Rival Truce: What a Child Remembers, yet Defies to Forget

Copyright © 2021 by Cherise P. Pierce.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/09/2021

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CONTENTS

A special thank you . . .

Preface

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1 Institutionalized

Chapter 2 Unexpected Baggage

Chapter 3 LFS

Chapter 4 Picture Perfect

Chapter 5 Damaged Goods

Chapter 6 Human Puppet

Chapter 7 Balladeer

Chapter 8 The Outsider

Chapter 9 Twin

Chapter 10 The Revelation

Chapter 11 Chandler Lake

Chapter 12 The Carousel

Chapter 13 Sick and Feeble

Chapter 14 Divine Love

Chapter 15 Roulette

Chapter 16 Special Delivery

Chapter 17 The Receipt

Chapter 18 Female Persuasion

Chapter 19 Window of Opportunity

Chapter 20 Kindred Spirit

Chapter 21 Sibling Rivalry

Chapter 22 No Way Out

Chapter 23 Skeletons

Chapter 24 Sold

Chapter 25 Silent Testimony

Chapter 26 Vision

Chapter 27 Gatekeeper

Chapter 28 Beast Mode

Chapter 29 The Box

Chapter 30 Fatal Disturbance

Chapter 31 Ms. Clueless

Chapter 32 The Puzzling Truth

Chapter 33 Perfect Hostess

Chapter 34 Pennies

Chapter 35 Sabotage

Chapter 36 Special Elixir

Epilogue

About the author

A SPECIAL THANK YOU . . .

Thank you to my mother, who is the first person who taught me about freedom of speech as a young child. The most important part of the lesson was the ability to listen. It gives me great joy to know that I will one day see you again. Say hey to God for me. He’ll know who I am. I love you!

Thank you to my two amazing sons, Americus and Jarrin. It’s been an enjoyable journey watching both of you grow from little boys into thriving and handsome young men. Your drive to be unstoppable is contagious. May your dreams, goals, and accomplishments always include God in the center. I am very proud of you and I love you both!

Thank you to my publishing team. You gave me this wonderful opportunity to bring my vision to life. You helped make my fictional suspense novel a reality. I appreciate all of your effort and support.

Thank you to my dearest and loving best friend, Belinda Scott. I appreciate you always being a woman of your word. Your dedication to family and our sisterhood/friendship is priceless. Your labor and support for my venture will always be cherished. You’re the sister I never had, and your loyalty has been proven time and time again. I did it! Thanks, girl, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Thank you to all of my earthly angels/prayer warriors, dear friends and all of my readers. I appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to show your support. I’ve devoted the majority of my life to helping, teaching and mentoring young men and women. I’ve learned that the value is not just in the teaching but the learning as well. I have learned a lot from all of you, which helps me to keep it real. Thanks! You’re awesome.

PREFACE

Inside, you will find a story of two little girls that grow into very different young women who are strong-willed, evil, broken, stubborn, ruthless, dangerous, and everything in between. Does this sound like someone you know?

They will find themselves thrust into a whirlwind of predicaments that seem too unimaginable and unbelievable to believe. Does this sound like someone you know?

The circle of friends they are intertwined with are no different from the circle of friends that you may have in your own everyday life. The only difference is this band of friends are just characters on the pages of this beautifully wicked novel.

My goal is to inspire and awaken the senses in what could unfortunately be a true-to-life mystery, questioning how far would someone go.

Although the story is fictional, the characters’ experiences and emotions will feel real. You will laugh, cry, and you just may swear, but I know you will be surprised. The development of events will also keep you guessing.

This suspense-drama is an imitation of life where a series of twists and turns have you asking, What else can happen?

See if the real circumstances in your life are stranger than the fictitious ones.

Remember, a young child never forgets . . .

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my two wonderful sons, Americus and Jarrin. You are my biggest fans, as I am yours. You never gave up on me and always believed in me the way that I believe in you. I dedicate this project to you with dreams of many more accomplishments to come.

To all of those who held me accountable for getting this book published and allowing me not to give up on my passion for writing, thank you.

Delighted to bring another informational platform outside of my first book, nonfiction, Inside the Blindside: The Journey, and my Facebook Live segment Cee Cee Speaks: Real Talk, and now my new fiction suspense/drama novel Rival Truce. I am a firm believer that truth is stranger than fiction. I am dedicated to revealing and delivering the wow factor, where what happens in life you wish was not real. Get ready!

PROLOGUE

Rival Truce

1985, Chandler Valley, California

The night before Christmas Eve . . .

I struggled to break free from the cold, numbing iron cuffs that bound me against my will. One of my tiny wrists was clamped to a solid steel handle and the other latched on to my six year-old sister Rachel. Our loud screams and cries echoed from the inside of the cold, dark, and desolate rat trap on wheels with a berry on top. Our surroundings were still and somber, reeking of the danger that was about to come next. Fear had found a way to climb its way back into my body and had me wishing that I was dead. If it weren’t for my sister and my mother, I probably would have killed myself a long time ago. But if I did, who would be left to watch over them? I sorely thought. My heart was racing and my sweat had my gown sticking to my limp little body like I’d been dipped in a tub of sticky undiluted honey.

