by Jenny Mollen
My sister and I were born sixteen months apart, and from the earliest time I can remember, we have struggled to differentiate ourselves. This often proved difficult when my mom was busy giving us the exact same middle name or having my sister’s tooth pulled so we could be in braces together. Of course, all of it had less to do with my mom’s wanting us to be connected and more to do with what was convenient for her. But as a result, Amanda and I have always harbored a small, misguided resentment toward each other that is obviously my mom’s fault.
In grade school, I carved out a space for myself as the “overachieving people-pleaser,” leaving Amanda no choice but to become the “hot-tempered rebel without a cause.” I won the science fair with my herbal Prozac for dogs, while she got suspended for trying to burn down the science room.
As adults, our roles reversed. Amanda joined the workforce and became the responsible, tightly wound sister who sends thank-you cards. And I married an actor.
I guess I shouldn’t have expected the best practical joke I’ve ever played on someone ever to be well received by a girl who is offended by use of the word “panties.” But as an older sister, I still felt it my duty to push the envelope.
Shortly after Amanda and Larry started dating, they moved in together. I wasn’t seeing a lot of either of them, because I still wasn’t comfortable watching them touch. Up until five months ago, Larry had been Jason’s newly single friend—up for anything and a complete joy to be around. Now, he was the puppy-lover to my neurotic sister, who wouldn’t shut up about whether or not her hips looked wide in her college graduation video from eight years ago.
One night, after a two-hour phone call about her hips, I hung up and packed a bowl. My sister-in-law, Veronica, was in town for the summer, and she and Jason were already three bong hits ahead of me. I walked into the guest bedroom to find the place littered with Twix bars as they swung around on my stripper pole.
“Jenny is the most uncoordinated stripper I’ve ever seen!” Jason said as he hung from the pole in an upside-down arabesque.
My husband has always been more of my wife, so the fact that he was a better stripper than me was annoying but not a huge surprise.
Just as my high started to take effect, I wobbled toward the stereo and adjusted the volume on the Twilight soundtrack.
“Do you find it at all weird that your husband strips?” Veronica asked, tossing a dollar at Jason to reward him for his performance.
“She just hates that I’m better than her!” Jason arrogantly slid down the pole and cat-crawled over to the bong. “Sorry, honey, but you are a horrible mess of a stripper, and I could obviously win Dancing with the Stars.… Should we order a pizza?”
I was stoned but still felt Jason’s cockiness needed a little curbing. I knew he was better, but to let him know he was better would go against all my principles as a woman. I decided the quickest fix would be to bring out his yearbook and remind him that he was on the tennis team and totally married out of his league. Veronica ordered eight pizzas for the three of us while I left to track it down.
After thirty minutes of standing in the garage, trying to remember why I left the house in only a workout bra and boxer shorts, I homed in on a bin of old albums. Opening it, I realized they were mine. Earlier that year, my mom had given my sister and me all our childhood photos as gifts. (Code for: she had no use for them in her new condo.)
Distracted by my own cuteness, I forgot about Jason’s yearbook entirely and carried the ten-pound bin back into the house to go through it. The alarming thing about those albums wasn’t seeing my parents married and happy (though that was weird too)—but the obvious absence of my sister. There were no shots of her anywhere. I felt like Marty McFly in Back to the Future, though I was entirely too high to make it to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance in time to effect any real change. Still, from the look of these pictures, Amanda hadn’t ever existed within our family.
I called my mom to make sure I hadn’t accidentally smoked mushrooms.
“Mom, remember Amanda? You know, my sister? Why are there no pictures of her in this photo bin?”
“Jenny?” she asked, confused, as if she had had a litter of children and was trying to remember which one I was. “Oh, the baby photos! I separated them. Your sister has all the pics of her and you have all the pics of you.”
“So there were no pics of us together?”
“I think I threw those out.”
Before I could respond, the pizza guy was at the door. I told my mom I’d call her back, which I had no intention of doing, and paid for the pies.
