A Little Bit of Ivey. Lorelei JD Branam

I just put stickers in my closet. And yeah, my jaw is getting a little tired. This place is really cool. It's so big though. Are you a little scared?" I asked.

      "Scared of what? Scared of Mother, after she gets a look at what you did to your closet? No, I’m not afraid. But maybe you should be.”

      “No, no. Aren’t you afraid of somebody gettin’ us?”

      “Don’t worry, Ivey Mae: if somebody ever got you, they’d bring you back because they wouldn’t know what to do with you. And besides, the doors are locked, and Dad installed an alarm system. It won't seem so big and rambling once all of the furniture gets here. We are very fortunate, Ivey Mae."

      "I know. I know. But having those doors in my room that go straight out back is kind of creepy. And the lake looks black at night; it scares me. Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”

      "That’s fine. After we eat, go get your blankets."

      Lucy put down her beloved book, and we walked the hall together, but only for a moment; then I dashed to the top of the stairs and counted how fast I could make it down.

      While eating, all of us decided that for the first night in our new home we preferred to be together. Mother and Dad were out to dinner, and there was so much more space than we were used to that we all felt a little lonely. Improving on the pot roast and vegetables that mother left us, Lucy fried us homemade doughnuts, dipping them in sugar and cinnamon. Then we got our things and met back in Lucy Lea's room to watch TV.

      It didn’t take long for the excitement of the day to catch up with us, and each one drifted off to sleep, all seven of us in my sister’s queen-size bed.

      Around midnight, as the story goes, my parents returned home. Climbing the stairs, they went first to check on the baby in her nursery, and the crib was empty. Next they went to my brother’s room, and there was no one in his bed either. The same happened for me and my other sisters, until lastly, they walked down the long green hall to the very back of the second floor. And there they found us, snuggled in and sound asleep, amongst a sea of yellow bedding and big down pillows.

      Lucy Lea was the only one awake, reading her book by the glow of a flashlight as she heard Dad whisper to Mom in the dark. "Well, Slim—I woulda never built this big ol’ house if I knew they were gonna pile up in here like a bunch of puppies."

      Four: It’s Not A Tumor

      Several years ago when the twins were just babies, we were in Key Largo for spring break. Swinging back and forth in the hammock, I am nowhere to be found as my mind wallows in desperate worry. Vacation or not, I simply cannot relax. I know something is terribly wrong. Possibly fatally wrong. Checking again as I have countless times over the last couple of weeks, I close my eyes, while placing a finger in each ear to muffle outside noise. Yep, no doubt about it: ringin’ in my ear.

      I open my eyes to see Dad standing on the top step, leading from the house. He is staring at me in concern. "Ivey Mae, why don't you just call the doctor? Leave the babies here with us and drive back to Miami. Have your ear checked out, and then you can have some fun. "

      As usual Dad is right.

      Bad news is I have tinnitus in one ear, and the condition will most likely stay there for the rest of my life. Good news is, this is a very mild case, it should not worsen, and my hearing is excellent. The latter is really positive info because my hearing is so good that once I adjust, I shouldn’t be bothered by the buzzing in my ear.

      So for the drive home, I am most certainly relieved and ready to fully participate in the family vacation. Here I come. And like always, I call Lucy Lea.

      "Hello," she answers, sounding just like me, and all of our other sisters. I quickly update her, and she says "God, Ivey Mae, why do you do this to yourself? Must you always convince yourself you have a brain tumor and are facing a horribly painful and crippling end of life over something much less complicated and life threatening?"

      "That's true. That's exactly what I thought. Why else would I have ringing in only one ear? I thought if it was simple in would be in both ears."

      I think I can hear her roll her eyes 200 miles away. "OK, so now that you found out you will just have ringing in your ear the rest of your life . . . you feel better."

      "Right."

      Five: Whoever The Hell You Are

      Apparently my sisters and I got an identical match of DNA when it comes to our vocal chords, because we all sound interchangeable when we speak. Our voices, intonation and tone are so similar that we feel each other’s presence many times a day. Lucy says she can hear her own self in me, when I leave a voice message on her phone. Many times mid- sentence, I will hear her in the sound of my words, and she is two hundred miles away. Maybe this is why I talk to myself—just to hear the sound of my sisters.

      Growing up in the Seventies, there were no cell phones. Streamlined telephones in shiny colors of avocado green, lemon yellow, powder blue and cotton ball white inhabited our house. The phones were so attractive—I don’t know—they sorta reminded me of candy and beckoned me to use them. But, there was only one phone line and six of us girls to share it, seven including Mother.

      My father really disliked the telephone. I never saw him use it except in his office and rarely did he ever pick it up when he was home, but when he did, it always gave me a laugh, while causing surprise and confusion for the caller. You see, Dad didn’t waste time when it came to the phone, and if he was forced to answer it, he did so by simply stating, “Speak.” There was no greeting or pleasantries. Speak, and tell him what you want.

      A telephone call to my home could prove to be quite frustrating because it was literally impossible to know who you were speaking to, and the choices were endless. When I was fifteen or so, I came running up from the lake to get fresh towels and picked up the ringing phone in the kitchen to hear Dad say, “Hello, Lorraine. Is your mother around?”

      I tell him, “It’s not Lorraine.”

      He says, “Lucy Lea?”

      “No”

      He gives it another go, trying to ascertain which one of his many daughters he is speaking with: “Rosemary?”

      “No, Dad”

      “Well, let’s see, Pollyannie?”

      “Oh come on, Dad!”

      Then with good humor tingeing his Southern drawl in sweet frustration, he gives up. ” I’m workin’ right now, so whoever the hell you are, would you please go and get your mother? I need to talk to her.”

      Six: Sisters

      Most of my family gathers at Mother and Dad's, for Sunday supper. One week in nineteen eighty-six while eating at the large indoor picnic table, we hear the front door slam, echoing up the vaulted foyer, and brace ourselves for my sweet sister Lorraine. She is as pretty as her name, feisty as the day is long, and there is a good, clear picture of her next to the words high strung in the dictionary.

      "Mom? Mom is? Where are you?" Before anyone has time to answer, Lorraine is standing in front of us, all flustered.

      Throwing a quick glance around the room for me, Lorraine then looks back at Mom and is all in a tizzy. Mother smiles, while encouraging the vent which is brewing behind my sister’s dark brown eyes. As if she needs any extra encouragement.

      "This is insane! Oh my God! Are you serious? It's not funny. Tell me she