I was a fearful child, and many of my fears were instilled by my older sister, Blanche.
Born four years before me, while World War II raged, she was adopted shortly after her birth. Her baby picture shows a smiling cherub, impeccably dressed in a short-sleeved white cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar and an embroidered front placket edged in lace. The blouse is neatly tucked into a pleated plaid wool skirt. 
She’s also wearing white leather high-top shoes, white anklet socks, and a white bow attached to wisps of blond hair that surround her smiling face complete the outfit. In this photograph, Blanche is the picture of childhood innocence, her left hand outstretched as if to wave hello. But there is a hint of mischief in her smile, perhaps a portent of things to come.
I kept that picture on my wall for years, and when we repainted, I took it down. Now I can’t find it, nor can I find Blanche, who disappeared from my life nearly 36 years ago.
My parents had been married nearly eighteen years when they adopted Blanche, and both had plenty of love to share, although they lacked parenting skills. I’m told that before I was born she swatted at the crystal chandelier in the dining room with a broom and broke new toys with abandon. My parents did not know what to do with her.
When I was adopted four years later, the situation had not changed. Perhaps they believed I would be different—and I was. We were named for deceased relatives, the Jewish custom. Blanche was named for the grandmothers we never met. I was named after my great-grandmother and great-uncle. Libby means “an oath of God” in Hebrew.
In childhood Blanche was always physically larger, and her size and strength intimidated me.
Her torture began when I was quite young. She knew I found areas of our house forbidding, and she delighted in teasing me. The bedrooms were upstairs, and I went up first every night, since my bedtime was earlier. Just before I climbed the stairs Blanche would taunt, “The bogeyman is going to get you,” and I would freeze. Although I did not really think the bogeyman existed, I hesitated.
The upstairs light switch was located halfway down the hall, which meant I was in total darkness when I reached the upstairs landing. Each night I began to sweat as I climbed the thirteen stairs, begging someone to come with me. I could feel my heart flutter as I flailed my arms in front of me, shooing away imaginary villains in the dark. When my hands finally reached the switch and I flicked it on, I’d breathe a sigh of relief and run into the room I shared with my sister. Then I’d jump into bed and hide under the covers, leaving only enough opening to breathe.