As we sat quivering in the back seat of this confined chamber on four wheels, a loud thumping sound began to fill the air. The more I tried to catch my breath, the louder the off-beat thumping became. As I faded in and out of reality or what I’d relate to as life’s stopwatch, the sound of what sounded like a drum was my heartbeat. It was searching to find the perfect rhythm it needed to keep me alive. I’d been tossed, dragged, and slammed around for about an hour with forty pounds of deadweight fastened to my wrist. Rachel’s flimsy body flip-flopped around like a worn-out black Raggedy Ann rag doll as we were shoved and dragged all the way from the cement pavement from our front door. All while my arm was being yanked to its limit by this imposter who only brought hurt and pain to my family.

It took me a while to realize that the energy I was putting into trying to break free would only leave me weak and useless. Suddenly, the sounds of Nat King Cole singing his Holiday Greatest Hits began streaming through the front door that was left wide open. However, it could not drown out the screaming by my mother threatening to kill the man who was snatching her two daughters away as if he was a deranged mad scientist snatching us from her very womb. I was short of breath and my arms felt like they’d been torn out of their sockets. When I found some extra strength to continue to fight, I felt what seemed to be a strong, powerful force that had come down and comforted me, cradling me in a gentle rocking motion.

Kay, my arm and my chest hurt and I have to use the bathroom. Do you think he will unlock these iron thingies to let me go use the bathroom? I gotta go bad and can’t hold it anymore. I remember my sister desperately asking, breaking through my split second of comfort.

No, Rachel, I don’t think he will stop all of this madness along with everything he’s doing to unlock the little iron thingy just so you can excuse yourself to take a potty break, I sarcastically replied. If you feel like you can’t hold it, then use it right here. You hear me? I said firmly, trying not to break down in front of her.

Yes, but I am going to get in more trouble if I don’t say anything and I am going to mess up my new pajamas. I’m scared of what he might do to me if he sees the blanket all wet.

Rachel, look at you, you are already a mess. Besides, you never had a problem doing it in the bed while you were asleep, just pretend like you are in the bed. Try to go to sleep and that way you won’t know if you did it or not. Okay? I said, as Rachel innocently shook her head in agreement.

I saw her teardrops slowly break through as if they were racing each other to see which would be the first to reach the bottom of her small infantile face. Her waterfall of tears fell from her eyes that were as pure as white pearls and rested on top of her skin that was dark as black licorice. It was evident that she should not have been caught in the middle of such a demonic ritual. I always thought how hearing my little sister’s voice was like listening to the little girl in the old Mrs. Butterworth’s commercial, especially when she was begging to get her way, only this time she was pleading to use the bathroom. It seemed like we were sitting outside for hours, but it was only minutes; and all of those minutes seemed to go unnoticed by everyone on the block because nobody ever bothered to help or see what was going on. I guess there was nothing else for me to do now but close my eyes and pray that this nightmare would soon end.

Two hours earlier . . .

It was ten o’clock on the night before Christmas Eve when the sound of a ringing phone turned our lives upside down . . . once again. Constable, please don’t answer the phone. The girls are getting ready for bed and you have to get up early for work tomorrow, my mother begged. Seeing my mother run from across the room to block Constable from taking the call only meant one thing, she knew something bad was about to happen.

The old oversized T-shirts that had been given to Rachel and me by Constable to put on before bed were immediately snatched out of our hands in exchange for two red and gold gift-wrapped boxes. The timing could not have been more perfect. For as long as I could remember, Momma always let Rachel and me open up one present beginning on the night before Christmas Eve. She rushed my sister and me upstairs to our room when she saw her plea go unnoticed by Constable.

Kay, no matter what you hear or what happens, if he should call you to come downstairs, pretend to be sleep. You hear me? she nervously whispered.

Yes, Momma, I hear you, I quickly responded, swallowing the fact that something was terribly wrong. My sister really didn’t care who answered the phone in the house, her only concern was what was inside of the boxes.

I read the gift card and eagerly ripped through the paper, never preparing myself for what I would find inside. Later, it would all make sense, but right now opening up a gift from my mother’s best friend, Ramona Purchelli, raised my curiosity. The entire time we were modeling our new Kiddy Kamp lingerie I could hear my mother pleading with Constable not to come upstairs. Although the pajamas were visibly labeled who should get what, my instincts had me making a switch.

Rachel, take the pink pajamas with all of the buttons on it? You like buttons, don’t you? I asked as I scrambled to help her button all twelve of them that lined the inside of her pants legs and the lining of her ruffled blouse. Rachel was not happy with the primary full-body straight jacket I was locking her into, but the playing monkeys that adorned the oversized garment made it a little more acceptable. What was meant to be a long cotton gown for Rachel turned out to be a knee-length dress that barely passed my knees, with sleeves that stopped just above my elbows. Thank god it did not have any buttons. It was obviously too small for me, but I did not care, I silently thought.

Kay, you look funny. I never knew that you liked Cinderella and Snow White. You always told me that Snow White was a tramp for living with seven little men, now you have all of them on your nightgown.

Hey, if I want to feel like a tramp turned princess tonight, let me, I said as I walked over to her bed and tickled her until she could not take it anymore.

