* * *

Jules and I are different.

She is ebullient. Funny. Loud. Outgoing. Brave.

I am quiet. Reserved. Thinking all the time. Waiting in fear or trepidation for the next premonition or disaster.

Jules rides motorcycles too fast. She skydives. She hang glides. She likes to run, and will even run when a bear is not chasing her, which is about the only time I can imagine running and liking the ability to run.

I would get on a motorcycle only if there was a tsunami behind me and for no other reason. One is supposed to stay in one’s seat on a plane, not jump out of it with a parachute. I would never hang glide for any reason.

Jules loves parties and social gatherings.

I don’t love parties or social gatherings except on rare occasions.

Jules like wine and beer and hard liquor. She does not mind getting buzzed or drunk now and then. I will never get buzzed or drunk. I need to be completely in control of my mind as much as possible.

Jules travels whenever she gets the chance on her motorcycle, meeting new people, seeing new things.

I like my quiet life on the island, my beloved animals, my bookstore and my books, and probably will not leave it again, or leave only rarely. I protect my sanity as best I can.

And that is probably why we are so close. We are different, but we adore each other.

If for some inexplicable cosmic reason Jules is in the red car coming straight toward me in my premonition, trust me when I tell you that I will send my truck straight over that cliff before a hair on my sister’s blonde head is harmed.

Chapter 11

Betsy Baturra
Multnomah County Jail
Portland, Oregon
1975

Jail, Betsy decided, is actually hell.

It’s a hell wrapped in concrete, wire, and steel bars that has landed on Earth, dangerous and suffocating. She had a metal plank and a sinking, stained, skinny mattress for a bed. She had bars keeping her trapped like an animal; a toilet within her cell with no privacy; and a small, battered sink. She was told what to do and when to do it. The food was horrible, the lack of sunlight graying to life, the lack of freedom deadly to her mind and soul.

Betsy heard the crying at night, sometimes wailing when someone was having a particularly bad time. She heard the swearing and the shrieking fights, the yelling at each other and the heated arguing with the guards. She heard the orders being barked, and she saw prisoners, some of whom were mentally ill, or who had become mentally ill in prison, dragged out by guards for the slightest infractions.

Her roommate, Rainbow, whose real name was Margaret Cholo, was back. She had to go to isolation when she hit the guard with three fingers who finally came to check on Betsy when Betsy was dying from blood loss after giving birth. But Rainbow was different now. She was scared. She muttered to herself one color after another, rocking back and forth.