When Lea-Anne Jackson’s little sister was diagnosed with leukemia, Lea-Anne was convinced she had a superpower that would save her. Then one day, it stopped working.
In 1979, when I was 9, my sister Angela was diagnosed with leukemia. She was 3.
In the days before, the house had grown dark. No one could figure out why Angela was so sick. My parents spoke in whispers. I walked around our cul-de-sac with my friend — crying but I didn’t know why.
Test after test was conducted. We sat in chairs in front of the doctor’s desk.
“It’s either mononucleosis or leukemia,” he said. I silently prayed for leukemia. Mononucleosis sounded serious.
Angela was immediately admitted to the hospital. My mom stayed with my sister. My dad took me to the mall to buy pajamas. It was the first time he and I had ever been shopping. I picked out a pink nightgown with Miss Piggy on the front. She was my favorite, but the image seemed too bright now. Everything seemed strange and different. He drove me to my aunt’s house. More whispers. Then he left.
I had been a good girl. An only child for six years. The only child my parent’s friends would invite to parties. I knew how to sit quietly and color.
Angela wasn’t quiet. She was wild. She would stomp her short, wide feet in protest. She insisted every glass of milk be filled right up to the rim.
“I WANT TOO MUCH!” she’d shout. She would dart under clothing racks, disappearing as my mom shopped. I made sure she never got lost. She drove her Big Wheel too fast. She’d head straight for the storm drain with me in a panic, running behind her. At the last second, she would jerk the handlebars to the left and swing the back wheels around. I thought she might go into that drain, but I made sure I was there to save her. Saving Angela was my superpower.
But the tests came back, and it was serious. It was leukemia. Now, she had chemo every few weeks. While she was in the hospital, I stayed at home with my grandmother. Angela didn’t like to take her meds. She’d clamp her mouth shut and shake her head. No. But when she was home, I could get her to take them. I made her a poster. Every time she took her medicine, I would draw a different colorful animal for her.
“It’s either mononucleosis or leukemia,” he said. I silently prayed for leukemia. Mononucleosis sounded serious.
I always had powers like that, but I didn’t tell anyone. I could make sure that more bad things didn’t happen. One way I could do this was by how I put my shoes on the floor. When I took them off, I always made sure they were side-by-side, but with the right shoe pushed slightly ahead of the left. I knew how to keep spiders off my bed. I did a nightly “spider check” that included looking behind the headboard seven times, under each pillow once. The ritual ended with a look under the sheet. I hadn’t seen a spider since I started that.
My grandmother tried to make things good for me at home. She bought me a new bedspread. It was sky blue and dotted with pink tulips on one side. But the best part, it was reversible! The other side was white with pink flowers. I kept it on the blue side. After a while I wanted to flip it, but I was afraid of what might happen.
Summer turned to fall. Then another winter. And then another Christmas eve with Angela in the hospital. My dad, my grandmother and I went to visit, so my mom could go home for a bit. That night, I made a bargain with God in my head. I would give up all of my presents to have her home on Christmas day. Christmas morning, I woke up to my presents on the left side of the tree and Angela’s on the right. Around lunchtime, the doctors made their rounds and released Angela. She made it home Christmas afternoon.
But in year three of Angela’s leukemia, things got worse. She was in the hospital for a long time. My grandmother would try to hide her tears. I hid mine. My mom told me this time Angela might not come home.
On an ordinary spring Wednesday in 1982, I got off the school bus and saw my parents’ cars in the driveway. Not good. As I walked past my mom’s car, I saw my sister’s clothes hanging in the backseat. I walked in the door to a living room full of people. My mom and dad took me back to my bedroom. They told me Angela had died. As I cried, I looked down at my white bedspread. I’d flipped it the night before.