Shhhh . . . I think I hear someone coming. Get underneath your blanket. And whatever you do, don’t move, I said to Rachel before I clicked off the lamp in the shape of a yellow hot air balloon on the nightstand that separated our twin beds. I then took my own advice and buried my head deep under the blanket trying my best to lie perfectly still.

My eyes peeped from over the edge of the blanket, fixated on the tiny basket of our lamp that was carrying two black-faced little girls. I clutched the end of my blanket so hard imagining that the two little girls were me and Rachel being carried away from our unfortunate hell we were in.

Out of nowhere a perfect calm came across the room and everything seemed peaceful. Nat King Cole was singing me to sleep from downstairs off my mother’s recorder, and all appeared right again. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually fallen off to sleep and it was the next morning or I pretended so long that an hour felt like a day.

Rachel, are you sleeping? Can you hear me? I quietly asked hoping to hear nothing and wishing that she truly did fall off to sleep. I got up one more time to make sure I didn’t choke her to death with all of the buttons. I slowly kneeled down to give her a kiss on the side of her face and told her that I loved her. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of her comment she’d made to me earlier that night about the seven dwarfs as I ran my fingers over her black kinky locks.

Before I turned around to climb back into my bed, I walked over to the bedroom window and saw Constable laying a blanket on the back seat of his car.

Oh my god, is my mother underneath that blanket? What has he done? Better yet, what is he about to do? I thought to myself before running and jumping back into my bed, fighting like mad to do what my mother told us to do. My beads from my French braids clicked together as I leaped, nervously praying that nobody heard them. I remember hearing the car door slam, but I never heard the engine start up, which meant he was still—

Girls, get up and get downstairs now! Constable burst into the room and demanded as his voice boomed through the room like loud, roaring thunder.

Constable, please, can’t you see they are sleeping? my mother pleaded.

I said get up . . . now! he yelled again. The bass in his voice washed out my mother’s cracked soprano appeal as he barged through the room and snatched the blankets off of our beds. What the hell is this they have on? Where are the T-shirts I gave them to put on? Forget it, just come and get in the car! he shouted as he grabbed and picked up Rachel.

No, I won’t let you take her, Constable, put her down! my mother screamed.

Yeah, put her down. We’re not going with you! I yelled as I tried my best to find some pants to put on.

Get the hell over here, Kay. For the last time . . . get downstairs! If I have to tell you again, I will shoot you and your damn momma. Now start moving!

I don’t wanna go, put me down! Rachel cried as she tried to wiggle out of his arms.

Please, Constable, don’t take my little girls, they’re all I have and they have not done anything to you, she pleaded.

Oh, they are your girls now but when you or they need some money they’re mine. Get the hell out of my way, he said as he shoved her in her face, moving her out of his way.

By the time I reached the bottom step I noticed the front door was wide open. I stood frozen in my footsteps, wishing and praying that everything was going to be alright and my mother would finally get the nerve to leave this sick man once and for all. There I was, a twelve-year-old kid about to tell a crazy man waving a gun around that I was not getting in that car. I felt like a baby cub with the strength and courage of a lion, but this lion had a silent roar.

Out of nowhere, my mother jumped onto his back trying to wrestle him down to the floor without hurting my sister. My mother stood five foot tall and weighed about one hundred fifty-five pounds. It was obvious that she had only one chance to gain control. Her sudden attack permitted Rachel to squirm and break free, allowing her to run over to me like a toddler running for cover.

Run, girls, run, and don’t look back! my mother shouted.

Every part of my being wanted to grab Rachel and run straight out of the door, but I couldn’t leave my mother alone with that deranged lunatic. He was a strong and quick man who was very controlling and mean-spirited. When he raised his voice, it rang through my body, paralyzing me from limb to limb. He knew what his presence did to people, so he needed to use a name that demanded as much respect as his occupation required. He insisted that people call him Constable because his real name was George Crawley, and he was the biggest loser that ever crawled out of the South Side of Chicago. He stood six foot three and threw his two hundred and ninety-five pounds of weight around like he owned the world. I never understood what my mother saw in him. I actually think she felt sorry for him. I will never forget when she brought him home like a stray dog trying to convince me to like him. I was only seven years old and Rachel was just one, she visited maybe three times and too young to care less. However, when I first met him he reminded me of John Henry, a black giant that leaped off of the pages of one of my black history books. According to Chandler Valley Police Department, their captain could do no wrong and had everyone believing that he took the job to protect and serve, but I knew better.

Enough! he shouted as he brutally hit my mother across the face with the end of his gun, instantly interrupting my thoughts. She hit the floor hard. I quickly ran over to help her up but she used her hand to cover her face, trying to push back the blood that seeped between her fingers from her nose and mouth. I’ll never forget the frightful stare that pierced through her soft hazel brown eyes, speaking a language that I was too young to repeat, but I could tell it indicated that enough was enough. I softly pushed her sandy brown locks back from her hardened face as I tried to help her up.

Momma, you will never have to worry about this ever happening again, just hold on and be strong, I said as I reached for her hand. But as she reached toward mine, I was immediately snatched backward by my braids as Constable reached for his handcuffs and tightly clicked them on the wrists of Rachel and me.

Why do you all make this so damn difficult? It doesn’t have to be this way if everybody would just cooperate. Ain’t that right, Rachel? You will cooperate tonight, won’t you, baby? he said, looking and sounding as sleazy as the criminals he’d locked up. I knew the look so well because Rachel was just about at the age I was when he would tell me the same thing.

