My older sister Gloria calls this evening. I have a brunch planned for just the two of us tomorrow. She has been in Seattle from San Francisco the past five days. This is her token annual visit to our widowed mother, and it will be the first time, this trip, to see my sister. I would have liked this to happen sooner, but I am glad about the brief respite from Mom.

After going back and forth on the time for our brunch, I say, “Can we please discuss Mom’s problems?”

“What problems?” Gloria says, followed by a rushed, “Later, Rachel. Gotta go. Cal’s ready for wine.”

So much for a discussion beforehand.

*

As Gloria walks in the door to my one-hundred-year old Dutch Colonial and heads for the kitchen, she examines every corner. My lack of decorating sense (or at least in comparison to hers) amazes Gloria. I can tell by the way her eyes squint that she finds needlepoint-covered pillows on my sofa particularly unappealing. Her condo, by contrast, takes minimalism down to a new level. I like how it always looks sparkling clean, but it also has little of a personal nature.

Gloria sits down at the table and shifts her focus to me. Scanning my face, she stops at my forehead, nose, jaw, and chin.

Uncomfortable with this scrutiny, I keep on standing despite everything being ready to serve. With hands clenched behind my back, my fingernails dig into my palms.

The food’s going to get cold, so I sit down and pass Gloria an omelet.

“You used to look so much like Mom.” Gloria picks at a dog hair on her red cashmere sweater. “How can you stand all these animals?”

I shrug. We have three mutts of various ages and sizes as well as a couple of stray cats. It’d do her good to have more responsibility. “Don’t I look like her anymore?”

“Not at all,” Gloria, whose light blonde hair and sturdy build came from our father, says matter-of-factly. “Mom’s fallen into old age.”

“Why do you think…?”

“Dad’s death.”

“That was ten years ago. It must be something else.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

I don’t answer, wishing she’d agree that we have issues to solve—mainly Mom’s drinking.

My thoughts turn back to appearances. I do look like our mother’s younger self, with dark, almost black hair, light blue eyes, and fair skin. On me these characteristics are calm and understated. Mom used to be called “stunning.” Dad’s Scandinavian genes mellowed my features, and his stoic personality subdued my disposition.

“We had a fantastic trip to London and Paris. Can’t wait to go again.” Gloria changes to her favorite subject—where they’ve been, where they’re going.

Without being asked, I say, “Paul and I and the kids and, of course, the dogs are off to the beach soon.” We have twin adolescent boys and a ten-year-old girl. Dad left keys for the Camano Island cottage to me because Gloria and Mom have no interest in the place.

“I planned on buying a trip to Tahiti at the symphony auction.” Gloria skips on to her own life. “Someone outbid me.” With no children, she and Cal travel somewhere exciting every month or so.

Why can’t she come here more often? I push fruit salad around on my plate.

She always says that her charity work leaves plenty of time for these trips. Doesn’t charity begin at home? With your family?

Tired of her trip talks, I get up and scrape our plates. Turning on the disposal, I appreciate the grinding that drowns out Gloria’s voice.

When I sit back down, I say, “Mom did have that setback in her career plans. Maybe that’s why she seems so lost.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Mom often says, “Scoliosis caused my biggest disappointment.” Her dance career with the Pacific Northwest Ballet ended before she reached twenty. In addition to this, she still studies her reflection in a magnifying mirror every day, lamenting, “I never used to have these wrinkles around my eyes.” Her social interactions, before Dad’s death, depended entirely upon him. “Thank goodness your father does so much talking,” she’d say. “I only have to tag along.” Since he passed, she rarely goes anywhere or has anyone in. Back in the days when Mom still cooked, she would moan, “Everything I make comes out either burnt or underdone.”

Dad used to say, “It’s fine. Ease up on yourself.”

*

An hour into Gloria’s visit, the only relevant thing we’ve talked about is our father’s absence. During a routine physical examination, he succumbed to a surprise heart attack. No previous symptoms.

I squeeze my eyes shut, recalling the shock and anguish of those following months. This started the constant monitoring of my mother. I was only thirty-five with two young boys and a baby girl on the way. It got so busy, I had to give up my career as a real estate agent. Recovering from the memory, I ask myself, for about the hundredth time, Will Mom ever adapt?

Gloria returns to her earlier observations. “Your features have accentuated a bit with age. Mom’s have collapsed.”

“She’s only twenty-five years older than me.”

“It might as well be fifty.”

“You’re right. She isn’t aging well looks-wise. But what about the other things?” Does Gloria have any notion what I’m going through here?

