As a child, I loved to draw and paint, loved the feeling of happiness that overtook me as I let my imagination spill onto the paper. I still consider myself an artist of sorts, and I thoroughly enjoy my attempts at creativity. It makes me smile and soothes my often-frazzled nerves. However, in times of extreme strife and stress, I consider books to be my most cherished friends – they are especially comforting to me as they transport me away from my troubles.

I was perusing my book collection recently, looking for something light-hearted to take my mind off an upcoming surgery of which I was very fearful. As my fingers lingered over the spines and my eyes viewed the titles, I could feel myself anticipating the release of anxiety that would accompany the opening of the book. I chose one and got settled into my recliner. I opened it, casually glanced at my name written neatly in pen on the inside cover, and felt a sharp pang of sadness as a long-forgotten childhood memory overtook me.

My sister and I were sitting on the parquet wood floor of a large closet that had been designated as the “toy room” in our 4th floor walk-up. In an effort to keep our clutter from under adult feet, this little room housed our toy collection. We spent most of our inside hours tucked inside of it, partly because we were small girls who loved our Baby Alive dolls and Lincoln Logs and, among other things, our multitude of books, but mostly we stayed in there because out of sight was out of mind. We played quietly, fed our babies, and chattered our little girl chatter in the solitude of our haven, away from disapproving eyes. On this particular day, however, we failed to notice that the toy room was a little less full than usual.

The voice called, shrilly, from the living room. “GIR-rrrls! Get in here RIGHT NOW.”

Keely looked at me with huge eyes. “She wants both of us.” Her lips trembled.

“It’s alright, I’ll take the punishment,” I whispered, knowing already that one was going to be given. I grabbed her hand, we stood up, and I opened the closet door. We emerged from our toy room and began to slowly walk together down the hall, still holding hands.

I was a nervous, skinny little girl in those days – jumpy, quick to cry, always on the toilet with a sick stomach – and prone to magical thinking, thanks to my candle-lighting, card-reading New Orleans grandmother. I didn’t remember Maybelle quite so clearly anymore; my granny’s face had faded in the two years since Keely and I were taken away from our mother – her daughter. I did remember, however, that when Maybelle was in trouble she lit candles and chanted mystical words, and her trouble would “go back from whence it came.” Trouble was something I was always getting into, and as we arrived in the living room I could tell by the look on my stepmother’s face that I was in it once again. I wondered how my sister was involved. Books were piled on the coffee table and in amazement I tried to figure out how they’d gotten there. It seemed somehow that we’d been tricked. Why hadn’t I noticed the missing books? My heart pounded, and my stomach clenched tightly and rumbled.