Constable, I don’t want to go, Rachel cried again.

I tried to gain my balance during his perverted declaration just before he dragged us through the front door and down the cold pavement, kicking and screaming, then tossing our bodies into the back seat of his police car.

I don’t want to go without Momma, please let Momma come with us, Rachel begged. My sister’s cries were ignored as he struggled to put his gun back inside of his holster around his waist.

Shut up before I put tape over your mouth! You want tape on your mouth, you little brat?

No, please don’t put tape on my mouth, and don’t call me a brat, Rachel smartly replied.

Don’t say anything else, just try and sit quietly and he may let us go back inside.

Kay, he is a bad man and a big fake. And if the good police knew what he was doing, he would be in jail. Why does he have to lock us in these cold thingies? He’s treating us like we did something wrong. What did we do, Kay? What did we do? What is he going to do to us and Momma? Kay, I’m scared, she cried as the tears ran down her small little frightened face.

I thought to myself, if Rachel only knew, there was no such thing as good police. If it were true, my mother would have called them a long time ago. I remember my mother telling me there were no good or bad police, only honest and dishonest ones, and without trust nobody was safe.

Listen to me, I promise I will not let anything happen to you. I promise. Rachel, do you trust me?

Kay, yes, I trust you, she slowly answered, looking up at me, hanging on to my every word. Kay, and I promise I won’t let anything happen to you either, Rachel squealed out as if there was anything she could do, but I felt her sincerity. It was not what she said; it was how she looked at me when she said it.

Okay, do me a favor and try to go to sleep. And when you wake up, it will all be over. I wiped the tears from her innocent face and covered her with one of the blankets.

Exhaustion was beginning to win over Constable, where all I could hear was heavy breathing as he climbed into the driver’s seat. I continued to stare at the doorway to see if my mother would appear, but I couldn’t see anything. All I could do was pray that she was alright and that the car would not start.

After several attempts the engine would not turn over, giving my mother time to run up to the window on Rachel’s side.

I love you both and please don’t be afraid. God will take care of you, baby! she cried while pounding on the window.

I wanted to press my palm up against the glass, but I was sitting too far away. All I could do was wave goodbye. When she returned the gesture, I noticed a small dark object in her hand. I couldn’t tell what she was holding because of the dim lighting.

Momma, please don’t cry, we’ll be back. Please don’t cry, we’ll be back. Please don’t cry, Momma! Can you hear me, Momma? Don’t cry! I tried to fight back my tears the entire time I spoke.

I love you both. Don’t ever forget how much I love you. Karlin and Rachel, I want you to take care of each other, my mother urgently cried.

I began to think that this nightmare had just gotten worse because my mother called me Karlin; she called me the name she gave me when I was born. Her muffled words spilled through the crack of the door as if she had a pillow over her mouth. It would be the last words I would hear before the car sped off, leaving her kneeling down on the hard, cold concrete as if she was praying. Her torn white dress flapped in the wind as she stood underneath a street lamp emanating a bright glow, her own personal spotlight at the city’s expense.

During the long ride, Constable never said a single word but he would look at me through the rearview mirror projecting an evil sinister smirk that only Lucifer himself could possess. I looked down at our feet and realized that Rachel had lost one sock and I didn’t have on any at all. There were deep cuts and scratches on the bottom of our feet and traces of dried blood up and down my legs for being raked over the cement curb doubling as a sidewalk.

While I was doing a full body check, it appeared that Constable was doing the same. Where the hell is my gun? It’s not in my holster and it’s not in this car? Damn, it must have fallen out! he said in anger and disgust as he contemplated turning around.

If it had not been for another officer calling him on his radio to confirm a location, he would have gone back to the house. Only this was no ordinary policeman, it was Chief Eric Forsythe, and he was on his way to meet up with Constable for something they both would have been electrocuted for and then fried again just for the hell of it. It was a voice that I would never forget because it went along with an aftershave that turned my stomach, along with musty sweat that left me drenched in filth. It also belonged to a man’s body reeking of alcohol that left the stench of beer all over me once he completed his criminal act on a minor.

It was the very same highly decorated police chief that called the house and turned our world upside down, which resulted in us being taken away in the middle of the night by a man who did not act like a father but a highly decorated monster in uniform. The only thing that hurt more than the iron restraints was watching the same man my mother called her husband pistol whip her and talk to her like some street whore. The horrific turn of events forced my mother to leave her daughters in a dark place inside of her mind, stripping her of all her parental rights and any signs of hope.

Rachel exhausted herself inside the car trying to wiggle her way out of the handcuffs until she curled up in a ball and fell off to sleep. I watched her as she restlessly tossed and turned to fight to hold back the warm stream that she uncontrollably released from her young overfilled bladder.

Amazingly, she never said a word regarding the cruel and devastating events of that night. I foolishly convinced myself into thinking that it was a good thing because I never talked about it ever again, until now. Maybe it was my way of protecting my sister from being a casualty other than a witness to what was originally supposed to happen to her. What a child remembers, yet defies to forget, was a question I revisited each time I encountered haunting memories that ultimately revealed the truths that would sequentially alter the rest of our lives forever.

