Wrong century is more like it.
What do I say when the sister I have exactly one thing in common with—my family—won’t talk about her home or her work and innocuous things like the weather and music set her off?
I rub my chest as I make a turn. My heart hurts knowing I’ll never have the sister I need, nor will I ever be for her what she surely deserves. Not for lack of love, but who we are doesn’t seem… compatible. It’s so wrong, the stress of trying to connect, instead of the naturalness of just being.
“I hate to do this, Sam. I’m getting another call. Will I see you next month for Strider’s fortieth?” The hope and excitement in my voice wavers.
“Planning on it, Lolo. It would be nice to all be in one place.” Her tone holds a wistfulness I’m not used to on her. She’s a loner, an artist, carried by the wind—and apparently the storm surge—to the next exciting thing. If she moved to a remote commune with no cell signal, none of us would be surprised.
How my parents dealt with daughters as different as we are is testament to their distraction with Strider’s health. He’s an electrician. Well, he owns the family business. I live firmly in the scientific research realm. And my sister, Samantha, is a watercolor artist.
I have exactly zero of her gift. Hell, I can barely paint my toenails without going out of the lines. Sam has never heard of lines.
Strider’s birthday should be interesting.
When I get home, I have the wine I hobbled through the grocery store to acquire, along with the makings of peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses on top.
I’ve got to stop baking for the neighbor next door—the married one, I remind myself—who shows up and grumbles while doing something uncharacteristically kind. That is, if you call poking someone’s eye outkind.
I have to stop, but last night was sweet especially since Liam Murphy is not sweet. Those thoughts shouldn’t be in the same sentence. Correction—those concepts don’t exist in the same time zone.
But he did take care of me. In the same manner a cat might… begrudgingly.
One last batch of cookies. He’s his wife’s problem after all.
My high from work and the low from my random conversation with my sister mix like the peanut butter and sugar. All I wanted was a moment to celebrate and somehow, I ended up in a conversation with someone who didn’t even ask how I am. On second thought, did I ask her either?
I take a large glug of my wine.
I made a huge discovery today. Life-altering for our whole family. Thanks for asking.
But my big sister is and has always been more self-focused, less self-aware than the rest of us. You can’t change nature, but there are days when I wish I could.
I add the egg and the salt and keep the mixer on autopilot as I drain my wine glass and refill it with a pour Sam would be proud of.
Strider was ill.
Sam was “ignored.” Her word not mine. And she looked for comfort.
I was the surprise they weren’t expecting. They never used the term “accident,” but they didn’t have to when I was nearly a decade after the youngest sibling and a solid dozen younger than the oldest.
He suffered.
She soothed.
And I had a childhood where they were out of the house before I ever hit middle school. It was like being an only child in that regard.
I’m not saying Sam’s an addict. I don’t know her well enough to make an assumption like that. But there are more times than I care to divulge where her speech is slurred or she’s surprised by information we’ve had in previous conversations.
To each their own. I can’t say much when I’m half a bottle deep and swirling in melancholy that would drown an empath.
I flip off the mixer and set down the glass, pulling out a cookie scooper from the utensil drawer. I drop perfect round balls onto the silicone liner of my cookie sheet and adjust the volume as P!nk croons over the Bluetooth speaker system.
I could’ve called Mom. But getting her hopes up would be the worst thing I could think of. She’s lived on that knife’s edge for the better part of four decades—hoping, praying, fretting, begging. The idea that I know we’re close without telling her feels cruel, but so does letting her know we’re close when it can’t save.
And I can’t know yet.
The timer dings, and I return to the kitchen only to discover I never put the cookies in the darn oven. Defending a dissertation is easier than this homemaker stuff.
