Young Writers Society

Little Sister

Jasmine was twelve years old, and obnoxious. For the longest time, I wanted nothing to do with her. Her skin was this gorgeous deep brown, with maroon tints, and her short black goddess hair was in elegant braids that she’d later tear out in a fit.

She liked to wear long, willowy African garments, and she never left her room without her “blankie”. She was young for her age, but most people who had been through what she had are.

It was breakfast time, and I had been at Herrick Psychiatric Hospital for about a week and a half. Jasmine walked in after having her vitals taken and plopped down, frustrated. She had the look of a toddler who hadn’t gotten their way. Looking down, she fiddled with her blanket.

Sarah, another patient sitting across from me, was attempting to cut up her rock hard pancakes.

“It’s not working”, she said.

“What are you trying to do?” I asked.

“Eat the food!”

We chuckled guiltily.

Sarah was a sweetheart, pretty sane unless you saw her left arm. It was made up of only scar tissue and hundreds of tiny cuts. Little red lines covered her entire forearm; like a puzzle. Kind of beautiful, actually. Like art.

Sarah looked over at Jasmine.

“Hey”, she said.

“Hi.”

Leslie walked in. She’d been here the longest out of all of us, and was going to a residential treatment center in New Mexico soon. She was looking better today; her hair was brushed, at least. She saw Jasmine and sat down next to her.

“Hey. When did you get here?”

Jasmine didn’t answer.

“How old are you?”

She looked up. “Twelve.”

“Yeah? You been here before?”

Silence.

“Okay, well if you want a friend…” Leslie’s voice trailed off as she came over and sat with Sarah and me.

She looked thinner than yesterday.

Breakfast ended, and it was time for community meeting. Community meeting consisted of stating and writing our daily goals up on the board, reading the quote of the day, (usually some wise words of overcoming obstacles by a dead man), and coming up with how we felt that morning.

When it was Jasmine’s turn, she didn’t talk.

“Jasmine, this is mandatory. You have to do it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you have to.”

“No, I don’t.”

For five minutes, Jasmine argued with Angel, the group leader, until she was asked to leave group. She screeched and knocked over her chair on the way out. Shortly after, Dru, the second group leader, followed her.

Through the next week, Jasmine was constantly disruptive. She had multiple codes called on her each day (code grey – when a patient goes nuts and becomes a physical danger to themselves or others and has to be restrained. In Herrick, there was a bed with straps in a sterile, locked room.), was rude to the rest of us, and was ridiculously immature. I really hated her company. If she had been showing some real emotion, it might have been different, but as it was she was just being difficult.

One night, though, that changed. Something set her off and she just cried and cried. Leslie and I went over and talked to her for awhile, and listened to her talk about her life. I learned a lot about her then.

Jasmine had behavioral problems, and her parents weren’t willing to deal with them. She had an older brother she adored, but wouldn’t see again. Her parents disowned her.

She’d been from state facility to state facility, in foster care, and then to Herrick. They were just holding her until they found another facility that would take her.

She couldn’t stop crying. It became violent and hysterical, and a staff member came over. He told us we weren’t allowed to talk to her right now, and made us leave.

When we left, though, she only became more upset. She didn’t want to talk to these adults that treated her like a delinquent; she needed somebody her age, someone who’d understand her.

So Leslie and I talked to the staff (more like argued with them), and finally they said one of us could go and talk with her. We decided Leslie should, because Jasmine had opened up to her a little bit the day before.

From then on, Jasmine was inseparable from Leslie. She was her “big friend”, and she wouldn’t let go.

I got to know Jasmine well, too. We played with the second hand foosball table; Jasmine always won. She’d laugh and dance around. She loved beanie babies and burritos, and making colorful collages.

A few days later, Leslie left for the long term center in New Mexico. Jasmine was crushed, but Leslie promised to call and gave her a lizard beanie baby.

After Leslie left, it was just the two of us. Jasmine drew pictures for me, and on my home pass, I brought back a bunch of beanie babies I never played with anymore for her to have. She became my “little sister”.

When she fractured her arm and tore her hair out in a fit, and came back from the emergency room, I took care of her. I got her hair up into a ponytail that hid the bald spots, and when she discovered that the metal rod in her splint was removable, I made her give it to the staff. The weeks went by, and other patients came and went…but my sister and I were kept there. It was a strange, lonely and sad love we shared. I came to love Jasmine so much that I even asked my parents if we could adopt her. Both of my parents adored Jasmine, but it just wasn’t possible.

Finally, a group home accepted her. It was nearby, only a few hours away, and she’d been there before. She gave me the number and I promised to call her when I got out. That last day, she wrote me a letter with pink and blue puff balls to hang on my wall. (I still have it now.)

It was another month before I got out, but when I did I called the number she’d given me. The man who answered told me Jasmine had been transferred a few weeks ago, and legally he couldn’t tell me where. When I told him my name, I heard a smile in his voice, and he said: “Ah, the big sister.”

I looked up and called all the state facilities, asking for Jasmine, with no luck.

Two years have passed, and I have recovered completely from the issues that I was hospitalized for. I still try to find Jasmine every now and then, but I know I won’t. I want my little sister to know I love her, and think about her every day. Maybe one day, when we are adults, we will pass and recognize each other – just for a second. Smile for the stranger, and keep walking.

As long as my little sister is happy in the end.