ONE

Institutionalized

Thirteen years later…

T here was no easy way for me to tell my sister Rachel I was leaving town and going back to Los Angeles. The day had finally come where I no longer could confirm and supervise my sister’s whereabouts. Mixed emotions cluttered my thinking into hoping that Rachel would handle this meeting better than she’d handled them in the past. It was like praying for a miracle. Now that my sister was finally eighteen and old enough, she could now decide whether she wanted to come along with me or stay in San Francisco on her own. Granting all this, the ball was now in her court, and I knew that she was going to play it for all it was worth. I figured I had to be ready for anything that she threw my way. Rachel made it no secret that she was doing a mental countdown for freedom and rubbed it in my face each time she could. Our relationship took a turn for the worse ever since Rachel found out that she was being put in a develpmental institution for psychological testing and her safety. In spite of dreading this day, I still showed up for the rude awakening in the form of a meeting on time and hoped for the best.

My favorite teen counselor greeted me with a warm friendly smile as soon as I walked through the giant brown double doors of the quiet building. Same day, same time, huh, Ms. Foster, were words I had to admit I was going to miss hearing, but I would never forget. After a few years of visits, the staff could expect me like clockwork. However, my inconsiderate sister always found a way to conveniently forget. Mrs. Earlene Upshaw was Rachel’s counselor and was heaven-sent in my eyes because she was caring, thoughtful, and unquestionably fearless. You couldn’t find many people who would stand there while some rabid teenager with a grudge cursed you out, spit in your face, and dared you to touch her. The heinous and enraged actions of my sister met Mrs. Upshaw head-on. She was a tall and lanky woman with a welcoming smile that could brighten the darkest days in your darkest hours. Mrs. Upshaw had a way of handling the troubled kids that came through the large and scary doors, and she loved every one of them as though they were her own. She wore a white polyester zip-down jumpsuit with a baseball cap to match. To this day, she suffers from a leg injury that left her with a terrible limp because a boy didn’t want to turn off his TV during dinner time. When she attempted to turn off the TV for the disgruntled boy, he swung a wooden Louisville Slugger baseball bat and broke her legs in two places. That would have been it for me and a lawsuit definitely would have been pending, not to mention they wouldn’t have been able to find the boy’s body to this very day.

I went to visit my sister religiously every Wednesday and Friday at three o’clock and hoped that each visit went better than the last. Mrs. Upshaw reached for her white plastic clipboard with a blue pen connected to a chain dangling and swinging in midair. She extended her long muscular arm out to me. Here, baby, sign here, she said with a deep raspy tone. She presented a sheet of paper that had multiple signatures on it that I assumed belonged to other doctors. Everything that came out of her mouth seemed well rehearsed or just mandatory, and I would sometimes say it simultaneously with her just to get a humorous reaction. I quickly scribbled my name on the paper as usual and told her that today my signature would be a thing of the past and my tour of duty was over. My sister Rachel can now enjoy her freedom in a much anticipated way. I was going to get her in the best college the money from our mother’s life insurance could buy. I was glad Earlene was there because she always looked out for Rachel as she helped her through a lot of long days and long dreadful nights. Her commitment was tested when she had to pacify my sister’s loud, sudden outbursts of profanity, sweat-soaked nightmares, nonstop screaming and crying. She was the only worker there I ever trusted and the only one who had the extraordinary patience. That was enough to carry its own opulence when it came to leaving me with a peace of mind. It also put me at ease every time I left from a grueling visit, and knowing that someone was there who was going to look out for Rachel meant more to me than anything else in the world.

Not all of the visits were bad, only when Rachel felt like everyone was against her. It was usually after she’d asked for something she knew she couldn’t have within regulations, like large sums of money to supposedly buy snacks when she really wanted marijuana, or leaving on day passes without my permission. That was just a few of some of the simpler requests that she would abuse.

After Mrs. Upshaw’s usual greeting, she turned away to get something out of her file cabinet sitting beside the counter. She pulled a file with documents that displayed ten sign here stickers that needed Rachel’s and my signatures at the time of this final visit. I thumbed through the pages and noticed how Rachel had already signed and dated them without me being present. Again, there was another illegible signature there, which made me think another doctor or counselor approved it. It was clear that something was wrong. Suddenly, a routine visit instantly turned into something right out of one of the Twilight Zone episodes I’d seen the night before and it featured me as the lead character.

Usually by this time the counselor would have called Rachel up to the front desk to meet me but she did the exact opposite, she didn’t call anyone. Being thrown off by not seeing my sister agitated me, but it also reminded me of the fact of why I was there in the first place. Things were happening so fast but paced themselves in slow motion that I did not know if I was coming or going. No matter how hard I tried to get a grip on the matter at hand, I began to feel farther away from reality. I’d dedicated too much of my life and it was time to accept what was being relayed to me.

Mrs. Upshaw noticed that I was not looking well and she offered me a cup of water. She asked me to take a seat over in the waiting room, assuring me that she would join me shortly. After a few minutes passed, another nightmare just played itself out right before my eyes, ranking right up there when our mother passed away. I did not think anything could come remotely close to that one. Mrs. Upshaw walked into the room and redirected my attention on why my sister was MIA—that’s the term for missing in action. The calm yet sympathetic woman told me early that morning Rachel requested to meet with the head of staff and two attempts were made to call me but the phone continuously rang. The entire time she was speaking to me, all I could do was kick myself for not giving her an alternate number. If I’d done so, all of this shit wouldn’t be happening and my sister’s amazing great escape would not have been that great and gone over so damn flawlessly.