“What other things?”

“Her isolation and her drinking.” There! It’s said.

“She’s an adult. She’s not mentally impaired.” Gloria picks up her purse. “I have to leave. Cal’s waiting.”

“You’re flying home tomorrow, right?”

“Late.”

“I want to talk more about Mom.”

“I can take you out for lunch. Cal has business calls to make. How about that French restaurant down the hill.”

“I have an appointment to show a house in the morning, but I can make it.” I wipe my hands on a daisy-printed towel and follow Gloria to the front porch. After we hug, I press, “Do you really think it’s Dad’s death and nothing…?”

“Absolutely. They were married almost forty years. He took care of everything for her.” Gloria pauses, her brows pinched together. “She doesn’t need so much attention, Rachel. Give yourself a break—some space. Have a little fun.”

As her red rental car backs out of the driveway, I watch from the living room’s bay window, deflated. So much for support.

*

“Did you get anywhere with your sister?” Paul winces as if he actually added—can’t expect anything positive. We’re in our bedroom. He’s changing from his gray business suit into darker gray sweats.

“Not at all.” I can’t think of one positive thing about Mom that came from our conversation.

“What is it with your family? Why can’t they talk through problems?”

“If nothing is said, nothing is real.”

“You have to find someone to help.”

“I don’t know who that would be. Every time I mention a counselor or AA meetings, Mom goes silent until the next time I see her.”

“You have so much going on with the kids’ activities and working on your career.” He takes his slacks off the vine-patterned bedspread and places them on a hanger. “I hope you can cut back on some of this attention to your mother.”

Threadbare cuffs glare at me. Paul sees lots of clients at the accounting firm where he works. A new suit will have to fit into our budget. I recently renewed my real estate license and want to specialize in old houses. I haven’t become established enough to help much financially.

“I appreciate your concern. Gloria doesn’t feel the same sense of duty that I do.” I hesitate. “Maybe you could talk to Mom.”

“Are you kidding? Your mother hates me, Rach—ever since I took you away from her plan.”

I don’t contradict him. Mom believes that Paul stole my opportunity for a career in dance. She doesn’t get that I’ve never regretted turning down the scholarship. I only feel sad that I disappointed her.

“You’re stuck here. Does Gloria understand the situation?” I know Paul wants to help.

“She must. They’ve been staying at Mom’s house for five days, and she’s seen it up close.”

“I’m pissed off that she doesn’t acknowledge how hard this is on you.”

Our whole family. “I keep wondering what Dad would think.”

“He’d say, ‘Tell your mother to buck up.’” Paul ties his running shoes with a firm jerk. “Let’s grab a pizza after our three miles.”

“Sounds good.” I slip a jacket over my pink sweats. “Gloria is taking me out to lunch tomorrow. We’ll see how that goes.”

He gives me a big hug. “What do you want her to do?”

“Reason with Mom. Get her to listen to my suggestions.” I burrow my face into his fabric-softener-smelling chest. “Let’s talk about something else. I need a rest from it.”

“Fine by me. Running and pizza will help.” He says this as if exercise and food can cancel out my brooding.

“I have to make some calls for the boys’ soccer team later.”

“Tonight?”

“There’s no other time.”

*

Gloria and Mom are seated at a table in the corner of Cecile’s dimly lit dining room when I arrive five minutes early the next day. Why did Gloria bring her? Didn’t I make it clear that I wanted to talk about her? Both of them hold half-finished martinis.

I give Mom a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Rachel.”

There are only a few other tables occupied, so Cecile comes over immediately. “May I get you something to drink?”

“Water’s fine.” I give her my meeting-a-buyer smile.

“I’ll have another one of these.” Mom holds up her glass, spilling a few drops of vodka on the white linen tablecloth.

Gloria covers her arm with a hand. “Let’s change to wine.”

“Well…whatever you want.”

She’s always so agreeable with Gloria.

“A carafe of your house white,” my sister says.

“Three glasses?”

“None for me.” I turn back to Mom and Gloria sitting side by side across the table. “I have to pick up the boys from soccer practice this afternoon.”

“You spend so much time dragging those three ruffians around and now working at these houses.” Mom grimaces. “Not to mention what you do for that husband of yours.” Since our daughter dropped dance in order to focus on her own soccer, my mother lumps her with the two boys. And, she can’t understand why I want to get back into real estate. “You could have been…” She starts her same old story.

“Good time for you to do real estate. The market is booming,” Gloria says.

Thanks, big sister.

We all order the special—onion soup, bibb lettuce salad, and a shrimp crepe.

