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.

Keely couldn’t yet read, but at the age of six I was an avid reader who loved to share with my little sister the other-world that our books brought to life. Together we would sit in the toy room and escape into the pages. We took our pencils and crayons and edited the stories, added our names and faces, and created alternate endings that suited our moods. Our books were well-used and well-loved. As I looked at the large pile of books, I noticed that my favorite, the Dr. Seuss classic “And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street,” was laying on top. I glanced at Shirley, who sat on the sofa with a ruler in her hand. My mind raced, thinking of what we could have possibly done wrong. The books had been on the shelves where they belonged. How did they get in here? Why were they in here?

“Mommy, you called us?”

The question hung in the air as I Maybelle-chanted in my mind over and over: “Please, no trouble. Please, no trouble.”

“Girls, you both know that books are to be taken care of and respected. You’ve been told this, haven’t you?” Her tone was serious and disapproving.

“Yes, Mommy,” we replied.

“Then how come I went into your toy room last night and saw this book on the floor?” Her voice rose as she grabbed Mulberry Street and waved it around. “I picked up the book to put it away and noticed WRITING on the inside. Who is responsible for this?”

I felt my stomach churn and clenched my butt to keep in the fart but it escaped, along with a small squirt of runny poop. “I was just drawing pictures for the story,” I whispered, hoping she wouldn’t smell my accident. Keely clung tightly to my hand. She’d already begun sniffling, and from the corner of my eye I could see her knees shaking. I squeezed her hand.

I knew that an offering had to be made for the transgression. “I’ll take the punishment. I did most of it, and Keely just copied off of me,” I volunteered. She frowned as she considered. Of the two of us, Keely was her favorite. She didn’t resemble our mother; I was her image. Keely didn’t cry for her anymore; I still asked when she was coming to get me.

“Fine, then. I’m going to go through every single book, and for each picture and sentence I find, you get one smack on the back of your hand with the ruler.” I felt a sense of relief. The ruler stung, yes, but it wasn’t near as bad as the strap, and was much easier than her hands, which often pinched and squeezed and left little bruises.

“Hold out your hand.”

My right hand lifted slowly as she began going through Mulberry Street. Keely’s little damp palm and tiny fingers remained firmly clamped onto my left hand. It didn’t take long before a crooked penciled-in horse showed itself, and I heard Keely’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a small sob – the drawing was hers. “SHHH,” I hissed.

SMACK.

Shirley’s strike with the ruler was hard and her aim was true. My hand was forced downward from the blow and I gasped loudly. Little had I realized that a ruler spanking on the thigh, or the arm, or the butt, is not equal to a ruler spanking on the back of a small, soft hand. The welt began to rise almost immediately, and I farted and pooped some more as I looked at the stack of books and thought of the many writings and drawings my sister and I had created together.

After several books I began to cry. Keely was silent as her tears streamed and her knees shook. The smell of poop was in the air, acrid in my nose, and I felt it sitting like a weight in my panties. I silently Maybelle-chanted for her to miss some pages, skip a book, anything, to end the pain being delivered. I shook Keely’s hand away so that I could offer up my left to give relief to the right.

The book pile dwindled slowly. Keely trembled while I took the punishment for our creative editing. The strike of wood upon my hands seemed endless as I switched them out, time and time again, in an attempt to stop the pain. When they started to bleed, she stopped.

And my memory of that day ends there.

I loved my books as a girl – they transported me to a place that was vastly different from my reality – and I eagerly clamored to read as many as I could. My addiction and love is unchanged to this day. I continue to disappear into those enticing pages every chance I get and my home is filled with hundreds of books. As I sat in my recliner with my book and recollected that childhood memory, however, this artiste d’amatuer became painfully aware that, since the day my hands were bloodied for the transgression of two smalls girls who dared to color their joy onto the pages of paper friends, only my name marks the inside of each one.