While Mrs. Upshaw fed me sympathetic words, it was not working. She told me that my part was done and now I need to find the strength to let Rachel go off on her own. The entire time the concerned counselor spoke, my mind was drowning from a lack of understanding and oxygen. I instantly felt like I could not breathe. I was just being told that my sister was now eighteen years old and was old and healthy enough to make her own decisions without me being around to approve things on her behalf and oversee her protection.

I’ve never had problems with my comprehension before but for that moment everything Earlene was telling me was beginning to register and it was all leading to one thing. Rachel’s discharge was not supposed to happen that way. To help me with what was going on, the counselor showed me a rather old and worn letter that was copied from my mother’s last will and testament that I requested to be placed in my sister’s file. The page was added to my mother’s will in my presence thirteen years ago. I was told that it was also done one year before my stepfather was shot and killed in the line of duty. The copy of the page displayed both parents’ signature at the bottom of the paper along with a statement written up by my mother saying, If anything were to happen to me before my daughters Karlin and Rachel reach the age of eighteen, I want them to live with Mrs. Ramona Purchelli, their primary guardian, until the oldest daughter, Karlin Foster, turns eighteen years of age. At that point and time Karlin, with the help of Ramona Purchelli, has the right to admit her sister, Rachel Foster, in an institutional care facility for children who suffered from molestation exposure, mental trauma, and abuse. Therefore, Rachel is able to receive treatment and positive guidance while Karlin completes her education. When the youngest, Rachel Foster, reaches the age of eighteen and proven to be healthy and of sound mind, she can be released on her own cogency and successful merit.

I did not quite understand at the time why my mother was taking the time to make certain and precise stipulations and why in the hell would my stepfather agree to sign such statements? It was as if they were protecting my sister from her foster childhood past. My mother worked at a life insurance company for over fifteen years and she knew everything there was to know about insurance. She knew what needed to be added to an insurance policy along with the payout, along with what clauses would cover certain manner of death. It was if she knew something I did not. Everything happened the way my mother wanted, and she made sure that we were safe and we didn’t want for anything for a very long time. Placing Rachel in the institution was to protect her well-being against her past catching up with her at such a young age. Therefore my mother’s best friend, Ramona Purchelli, followed the instructions of the separate letter down to a T.

I remember Colony Cove in Los Angeles was the first place my sister went to at the age of eleven. It was near University of Southern California, where I graduated just like my mother wanted. At the age of fourteen Rachel was referred to the reputable Angel Manor for troubled youths, where you had to come with reputable references and needed to be on a waiting list to attend. I still, until this very day, do not know how she got in so fast. The letter became a monumental part of Rachel’s file and followed her everywhere. I actually had forgotten about it until Mrs. Upshaw brought it to my attention.

Since the thorough counselor was carefully bringing it all back to me, I realized that while my mother thought she was covering all of her bases, she failed to make one notation. "That if her loving little chocolate drop that once sounded like the little girl from the Mrs. Butterworth’s commercial turned into the estranged sister of Chucky, she should be released with careful observation and only to her sister!"

I can have wishful thinking, but the truth of the matter is, all of these years later, it was coming back to haunt me. It became apparent that I couldn’t fight it anymore. The thought of Rachel being out on the streets scared the living hell out of me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Looking back, all the sacrifices I’ve made and worked so hard for obviously didn’t mean anything to Rachel. I could not understand why I was so shocked and upset about my sister’s behavior, because that was how she was now and no amount of treatment was going to change that about her. With great hesitation, I reluctantly signed off on the papers. Outside of what I was feeling about the disappearing stunt, the exit interview on Rachel’s behalf did not go quite as badly as I expected . . . it was astronomically worse.

Three years later . . .

The disturbing sound flowing through the calm of the drafty bedroom suddenly awakened me. Every twenty minutes the screeching gears of a cable car burned rails as it faithfully passed by 1414 Buchanan Street. My earplugs were my only means of peace; unfortunately, I didn’t have them with me that night. The trolley made its regular stop near the old charcoal-gray sandstone apartment complex on time every night where I lived.

It was apparent that I was not going to get any sleep, so I sat up and let my mind go adrift. I occasionally remembered how the inconvenience didn’t expose itself until after the lease was signed to my apartment. It was either that or living in a reconverted retirement home that was misleading people through their advertisements.

The image was fresh in my mind as though it was yesterday. I’d seen an apartment building described impeccably well through an advertisement in a Radical Rentals apartment magazine that I picked up in a grocery store back in California. The book covered various areas, including the San Francisco area. Only having one week before starting my new job added more pressure to the hunt. It was one of many sacrifices I made on behalf of Rachel. The many inquiries on places to live outside of Los Angeles were the last thing I thought I’d ever be doing but it was something that had to be done.