Jason and Veronica floated into the room like Shaggy and Scooby-Doo and immediately started bingeing. Hell-bent on finding evidence of the childhood I was vaguely sure I’d experienced, I continued searching through the photos.
Eventually, I stumbled upon a small four-by-six of Amanda sitting in a rocking chair with our Great-Grandpa Norm. He seemed serene, while Amanda looked scared to death. I guess it made sense: Grandpa Norm was a molester.
Well, to be fair, I’m not certain Grandpa Norm ever really molested anybody. But his brother Mervin did.
As children, we always heard the stories of weird Great-Uncle Mervin from Alabama who went to jail for inappropriate behavior with his children and grandchildren. Details were never expounded upon, because this was the WASPy side of my family—the side that didn’t like to suffer through things like “facts” or “reality.” Suffice it to say, he was a scary fucking Molester Man.
For as long as I knew him, my Grandpa Norm had no teeth and whenever he kissed you, your mouth would inevitably collapse into his. I never saw him wear anything but overalls, and his welder’s hands were swollen from years of hard labor (and probably molesting). He never tried anything on me, but he had this vibe that made you feel like he might be undressing you with his creepy grandpa eyes. His daughter, my Grandma Gayle, was the kind of perennial child who at fifty-five still referred to her breasts as her “privates.” She spent most of her adult life hibernating in her house, collecting Reader’s Digests, and getting drunk on Listerine. Norm’s late wife, my Great-Grandma Jean, carried a revolver in her kitchen apron and slept between Amanda and me every time we spent the night at their house. For this reason, I was certain of two things:
1. Grandpa Norm was a molester (because why else would she insist on sleeping in our bed?), and
2. Amanda and I could never have been molested by Grandpa Norm (because we never had any alone time).
Over the years, especially after Grandpa Norm passed, Amanda and I would try to bait my mom into admitting that Grandpa Norm stole her virginity. This was a recurring joke of ours. We were insistent: Her string of weird relationships and her inability to love—they must have been a reaction to a repressed sexual violation by the man she considered her second father. Her response was one of disgust, followed by a lengthy diatribe about how Grandpa Norm was one of the greatest men she’d ever known. We never bought it.
When I walked into the kitchen to share my story, Jason and Veronica were busy discovering the benefits of using a slice of pizza as a plate for another slice of pizza.
I donned my best narrator voice, like Burl Ives in the claymation version of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer (whom, incidentally, I’ve also always suspected of being a molester), and told the tale of Grandpa Norm. I explained that my sister and I had been talking about him—with each other, with our mom—for years. I finished my story by pointing out the photo of Amanda on a rocking chair with Grandpa Norm. It was an innocuous snapshot, but it could be the photographic “evidence” I’d long been waiting for.…
“I feel like I could have been molested,” Veronica said plainly.
“By who?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone feel like they might have been molested? Like maybe if I got hypnotized, I’d remember sucking Dad’s dick or something.” She hopped up on the counter and grabbed another piece of pizza.
“I was never molested, an
d sometimes it kind of offends me that nobody even tried.” I stared at a photo of myself with a hideous bowl cut that I was sure helped dissuade would-be attackers.
“The molestation really helps me understand why your sister is such a cunt,” Jason said thoughtfully.
“Jason! She wasn’t really molested. That was just our running joke. And now I have the perfect photo to support it.” I thought for a moment, until inspiration struck.
“Should I send this picture to Amanda with an anonymous note telling her she was molested?”
“Oh my God! That’s hilarious,” Veronica said, transfixed by her new piece of pizza like she’d spotted an imprint of the Virgin Mary on it.
“I mean, she’ll know it’s from me, and she obviously knows Grandpa Norm never laid a hand on her, but I still think she’d get a kick out of it.”
“You gotta do it. The effort alone is impressive.” Veronica could barely contain her excitement.
So for the next two hours, the three of us worked on rough drafts of a letter. Mine read:
Dear Amanda,
I am the woman who took this photo. You were molested.
Love,
A Silent Neighbor
Veronica opted for a more friendly approach:
Hey Girl,
Longtime no talk. Hope you’re well.
