I’m reading a memoir of this woman called Janine Latus. The book is called “A Sister’s Story of Love, Murder and Liberation: If I Am Missing Or Dead”. It’s dedicated to the memory of her sister Amy.
You know it’s going to be a good book when the back reads like this:
****
Hey, I finally say, he hit me.
He what?
He hit me. A couple of times. Pretty hard.
She is quiet. Then she says, Are you okay?
I don’t think so, I say. I think my nose is broken. And maybe my ribs.
She gasps.
He hit you in the face?
Yeah.
That son of a bitch, she says. What are you going to do?
I don’t know.
Your broke up with him, didn’t you?
No, I say. I mean, it wasn’t all his fault.
Janine, she says, there is nothing you could have done to deserve this. Repeat after me, nothing.
She is my baby sister and I am ashamed that she is the wise one, the one who is witness to my failure. I don’t say anything. We are both quiet. Then she speaks.
Are you going to wait until he kills you?
****
Only 40 pages in and I’ve already been angry beyond belief and nearly brought to tears.
