I’m reading Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, a fabulous memoir by Alexandra Fuller. It takes place in Africa—Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Malawi. Just shy of half-way through the book—spoiler alert—the narrator is supposed to be watching her younger sister who disappears and drowns in a backyard pond. It made me think of my youngest sister Beckie, who disappeared at the beach when I was supposed to be watching her. I don’t remember how old she was, maybe four. My next younger sister and I looked all over, calling her. No Beckie. Finally, an announcement came over the loud speaker for us to go to the life guard station. With relief, we found Beckie there.
I was thinking, she could have drowned. I was also thinking, I don’t think I could have lived through that. I wonder if Beckie had or has nightmares about it. PTSD, perhaps. My fault. And, unlike Bobo, Fuller’s childhood self, I was a teenager, old enough to be responsible.
Should I talk to Beckie about it? I once apologized in general for things I had done to damage our relationship, most notably keeping my distance from her for, let’s say, ten years. I’m thinking that is not enough. I have to ask her about it. Does she remember it? Did it or does it give her nightmares?
There’s always more—always more of my past that I remember and regret. I believe I need to bring this up when the time is right.