PS. You were molested. Mall this weekend?
Jason went with the trusty stick figure explanation. He drew two people, with an arrow pointing at each. The first said: “You.” The second said: “Me molesting you.”
After much debate, I decided my draft sounded the least abrasive. I made Veronica write the note.
“But it’s my art!” Jason cried out as he ran back to the stripper pole and did an inverted crucifix.
Ignoring him, Veronica and I folded the photo and letter into the envelope, sealed it, and drove to the nearest mailbox. Under the blanket of night, the letter was sent and subsequently forgotten.
* * *
Two days later, I was with Veronica in Century City, having lunch. My phone was on vibrate, but I could feel it going ballistic in my purse. I picked it up and heard Amanda on the other end.
“Jenny! Oh my god! Are you sitting down?”
I was slow to catch on.
“Did you get a letter in the mail today?” she asked.
Grabbing Veronica’s thigh, I started to breathe quickly. “No … Why?”
“I walked out to get the mail this morning and I opened this cute little envelope I thought was a thank-you note, and guess what it said? It said I was molested by Grandpa Norm!”
I had to cover the phone with my hand as I doubled over in my seat in anxious hysterics. Pulling myself together, I reengaged. “Well … were you?” I asked.
“I don’t even know anymore! I called Mom and she had no idea what I was talking about. But this does explain a lot. My need for control, my aversion to anal sex—”
As Amanda continued to spin out her theories, I found myself feeling guiltier and guiltier. I kept waiting for her to mention our ongoing joke about Grandpa Norm, or how she obviously knew the note was a prank. But she remained flummoxed and distraught.
Veronica cleared her throat and motioned for me to hand her the phone.
“Amanda, Veronica wants to talk to you,” I said.
I could hear my sister explaining to Veronica how, after opening the letter, she popped two Xanax, called my mom, and then the police. The note was turned over for analysis, and she hoped to know more about the sender later in the week.
“Is it really important who sent it?” Veronica asked.
“I need to know the truth! And the woman who took the photo claims to have answers!” She was yelling now.
I pulled the phone back from Veronica, who kept her head pressed against mine in order to better eavesdrop.
“Listen, Mand, I have to tell you something—”
“Were you molested too?” she sniveled.
“No,” I said in my most self-pitying tone.
“I guess I was always the smaller one. More vulnerable, better hair…” She trailed off, pleased that someone had chosen her over me.
“Amanda,” I tried again.
“Jenny, you probably don’t understand this because you aren’t a survivor, but I need to worry about myself right now. And my self was molested.” She was doing her first AA “share” now.
She talked for a few more minutes about the difference between a good touch and a bad touch before I interrupted. My irritation over her narcissism finally outweighed my shame.
“Amanda, I sent the letter.”
The phone went silent for several seconds before I felt awkward enough to keep talking.
“We’ve always had that inside joke about Grandpa Norm being a molester,” I said. “I thought you’d think it was funny.”
“We don’t have any inside joke about Grandpa Norm being a molester,” she said, seething.
Overhearing this, Veronica pulled away. “You didn’t have an inside joke?” she whispered. She looked at me like I’d just driven a truck over a box of kittens.
“Amanda, we totally had that inside joke about Grandpa Norm. Remember, his weird toothless mouth kisses?”
The line went dead.
I spent the next two weeks being sent directly to her voice mail. I had my mom call and remind Amanda that, yes, on occasion we joked about Grandpa Norm molesting people. But like molestation itself, Amanda claimed to have repressed the memory. She was furious I’d duped her in such a dark way and insisted Jason donate money to Childhelp as penance. Later we heard about her police report. Apparently, it was summed up something like: “No silent neighbor, just a mentally ill sister.”
A month passed, and Amanda and Larry finally agreed to come over for dinner. Halfway through dessert, Amanda grabbed her head like she was experiencing a posttraumatic stress flashback.
“Who does that?” she vented. “I mean, I knew you were sick, but I never thought you were that sick!” I could tell Larry wanted to laugh, but Amanda would have cut his balls off and fed them to him if he had.
