Henry's Sisters. Cathy Lamb

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      I heard the van pull up in front of the house about an hour later. I leaned out the window of my bedroom, that busy wind blowing my braids and beads.

      There she was. I couldn’t help chuckling. Within minutes I heard her marching up the steps, then a brisk knock on my door.

      I smiled at my grandma, a tiny woman with white, curly hair, standing in the doorway wearing old-fashioned, air force flight gear, including an antique flight helmet and goggles. It was hard to believe that until a few years ago, when dementia caught up to her, Grandma was a firebrand who’d nitpicked Momma until she could barely see straight through her fury.

      “Amelia!” I exclaimed. “Amelia Earhart!”

      “Good to see you, young lady.” She narrowed her eyes at me, saluted, clicking her black army boots together two times. “You’re familiar to me. I believe we met during my speaking tour in 1929. That tour exhausted me!” She flipped a hand to her forehead. “It was my sinuses. Clogged. Burning. Running.”

      “How are your sinuses today, Mrs. Earhart?”

      “Better.” She tipped her head up, touched her nose. “Probably because of my latest operation. The doctors had no idea what they were doing, none. Men are stupid. I’m surprised my nose is still on my face.”

      “I’m glad it’s still there, Amelia.”

      I hugged her. She seemed surprised at first but then hugged back.

      “My fans love me!” she declared, then stepped up close to me, flicking one of my braids back. She smelled like roses and mountain air. “I love to fly at night.”

      “Well, Amelia, your night flying skills are excellent—”

      “Some people question my flying abilities.” She adjusted her goggles over her face. “Again, they’re men. Stupid, know-nothing men. Eight brain cells. Maybe. I’ve written a poem about them, shall I pronounce it to you?” She straightened her flight jacket and clicked her boots together. “ Men. Slimy and rude, loud and uncouth. Never inclined to give up their booth.’ That about sums them up.”

      “Sure does, Amelia.”

      “I’m a nurse, you know. I aided the soldiers in World War I and I know what I’m doing. If your arm is amputated while you’re here, I can sew it back on. If your head has a bullet in it, I can get it out with a spoon. Care to fly with me soon?”

      “It is my dearest wish,” I told her. “It will be my pleasure.”

      “Women power!” she shouted, fist up and swinging. “Women power!”

      I raised my fist. “Women power!”

      By the time we moved in with Grandma, my first year of high school, all of us were covered in so much fear we were quaking. It practically dripped off of us. Momma was holding on by her fingernails and most of the fingernails were split in half.

      Henry had regressed at least two years and was babbling, his speech lost, bladder control iffy because of what he’d been through. Janie was anxious to the point of cracking. Cecilia was furious and inhaling food. I had retired into my head and my blackness.

      But Grandma’s gracious home was an oasis in the midst of an ocean of night terrors come alive. We had clothes that fit. We had food on a regular basis that she cooked from scratch. We had heat.

      When Momma hit blackness and crawled to bed, we were not alone. Grandma was not a saint—she had a flaming temper and did not bother to mince words—but she hugged us warm and tight, unlike Momma, who avoided all displays of affection with her daughters as one might avoid malaria, and she cared. Grandma cared about us.

      By any account, you could say that Grandma saved our family. She was smart, strong, and ran a tight ship. As captain of that ship she hounded Momma to get counseling, to get a date, to gain weight, to button her shirt up, to go back to school so she could be “someone,” to stop hiding in her bed, and her hair! A mop! Grandma reminded Momma that she’d warned her this would happen! She knew it! She’d told her! It was endless.

      As I grew older I realized that Momma’s relationship with Grandma was a carbon copy of our relationship with Momma: difficult, competitive, critical, demanding. Never good enough.

      It’s genetics, and we were screwed in that department.

      When they fought, we hid in our closets.

      Amelia and Momma, however, never fought.

      Grandma/Amelia rose onto her toes. Clicked her boots. “I must be off to the tower. I have to hide my secrets again so the natives won’t steal them.”

      I nodded sagely.

      “Will you be residing here for a while with my copilot and what did you say your name was and do you fly?” She stuck her arms straight out, made the sound of a plane engine deep in her throat, and left the room.