While waiting for the food to arrive, Gloria and Mom polish off their carafe.

“I want some more,” Mom says.

“Sounds good to me.” Gloria orders two additional glasses.

It’s obvious that our mother’s well-being is on me. Then a thought sneaks in. What if I had taken that scholarship and gone to New York? Where exactly would she be? Sunday, after my open house, visits to her should begin again. Or will they? What if I give her some guidelines? I reject the idea. I can’t do that to my mother.

Midway through her glass of wine, having ignored the meal, Mom turns with cloudy eyes to Gloria and slurs, “Why is that woman staring at me?”

I look around to see who she’s referring to. A moment later I figure out—she’s looking right at me.

Gloria takes Mom’s glass. “You’ve had enough.”

“A little bit more,” Mom whines.

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Am I being difficult?”

I push my unfinished food away and say to no one in particular, “I have to get going.” Then, to Gloria, “Safe flying.” I skip saying anything to Mom. Why bother?

“See you next year.” Gloria toasts me.

“I do want to talk to you tonight—before you leave.”

“Okay. I’ll call,” she says.

“No. I’ll call you. At 6:00. Please be available.”

“Sure…right.” Her confused expression momentarily amuses me. I’m never forceful.

*

Once in my Honda heading to pick the boys up, I dwell on my mother’s question. What have I been doing? At the end of our lunch, she didn’t even recognize me. Worry sets in. Will Gloria be all right to drive? She didn’t show any signs of impairment. Twenty years ago, Mom wouldn’t have either.

At 6:00 when I call her house, no one answers. I try Gloria’s cell. It goes right to voicemail. I leave a message: “I’m coming over. Be there in fifteen minutes. I need to talk to you.”

On the third knock, Gloria opens the door. “What’s the urgency?”

“Come and get in my car.”

“I’m in the midst of packing.”

“You’ve got all night. I don’t.” Paul and I are meeting some of his work friends for dinner.

“Oh all right.” She slams the door shut and marches off to my car, flops onto the passenger seat, and slams that door.

“First of all, I was concerned about you,” I start out.

“Why?”

“Drinking and driving.”

“I was fine.”

“I guess so.” I plunge in. “What about Mom? You need to give me your impressions and what you think should be done about her.”

“Mom seems fine to me. Same as ever. Needy, but happy with her drinks every night.”

“She didn’t even know who I was by the end of our lunch. Where do you think this will end?”

“I have no idea. As long as she’s healthy, why not leave her alone?”

“Because I can’t leave her alone. She expects calls from me every day and visits several times a week. She expects me to drop everything if needed.”

“That’s on you.”

“I’m the only one she has close by.”

“How about setting some limits? I don’t expect you to be at her beck and call every minute. She’ll keep manipulating you and wanting more as long as you keep giving it.”

“How do I start?”

“Say ‘no.’ It’s pretty simple. Tell her you have something else to do when she calls for immediate attention. Tell her real emergencies only.”

“Ignore her?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying you need to stand up for yourself. Visit her if you want. Call her if you want. Don’t let her govern your life.”

“It’s easy for you down in California. Visiting only once a year.”

“Why do you think I live there? If I were here, she’d expect both of us to be with her nonstop.”

Gloria has a point. But we sure can’t move.

“Rachel, you have a full plate—a busy family and a demanding career. You don’t owe all this time to Mom.”

“I’ll think about what you’ve said…get back to your packing.”

“Love you, baby sister. If you want, I’ll talk to her.”

Well, thanks for that. “No. I need to handle this myself.”

“See, you can say ‘no.’”

I never used to have a problem saying it.

*

That night, after Paul’s and my dinner, Mom calls. I leave her to the answering machine. Instead of calling her back, I sit down to watch an interesting travel program. I daydream about Paul and I taking a trip to Scandinavia. Maybe someday… With small separation steps, maybe Mom will have to adapt.

At 9:00 the next morning, our phone rings. On the fifth ring I pick up.

“Rachel! Where have you been?”

“I was talking to prospective buyers.”

She snorts. “When can you come over?”

“Not today, Mom. I have errands that need to be run.”

“I’m all by myself.”

“I’m sorry about that, Mom. Maybe you should get out of the house for a while.”

Why make a suggestion? She has to figure this out on her own. “I have to go now. I’ll see you in the next few days.”

Her sputters sound like a tiny old car trying to start. I carefully hang up the receiver. It’s a beginning. Twinges of guilt seep in. Will she be all right? But also, I feel a small surge of optimism. Maybe I can take back control of my life.

THE END