Katherine Evers - Thats Enough

Chapter 1

Born Liar

I was three when I was first branded a liar. I was playing in the yard, much more interested in my games than being interrupted for a toilet break. When playtime was over, my five-year-old sister came to get me.

Youre gonna be in big trouble, my sister scolded, grabbing me forcefully by the arm, her long blonde locks glinting in the sun. Jana pointed at the wet spot on my pants. You know it makes Daddy mad. A glint of fear showed in her blue eyes.

But, butI didnt I was now in tears. I was terrified. I knew the wrath of my father.

I was supposed to be potty trained. As we went inside, Jana marched me over to our mother. Mom asked me what happened.

I sat in a mud puddle, I nervously explained. It sounded plausible to me. Unfortunately, it hadnt rained in days.

My moms already sunken blue eyes were further burdened showing exasperation. Youre a born liar , just like your father, she gravely whispered as she shuttled me toward my room. Mom had bright red hair, just like mine. She was short and plump, making her comfortable to cuddle. Today there was no snuggling. The realization that I was like my father pained her.

Fear took over from disappointment as we tiptoed, looking toward the master bedroom in hopes the door was still closed. Hurry! she whispered urgently. Get inside and change before he wakes up. Thankfully my parents bedroom door didnt open as I silently scurried to my room.

That day I learned who I was expected to be. I wasnt a good girl like my sister. I was a born liar like my dad. It became my identity, something I believed was as unchangeable as the red hair on my head. Over the coming years, my behavior reinforced this belief as I continued to disappoint everyone around me.

* * *

Mom, can I please have these? I really want to color, I pleaded, showing her the small box of crayons.

No, baby. We cant afford anything extra today. Maybe you can borrow some from Sarah? Now go put those back, she replied.

I slowly dragged my feet down the aisle to put the crayons back. This wasnt the first time I was denied toys and trinkets. We were poor, so luxuries like crayons were rare. I saw my friends with crayons and markers and coloring books. I got hand-me-down toys from cousins or garage sale bargains. As I was returning the crayons to their shelf, I realized the small box would mostly fit in my coat pocket. Maybe there was a way to get them. With my mom and sister walking away down the aisle, I slid the box in my right coat pocket and covered the exposed corner with my tiny hand.

As we were leaving, my mother put my sister in charge. She had older-sister duty when we walked into the parking lot. She tried to take my hand, as was her responsibility. As luck would have it, she chose the right hand hiding the crayon box. I attempted to skirt around to the other side. My stubborn sister refused and pulled at the hand still carefully conceiling the loot. She gasped. She dragged me toward Mom, tattling loudly through the busy grocery store entrance, Mom! Kat stole crayons! People stopped to stare. My mother was mortified.

What do you think youre doing, young lady? she screeched, snatching the crayons from me. You know that stealing is wrong. We do not do that. For no reason should you ever take something that is not yours. You get back inside immediately and ask for the manager. You will give him the crayons and tell him youre sorry and wont ever do anything like that again. She shoved the crayons back toward me.

Once inside, I hung my head, guilt-stricken. I hurried to the counter and asked for the manager, who was standing nearby. Mom and Jana followed, my mothers face beet red with embarrassment.

May I help you, young lady? asked Mr. Turner.

I laid the crayons revealingly on the counter. Im sorry, I barely managed to mumble, my tear-filled eyes locked firmly on the floor. I turned to my mother and buried my head in her coat, sobbing. My mother sheepishly finished the story. I heard Mr. Turner accept my apology and thank my mother for her honesty.

* * *

Our family was dealt more than its fair share of trauma. At age five during a routine checkup, a physician noticed a heart murmur. Further investigation indicated that I needed open-heart surgery to repair a congenital defect. With very little money and no insurance, we were fortunate enough to receive financial support from the American Heart Association to pay for the surgery to repair my heart. The closest facility for pediatric open-heart surgery was the St. Jude Childrens Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, approximately eight hours drive from my home. In 1975, we left Illinois for the road trip and subsequent surgery.

Can you be a big brave girl and show me how you can count backward from ten? the anesthesiologist said as he rubbed my arm gently. I was staring into my mothers eyes, scared because I could see her concern. Tennineeight Darkness.

I was surprised to later learn of the excitement during my recovery. While in ICU, my mother in the waiting room next to the nurses station and my father at the local bar, my remote heart monitor flat-lined. The entire floor responded, shouting, Code blue! My mother ran, pushing everyone out of the way to get to me.

Oh my god. No! My baby, my baby! she was yelling frantically. She was terrified. The young doctor on duty acted quickly, unzipped the oxygen tent, checked my breathing, and listened for a heartbeat. With a look of confusion, she checked the leads on my heart monitor. The pediatric crash cart arrived with more staff.

Okay, everyone, panic over, she announced, holding the loose end of a lead in her hand. This is what caused the problem. Easily fixed, she said, reaching across the bed to reattach the offending wire to one of several probes covering my tiny body.

My heart was still beating. Vitals were stable.

Thank you, oh thank you so much, cried my mom, visibly shaken.

Thank God it was so simple, said one nurse to another. Tension etched on the faces of the collected staff eased into broad smiles and deep sighs. Happens all the time, one caring nurse told my mother as she soothingly patted her shoulder.

I woke in an oxygen tent several hours later. I was groggy and the plastic obstructed my view. I saw my parents sitting in the room.

Mommy? Mommy? I managed to whisper. There was no response. I didnt think they could see or hear me. Mommy? I tried to speak louder, to no avail.

I decided to unzip the strange bubble over me. Sitting up was a mistake. I felt the unyielding stab of a flaming hot sword piercing through my left shoulder blade. I screamed.

After a week, I was well enough to be discharged. The nurses had become very fond of my mother and me.

One day when I grow up, I announced to the nurse removing my IV, Im going to be a doctor too. I want to save people. My mom smiled proudly. I could swear even my tough old dad wiped away a tear. Thats my girl, he mumbled.

My dream was born.

Chapter 2

Garden Girl

Glass perfume bottles were very popular with little girls. When I was six, Avon marketed a collection with various figures and beautiful designs. I spent hours paging through the worn and tattered catalogs, memorizing the figures, and fantasizing about playing with them. I dreamed of one day being rich enough to buy one. Dare I dream of two?

Even though Sarah was two years older than me, we were the best of friends.

Im so excited! Sarah squealed with delight as we played jump rope in her yard one sunny afternoon. Mom just got me the latest bottle for my collection. Its the most beautiful girl from a garden, all covered with flowers. My eyes sparkled with interest. Ive got the whole set now. I love them! Want to come up to my room, and Ill show you?