When I was a girl, about nine or ten years old, one of my favorite indoor activities was to rifle through the stash of books and other treasures tucked into a dresser and closet in our rec room. My younger sister and I spent hours sitting on the hard linoleum sifting through mom’s shelves of piano music, Reader’s Digest Condensed books, and tins, boxes and tubs of inherited and collected memorabilia. It was kind of like a cross between our own private flea market and an archaeological dig to a time before our memory. My older sister is eight years older than I, so all her outgrown stuff was fascinating to me, even if she was a little bit more into the horse stories than I was.
One afternoon I found an old paperback book of hers: “Clever Tricks to Play on Your Friends!” We lived in the country, about a mile from any friends I might have had, but my mom was upstairs and my little sister was around somewhere, probably out playing with the cats or talking to the horses. Following the book’s instructions, I found a small cardboard box with a lid and carved a hole the size of my finger in the bottom with a dull penknife. I poked my middle finger up through the hole, tucked some cotton balls around it and flexed it flat so the box nested in my palm. It really looked like a severed finger laying in the box, without the blood. Nice! I thought about finding a red magic marker to add to the illusion, but I had already been working on it five whole minutes already and had to show my mom this cool effect RIGHT AWAY. I covered the box, hustled up the stairs and found her in her bedroom. I was bursting with excitement that my trick would really work, but at the same time that I was terrified she’d see through it. My face cramped with energetic smiling, I said “Mom! Look!” and she walked over to me, probably thinking, “What now?” Watching for her reaction, I lifted the lid off the box, and was honestly surprised to see her stare blankly at my lifeless finger, then look at me with an expression I’d never seen before. I would describe it as horror-struck. She looked like a crazy person. She grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR SISTER!?!?”
??? I was disappointed and confused. What did my sister have to do with anything? I looked at the box and then I realized, ohhh. If there was a part of a finger in a box, it had to have come from SOMEWHERE, thus the sister… I was exasperated; Mom was completely missing the point. I demonstrated that the finger was mine, and Mom turned an odd color and literally sagged. I guess when the crazy drains from your body that is what happens.
This is the kind of story that gets re-told at family gatherings, and I always thought it was pretty amusing, until about a year ago when, for some reason, I was able to imagine the scenario from my mom’s point of view for the first time and realized what a horrible, horrible thing I had done to her. I imagined looking from a dismembered body part to my own child’s maniacally grinning face. If one of my boys had pranked me with a severed finger, I am pretty sure my head would have exploded. There she was, out on the farm, with one daughter mutilated at best and the other a complete psychopath. So sorry, Mom! Being absolutely unable to empathize with my mother’s experience then, or for the next thirty+ years could, I guess, define me as a minor-league psychopath. Is it bad to say that this makes it even funnier to me?
I had a book like that! I’m impressed you could actually sell it. No one ever believed my trick of the severed finger!
Aw, poor little psychopath-you! And poor your mom! She must have been so embarrassed!
Actually, I don’t think so. Just shaken. I think she was mostly just glad she didn’t throttle me on the spot. THAT would have been embarrassing. Mom? Were you embarrassed?
Nope, not really–just enormously relieved. Of course I didn’t REALLY believe you would harm your little sister, but it was a little finger–and YOU obviously were not in pain–and your sister was no place in sight. Well, okay, maybe I AM embarrassed now that I think I could even have had a fleeting thought like that–but then, I DID dream that you put her down the garbage disposal when she was a baby!!! I must have thought at least subliminally that there was some sibling rivalry involved. But now when I think about it–and I have told other people the story, it doesn’t just get dragged out at family gatherings–I laugh until I have tears in my eyes. It was a magnificent trick and I can still see the sparkle in those big brown eyes, but maybe it took a paranoid mother to help you pull it off!!! Love you, Middlest–you always did have the most fun!
What a great story. I wish you and I had been friends as kids. Yikes! Our poor moms.
A partner in crime? There would be many more of these stories to tell!
What’s funny to me is that I saw the title of this and only thought, “oh crap, who got hurt?” It didn’t occur to me that it was this story again… I’m far more danger to myself than you ever were (I’ve nearly cut my own finger off, twice) … Love you!