“Don’t worry. It’s kind of a process.”
“You sure?”
She waves me off casually. “We have our routine.”
They shuffle out of the room arm in arm, and I am again hit by a pang of sadness as I envision the scene around me dissolving. No more dinners, no more cat, no more house, and, eventually, no more Dad. Before the sting behind my eyes can transmute into tears, I stand up and start to clear the table.
The kitchen here is functional and free of frills. The fact that we have a dishwasher at all is something to celebrate, although like most of the appliances in this house, it is decades old. When I turn it on, it hisses ominously and then begins to lurch, as if something inside is trying to escape. I wipe down the scratched butcher-block counters, put the kettle on, and start poking around in the drawers and cabinets, whose doors don’t quite line up with their frames. Even with Nina living here full-time, not much has changed. She has kept the lights on and the water running, but when it comes to home improvements, she has insisted that she doesn’t need “another project,” the implication being that my father’s care was project enough. Not to mention her PhD. From my vantage point, she has managed it all with her signature grace.
I search the contents of the cabinets: crackers, peanuts, oatmeal, Grape-Nuts, Metamucil. This is an exceptionally fiber-focused household. On one shelf, I come across a tub of crusty powdered Crystal Light with an expiration date of 1992, and eventually, I find the herbal tea.
By the time Nina returns forty-five minutes later, I am drowsing on the couch in front of the fireplace, where embers pop intermittently. She collapses into the armchair beside me, her body seeming to deflate with exhaustion.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For taking such good care of him.”
Nina waves me off for the second time tonight. This is how she accepts gratitude, compliments, offers of help—or rather, refuses to accept them. Nina is living proof of the theory that eldest daughters carry the weight of the whole family on their shoulders. Dutiful anddisciplined—that’s what she is. I don’t think anyone would say the same about me.
“I wish I could have been more helpful these past few years,” I say.
“Well, you’re here now.” Nina takes a sip of my tepid tea, then sticks her tongue out in disgust.
“It’s a little late, don’t you think?” I ask, wanting her to admonish me, or at least hold me accountable.
She shrugs in soft confirmation, but leaves it at that. We sit in the warm silence for a minute before I ask plainly: “Am I selfish?”
“No. You’re twenty-six. There’s a difference.”
“But you stepped up. You’ve been there for him.” Nina is six years older than I am, and while we were growing up, I always viewed her as neither child nor adult. She occupied a liminal space between the two groups; she could speak both languages. And although I eventually realized that actual adults were full of it, I never came to doubt Nina. She was my guide to the world, and even now, she remains my true north.
I always hoped I would become more like her with time, but as I reach certain ages she has already traversed, I see that our differences were never the result of our age gap. I have no chance of catching up or emulating her; we are on different tracks altogether.
“Cricket, I’m not going to guilt-trip you, if that’s what you’re fishing for. I had the flexibility to come and live here during the pandemic. It made sense, logistically. But now, with this opportunity in Sweden, I’m ready to do something formyself, to prioritize my own needs.”
Needs—what a concept. I’ve never even been able to identify mine, let alone articulate and assert them. The fact that Nina can do all three of these things strikes me as superhuman.
“My god, you’re evolved,” I say. Nina has spent the last few years doing what is known as “the work”: addressing her core childhood wounds, reparenting herself, integrating the aspects of her personhood that had once been at odds. I figure she’s done enough therapy for all of us, and her progress will rub off on me at some point.
“Well, to be honest, I also need a break from all this,” she says, waving vaguely toward our father’s bedroom. “Caregiving is… a lot. And I think I’ve done what I can. I’m ready to have some fun again. I’m ready to be like you.”
“What does that mean?” I wait for her to sayirresponsible, but she doesn’t.
“I don’t know… freewheeling, spontaneous, adventurous.”
These sound like compliments, but I know there’s a less generous way to describe me: aimless, impulsive, noncommittal.
Nina gives me a sympathetic smile. “You don’t need to feel bad, Cricket. You’ve been living your life. You’re busy.”
Itseemslike I’m busy, but really, I’m just lost. “I guess. But it’s not like I’m off resolving the climate crisis. I work at a wellness company that occasionally poisons people by accident.”
“What?”
“We had to recall our bee-pollen elixir last month. It’s fine now.”
“Well, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve come a long way. And your life looks really fun to me—on Instagram, anyway.”
