISHING
On our birthday in July, my twin and I ran down to the water in front of our home wearing the navy blue bathing suits our father bought us last week.
Unable to swim, Sis and I splashed water on ourselves until I accidentally flicked the cool liquid into Emily’s face.
“Mother said not to get our hair wet,” Emily cautioned before she threw a handful of water back at me. Soon our fun escalated into a water fight with us laughing uncontrollably.
We didn’t care about our hair looking like limp strings until we walked into the house and Mother shouted, “How could you girls ruin your hair after I rolled and styled it for your birthday!”
“Let them be. It’s their birthday, for goodness’ sake,” scolded Dad, handing the matches to Mother while halfway smiling at her.
Mother lit the little candles as she sang a happy birthday song, and tension between our parents faded by the time the first bite of chocolate cake entered our mouths.
Our mother appeared radiant as the sun beamed through the window, shining on her curly brown hair. Winking at Emily and me, she said, “I can’t believe my girls are seven years old today. It seems like yesterday you were both babes in my arms.” She smiled at Sis and me as if she longed for us to be little again.
Then Mother pulled something out of a drawer in her china closet. “The bathing suits were from your father,” she said. “I sewed these dresses for your birthday.”
“Oh, Mother, I love red!” I said, feeling the soft corduroy material.
“Thank you, Mother,” said Emily, rubbing the fabric against her rosy cheek.
Dad looked dashing in his gray suit and vest as he gave Mother a playful smile, making her blush.
“This is my favorite birthday!” I said.
“Mine, too,” Emily echoed.
Six weeks later, Dad wore a grin when he came home from the logging camp. “I’ve rented a house about thirty-five miles from here in Tacoma,” he announced. “It’s closer to work, and we should be moved in before school begins.”
“Henry, you need to consult me before you up and decide to move,” Mother said with a scowl.
After our mother set a dish of spaghetti and a large green salad on the table, she glanced at my unhappy expression and waved her arms as she blurted out, “But I just love moving any time—it invigorates me.”
When our mother looked at all of us and burst out laughing, I said, “Mother,
