Two Trees by Julie Beekman: Children who experience trauma always need an advocate.

Two Trees: Memoir

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BLURB: Two Trees

Julie is adopted by the Beekmans in the late 1960’s and at first, brought up in the idyllic town of Grand Haven, Michigan. When her father dies, her mother, Marge decides to sell everything, leave town and provide Julie and her brothers with some “cultural awareness” which includes enrolling Julie in an all black school in the south. Over the years, Marge becomes more abusive and ultimately Julie seeks help. She begins to confide in a young Art Therapist who helps uncover a barrage of secrets. While the book covers some dark times and tragedy, there is a strong sense of humor running through it that will keep the reader reading to see just how Julie manages to pull through it all, not only in one piece, but as an adult well able to survive in this world.

EXCERPT: Two Trees

I don’t remember the baby showers family and neighbors threw for Marge after the Beekmans adopted me, or that I refused to eat anything other than lima beans. I was nine months old when Warren and Marge brought me home. I listened to stories about how it all came to be. “We kept having boys and, after three, I just wanted a girl, so bad.” These were the moments when I loved listening to Marge, when she was just being my mom. She was endearing and it reminded me she meant to love me. “I just told the caseworker we wanted a girl with blue or green eyes. I mean, no one in our family has light eyes!” she explained dramatically. The speech was always the same; Marge telling me it took four years for the adoption agency to approve them, that I cost three-hundred and fifty dollars.

“When we went to visit with you for the first time, you were wearing a little pink dress. You held out your arms to Warren and said, Da Da.” She raised her arms out and made a face that looked helpless. “We knew then, we just had to have you.” She seemed to always refer to him as Warren and not my dad.

“Did Randy, Scot and Dan want a sister?” I asked like it was the first time I heard the story.

“Oh, of course.” Marge lit a cigarette, took a short drag, and then held it near her coffee mug. I hated when she just held her cigarettes and didn’t smoke them or take the time to tap the ashes into the ashtray, because I couldn’t focus on her. I could only stare at the long cylinder of ash, wondering when and where it would fall. “We came home after meeting you and told the boys all about you. We were especially concerned when it came to Danny because he was only five and used to being the youngest.” Marge took a sip of black coffee without the slag of her smoke even moving slightly, although I could see the slight orange glow move fast toward her fingers. “I don’t want to be the youngest, Mama! I want a sister, is what he told me.” Marge pushed her cheeks out to imitate her idea of what Dan looked like when he was a kid and she laughed. “He was so damn cute! All you kids…” She smiled, stamped out her cigarette and looked far away like it had been some other lifetime and now she was let down. It felt the same to me because I didn’t remember any of it.

My first memory is my third birthday and that Grandma Beekman made me a cake in the shape of a lamb. The white sugared icing was thick and billowy, like wool. The lamb’s eyes stared back at me with chocolate glare. It was also the first year of many that Grandma made me a baby purse. She washed out old dish detergent bottles, cut out the bottom half and punched holes along the edges. Then she crocheted the holes so that she could build a purse with drawstrings from the plastic base. She showed me how to pull the drawstrings and yarn over the plastic sides, to reveal a crib with a tiny doll baby inside. The crib had a pillow and knitted blanket, too. She demonstrated over and over. It seemed she rather liked talking about her own creations and it drove Marge over the edge sometimes. Thankfully, Marge allowed Grandma to stay on my birthday and the cake didn’t end up on the floor.

Grandma didn’t come over too often. My dad would go to her house every week and sometimes take us kids. I especially liked to go, because Grandma gave us sugary treats and we rarely got sweets. Once, I spent the whole day with Grandma and we made church window cookies. We melted butter and chocolate, stirred in mini colored marshmallows, rolled everything out into a log coated with coconut, and refrigerated it in wax paper. Once the cookies were chilled, we sliced the log to find all the colors like on a stained-glass window. Grandma cut a lot of slices for me to take home.

When Marge picked me up and we headed for the car, she threw the bag of cookies into a snowbank. “How many times do I have to tell you and that woman, no sugar. You’re fat enough!”

I huddled against the passenger door on the way home.

Wherever I wandered, there was Blackie. Blackie was adopted about a week after I was. She was the runt from a litter of short-haired mutts. She was a sweet little dog that, right from the start, tried jumping into my crib. She ate everything I didn’t want and protected me as best she could. At night, she slept under my covers and growled when anyone entered my room.

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