“Would it have been less offensive if we’d used stick figures?” Jason asked. “For the record, I wanted to send stick figures.”
“Amanda, I’m the only person in the world who’d have access to your baby photos. Including our own mother. I thought you’d put it together.” I tried to plead my case, but Amanda wouldn’t budge.
The worst part was that every time she tried explaining how “unfunny” it was, Jason and I couldn’t help bursting into laughter. The whole thing sounded so ridiculous, and hearing it again, as told by Amanda, only seemed to make it funnier.
In retrospect, I guess I should have been more sensitive. But being sensitive is her job! I’m the fun, outgoing sister who sends molestation letters! It’s just the role I’ve assumed. What I really learned from this event was that not everyone appreciates my comic genius. Even though Amanda and I grew up with similar life experiences, we are very different people. She’s not hot enough to be molested and I totally am.
14.
Everyone Wants to Kill Me
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt like everyone was out to kill me. And not like accidentally nab me with a stray bullet during an L.A. riot, but more like consciously abduct me, rape me, keep me in a box, only feed me products made with high-fructose corn syrup, and eventually turn me into a skin tuxedo. When I was a child, it made sense to carry Mace and a staple gun in my backpack in case I needed to fight off a child molester. But as an adult, my extreme paranoia has gotten me into more trouble than out of it.
I was raised by a single mom who, for the majority of my childhood, was on a date while my sister and I ordered happy hour fish tacos in a booth on the opposite side of the bar. From an early age we were warned by her of the pitfalls that came with being “absolutely adorable creatures who look just like their mother.” She reasoned that, as her offspring, we were clearly the two most attractive children ali
ve, and therefore also the ultimate child-abducting murderer conquests. We grew up knowing to sound the alarm if anyone ever offered us candy, asked to drive us home from school, or showed up at the front door claiming to be Jehovah’s Witnesses. She’d tell us about little girls who weren’t half as attractive as we were getting stolen on their walks home from school and driven across the border from San Diego into Mexico to become sex slaves. We had a code word to signify distress (“forest”) and questions to ask if someone tried to claim they were a family friend. (What tattoo does my mom have on her butt? Answer: an Aztec sun, motherfucker! Anyone who really knew my mom knew how important her butt tattoo was to her. One of her musician boyfriends even wrote a song about it called “Lady with the Fireball Bottom.”) In fairness, I think my mom was trying to instill a sense of street smarts into Amanda and me. Instead, she made us into people who need sedatives to go to the dog park.
The real problem was that nobody was ever looking after us. Between work and dating, both our baby-booming parents were preoccupied with their own lives. As a result, Amanda and I were forced to look after ourselves, armed with the knowledge that mortal danger could lurk around any and all corners. The world is a scary place when you are young and on your own. Everyone is a potential predator, everything is a potential trap, and nowhere feels completely safe. That “bottom could fall out at any moment” mentality is how I live my life.
When I reached middle school, my fears about being abducted took a supernatural turn. I accidentally saw the trailer for a movie called Fire in the Sky. The film is based on the real-life account of a guy named Travis Walton who claimed he was abducted by aliens in the Arizona desert while working as a logger in 1975. Instantly, “alien abduction” topped the list of ways I might be killed. Even though Scottsdale, a suburb of Phoenix, seemed a little conspicuous for a spaceship sighting, I felt my compassionate understanding of other cultures and my near telepathic relationship with animals probably made it worthwhile for the aliens to take some risks. Before bed, I ritualistically checked all the doors in the house to make sure they were locked. Then I tied my blinds to the base of a nearby chair in a booby trap–like knot. Through extensive research, I’d learned that aliens preferred attacking from the inside out. Meaning: mind control. The loose rigging on the blinds wasn’t intended to stop the aliens from coming in; it was intended to stop me from going out. If they got inside my head, I’d be in a trancelike state and under their control. I needed something in the room to get tangled in, to startle me out of my hypnosis, and to remind me that I’m not emotionally strong enough to live in an intergalactic prison.