After two months of searching, I finally stumbled on a gold mine, or what seemed to be. It read, "One and two bedrooms, overlooking Lafayette Park, completely restyled interiors, optional fireplace or private study, two sparkling pools and spas with a fully equipped recreation area, inside apartment laundry hook-ups, pets welcomed with additional deposit." I could not believe that I’d actually found a place that interested me. I called and told a woman who answered when I would be relocating. It helped that it was two blocks away from where my sister would be staying. The photos of the different layouts and floor plans instantly pulled me in and anxiousness was beginning to set in. My overall impression after speaking with the assistant property manager of the complex was that I was about to be moving into Club Med. I didn’t hesitate to request the paperwork to eliminate a lot of time once I arrived. I anxiously asked the young lady to fax me over a copy of the lease and the credit application. I was excited; I knew that this was the one!

Upon finally arriving at the building, it appeared to be nice and quiet, with beautiful artifacts and American flags hanging from narrow doorways. I figured a lot of people must really love their country or there were a lot of veterans who lived there. The atmosphere gave peace and quiet an entirely new meaning. I couldn’t help but think back to the article that they wrote up on this place. It was everything they did not mention, all except when they spoke of pets being welcomed. Little furry poodles with knitted sweaters and matching ribbons played tirelessly while running around in the center of the colorful landscaped courtyard, playing fetch with their elderly masters. What a sight, I silently thought.

After observing everything from a security gate, I wanted to jump in my car and act like I was never there, but a very cute little old lady whose head was adorned with beautiful silver curly locks signaled for me to come inside. How could I turn my back on the dear old woman who insisted on calling me sugar plum? Trying to conjure up the right words to say without embarrassing myself or the little old lady, I smiled politely and courageously kept the appointment.

This frail figure of a walking porcelain doll smiled at me as we walked over to the office that had at least three cats roaming the white wicker chairs in the sitting area. She offered me some green and white peppermints from the seashell candy dish as she tried to get a quick analysis of this young stranger trying to find a place to live.

You’re Karlin Foster, correct? she asked.

Yes, I am actually here to see Ms. Cruthers. Would you be her by any chance? I asked with an unsure tone.

Well, sugar plum, I wish I could say that I’m the Ms. Cruthers you are looking for, but I am about forty-eight years older, she answered with jovial laughter. I remembered how the voice did sound a lot younger. You’re looking for my daughter, who initially set up the appointment with you, but she’s not here, so I will be more than happy to take you on the tour of the complex, she said as she took my ID and placed it in an envelope in case I was a mad butcher or something. Ms. Cruthers smiled as though she could read my thought. It is procedure, li’l lady, to keep it until we return back to the office for security purposes.

I must admit the older version of Ms. Cruthers definitely knew her job. Once the tour began I couldn’t help but notice the recreation room filled with faded brown checkered furniture with a sofa couch, two chairs, and one matching ottoman. Sitting in the corner of this fairly large dimly lit room was a black and white twenty-five-inch television set with a wooden box frame. I couldn’t get over the fact that someone was still watching an old relic like that, which the dignified lady proudly pointed out was the highlight of Raleigh Apartments on Saturday nights. It was the biggest thing I’d seen in a long time. The big round dials that were used to turn the channels certainly told its age. It looked just like Mrs. Purchelli’s old set, which over the years had been upgraded twice since the last time I’d been to visit. I also recalled, located in the rear of the room, a small bingo board attached to a corner wall, a few poker tables, and two pop-up tables already set up for a fun game of checkers. The activity lineup must have really had the residents riled up on Friday nights, I thought to myself.

The interior designs are just about finished being upgraded, we’re giving discount packages to anyone who moves in before the renovation is complete, Ms. Cruthers confidently mentioned, believing that I still would want the place. All I could do was stand there wondering how it looked before. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was seeing, but the thought of turning around and going back to Los Angeles was definitely out of the question, especially since I had a new job and finally settling Rachel in Presidio Manor. I regretfully told her that I didn’t need to see any more of the building and extended my thanks and gratitude in a subtle but polite way as I picked up my ID from the office. One positive thought did cross my mind while I was leaving. If I were looking for a place for the Purchellis to live in their golden years, it would have been grand. Compared to the features of the newly renovated senior-citizen retirement home, my concrete castle with my very own personal trolley stop in front was a sheer dream.

I was this toughened woman who felt mentally cut down into a frightened, abandoned little girl who lay helplessly alone on a thin quilted blanket. I sensed the world had turned its back on me, starting with my sister. I stayed three years longer than anticipated; my itinerary changed when my sister did her infamous disappearing act. The bone-chilling cold tile floors made me feel like I was lying on a slab of concrete, similar to sleeping on a city sidewalk.

My mind instantly took a sour turn, and I didn’t feel like me anymore. I felt as if I had lost everything and had nowhere else to go. The silence and the darkness confirmed that I had sunk as far as I could sink. Damn, where is a speech when I need one? If Cinn could see me now, she would give me a good motivational word to chew on. Now that I have gotten comfortable with the resonance that my small box-shaped fortress had to offer, it just reminded me that I waited too long to move back to Los Angeles. My friends had been trying to get me to move back for the last three years, but I told them I had an obligation I was going to see to the end.

Since it was clear that I couldn’t get any sleep, I struggled to sit up to glance out at the vacuous shell of my diminutive apartment window. I then turned around and envisioned all of my worldly possessions that made my little cold, empty cave a home. Once I’d made my mind up about something, there was no deterring me, which was the headstrong attitude I’d had ever since I was a little girl. The subtle and stubborn attitude often worked in my favor. That’s why I never walked out on my sister.

Sitting there reflecting over the truth suddenly hit me like a lightning bolt striking a tree. It made me realize that I was no longer that little girl that was cheated out of being someone else’s little girl, which made me feel as if I had been deserted twice. A reoccurring dream of me picking up and leaving and never looking back was something that would only remain a dream because I loved my sister too much to desert her and make her live in the aftermath of something that was out of her control. My biggest complaint was that I was not given a choice; this was something that had to be now and for the rest of my life. It’s the promise that I made years ago that made me feel like the prisoner I am today to Rachel. Not being ready or prepared for the responsibilities that were thrown at me literally took me out of my comfort zone and crippled me into an unfamiliar danger zone.

The relationship I had with my sister, Rachel, was a very complicated one. The complexities of our kinship proved itself to be somewhat challenging at times, and now that she’s older, it started becoming toxic. Overwhelmed with sadness and betrayal, I could do nothing but gaze at the light that streamed in from the tall steel streetlamp onto the city street below. The blinking light flashed across the room, trapping my eyes, photographing a lone teardrop that slid down my face until it rolled off my chin onto my thin cotton shirt. I foolishly hoped my mother would come walking in with a piece of tissue to wipe all my sadness away. I imagined her having a snack to lighten my heavy heart and soothe my pain while holding a nice shiny penny like she did when I was a little girl. How could my life get so turned around, and what could I have done to divert the direction it was going? All of my confidence and strength was beginning to fade.

It was evident when I was appointed legal caretaker of Rachel that I was no longer living for me anymore, I was also living for my sister. After all, Rachel was the only family I had left and she was the only one who knew the truth. I couldn’t wait to move back home to come face-to-face with the reality that I tried so hard to leave behind. Nevertheless, reunite me with my friends whom I loved and that loved me.

It’s a constant struggle for me to keep the chatter inside me from holding my mind hostage. Quickly realizing that I was losing the battle for that moment, it felt like my soul had been ripped away ever since that tragic day our adolescence was robbed. I can’t help but think of how many times I’d try to have Rachel over to stay in the house, especially when the pressures of guilt began to swallow me up whole. The chatter that cluttered my mind made me remember how I’d tried to alter the rules and have my sister come and live with me but she’d been medically and mentally dependent for so long that she didn’t feel safe and begged to go back.

The two cardboard boxes labeled Fragile, don’t touch and a vintage leather bound cedar chest that was labeled simply Don’t touch were the only items left keeping me company. I lit scented candles and watched my shadow of distorted shades of gray dance off of the solid off-white walls. I slowly stood up with the small quilted blanket and dragged it with me as I wandered aimlessly around the meager hallways and vacant rooms as if I was heavily intoxicated from a strong induced drug. My eyes were trapped on the empty square-shaped shades of powdery dust prints that my unique collection of framed pictures left behind. It represented how a neighbor’s relationship gave me an agitated glimpse of my dreadful past. Yet in some ironic way, it kept alive a small remnant of strength that was hidden deep inside.

Much to my surprise, I heard a tap on the door. What the hell? I can’t believe this woman is at my door at two o’clock in the morning. What is she still doing up? Better yet, what is she doing out? I asked myself. I acted as if I wasn’t there but the person on the other side of the door never walked away. I knew who it was because she was the only one who used her key to tap on my door. Even though I knew it, it still did not stop me from peeking through the peephole.

Hey, Karlin, are you up? Are you okay? Knowing you, you are acting like you are not home or asleep. Don’t forget I know you better than you think. Girl, stop looking at me through that damn peephole and open up, she whispered as she leaned in toward the door. Meanwhile, I slowly stepped away and stood perfectly still and quietly in the open dead space for about two minutes. I finally gave up and convinced myself to open the door. Once I did, I welcomed Mrs. Bryce Petersen in with a big hug and a grim smile.

Look here, Karlin, you can play that not-at-home crap with the manager but not me. We both continued to laugh as she entered the apartment. Although I did not want her to know, I was very glad to see her because it took my mind off of thinking so hard about everything else.

Bryce, how did you know I was up?

I was coming from visiting a sick friend, and I saw shadows from your window. I was concerned.

A sick friend, huh? Now you know I do not believe a single word of that sick-friend bull you just created, I sarcastically said.

Are you all ready to move? Bryce asked as she tried to change the subject.

Hey, look around at this place. You know me, I’m all set and ready to go. I extended my arms out as if I was showcasing a brand-new car off the Price is Right as I displayed my empty apartment softly twirling with one arm extended, using it as an imaginary wand to show an empty room.

Who are you trying to fool, girl? It’s me, Bryce. Come on, what’s going on with you? she asked as she tossed her beige knitted designer duffle-style bag and keys across the kitchen counter.

Bryce knew that it was pretty late and couldn’t understand what was bothering me. Trying to pull information out of me was like trying to pull teeth without anesthesia.

Hey, girl, don’t let me keep you out. I know how Aaron can get.

"Sounds like you laced that with a little attitude, missy. Don’t worry about him, he’s not home this weekend. He went to Chicago to handle a family emergency, at least that’s what