About My Sisters (16 page)

“Don't laugh at my affirmations,” she says.

“Why would I laugh?” I ask her. “Do they work?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Well, if they help, what's the difference?” I say.

We decide to go to a nearby restaurant I know well, having spent many years there as a waitress. It's right next to a restaurant where Lavander worked as a cocktail waitress, so it seems like a fitting choice.

“So, what is it?” she asks, once these plans have been made. “What's going on?”

I tell her, somewhat sketchily, the woes of my love life. I make it sound as if it's not really that big of a deal because now I'm wishing it wasn't. “I don't have the energy for these kinds of highs and lows anymore,” I tell her. “It used to be easier.”

“You know what you should do?” she says. “You should
date
. You should get out there and go on some dates. I mean, this guy, he's not so great. If he can't commit to you, what do you need him for? Kick him to the curb. Find somebody else.”

I have to laugh. “I don't date,” I tell her. “You know that. I've never been a dater. I can't do that sort of thing, I find it depressing. Besides, I don't
want
to find somebody else. I like this one. That's why I'm with him.”

“But he's not treating you right!” she exclaims, indignation permeating her voice. “How can you go out with someone who treats you so badly?”

“He's not treating me badly,” I tell her. “Who said he's treating me badly?”

“You know, you don't have to be physically abused to be treated badly,” she counters. “By telling you that he doesn't know if he even wants to be with you, he's treating you disrespectfully. You don't need that.”

“Well, I don't agree,” I tell her. “That's not what this is about.”

“I don't think you know what this is about,” she says. “That's why you're not happy.”

All right, she's got me there, but I don't know how to answer. This conversation isn't going at all the way I thought it would.

“I've asked you so many times to do one of those Internet dating things with me,” Lavander continues. “I don't know why you won't do it. You should get yourself out there. With me.”

“Because I don't want to,” I tell her. “I don't want to date, Lavander. I don't want to go looking for men on the Internet or anywhere else. I want the one I've got to get it together.”

“You're so stubborn,” she says, and I have to laugh again.

“It's not such a big thing,” I tell her. “Just another bump in the road. It'll work itself out.”

“Hmm,” Lavander says, unconvinced.

We get to the restaurant and decide to eat at the bar. The bartender on duty remembers me from the old days and we catch up on each other's lives.

“Have you ever met my sister?” I ask him.

“Oh yeah, I'm sure,” he says, extending his hand to Lavander. “You're—wait, I know it—Violet, right?”

“Lavander,” says Lavander. “But you're close.”

“Didn't you work here too, for a while?” the bartender asks her.

“I don't know. Did I?” She looks over at me and I realize that she's serious. She can't remember. My sisters and I have worked in several of the same restaurants over the last ten years. Obviously, the chronology has gotten mixed up for Lavander.

“You worked next door,” I say.

“Right, next door. But I'm thinking maybe I worked here for a minute, didn't I?”

“I think you applied, but it never happened. I think I'd remember.”

The bartender tells us that his marriage is doing much better. There was a time when it looked pretty bad, he says, but now it's worked out and they're both very happy. They don't have any plans to have kids, he says, because, really, the two of them are enough. He takes our order, collects our menus, and turns away to help another customer.

“I really don't need to get married,” I tell Lavander. “I don't need a husband. That's not what I want.”

“You know,” she says, “it's actually
okay
to want that. You don't have to pretend that you don't want it because you think
you're not supposed to. It's okay to want a wedding and a house and a ring. That's
normal
. I don't know why you feel that you have to say you don't want it. You don't give anything up by wanting all that, you know. You're still an individual. You've still accomplished things on your own, supported yourself, have your own personality. You don't have to give that up by wanting a husband. It doesn't make you weak.”

“I agree,” I tell her, but I know we're no longer talking about me. “I don't feel like I'm being dishonest with myself when I say that I don't want to get married. I didn't say I wanted to be alone for the rest of my life, because I don't. I just don't need to have the trappings, it's just not necessary anymore. That doesn't mean it's the same for you. It's okay for
you
to want all that. Why not?”

“I love him,” she says, and quickly adds, “I know you don't like him so I don't expect you to understand.”

“It doesn't matter whether or not I like him,” I tell her. “I'm not the one involved with him. Only you know what goes on between the two of you. Only you know what the nature of your relationship is and what you're getting out of it. The only people who can judge a relationship are the two people inside of it. I can't tell you anything about him. All I can say is that you have to be happy—at least, most of the time. If it makes you unhappy, what are you doing it for? The security? Because you think you won't find anyone else?”

“It's complicated,” she says.

“It's always complicated. That's the nature of relationships.” I don't know who I'm talking about anymore, myself or her. I feel as if I'm holding a reflection of myself in a mirror, watching the image repeat endlessly into infinity. There's a name for that phenomenon. I wish I knew what it was.

“I'm not going to freak out again,” Lavander says. “I'm working it out. So nobody has to worry.”

“You don't have to work it out alone.”

“I know that,” she sighs.

“It's not easy being a woman,” I tell her. It sounds flip, as if I'm summarizing a self-help article in some women's magazine, but that's not how I mean it. I believe that it's true. And I believe that, in the nine years that separate me from my sister, the choices we've had to make as women have only gotten more difficult. I don't tell her any of this, though, and it seems I don't have to. She looks at me with tacit agreement and I can tell that, for a moment, we've transcended personality and history and reached some sort of common border. Our most vulnerable sides are touching.

The bartender delivers our dinners, along with some more tales of life behind the bar. We listen to him and we eat. Our conversation shifts. We talk about the merits of fresh mozzarella and the best way to prepare a pasta sauce. Her cell phone rings and, although she doesn't answer it this time, she'll have to the next. Our time together is reaching an end. She asks if I want to go somewhere else and I tell her that I don't, that I'm tired and am looking forward to an early night. We split the bill and head out.

“I've got something for you,” I tell her as we get back into the car. “I almost forgot.” I pull her turquoise bracelet out of my purse and fasten it on her wrist.

“I love it,” she says. “And turquoise is very in right now.”

“Well,” I answer, “one has to be in, doesn't one? It really suits you. It's a great color for you, brings out your eyes.”

We are mostly silent on the drive home, but when she turns the corner onto my street, Lavander says, “This was nice. We should do this more often. Why don't we?”

“There's no reason. We should.”

“You know, all you have to do is ask,” she says. “That's all you have to do. Just ask me and I'm there.”

“And I'm always here for you,” I tell her. “Please know that.”

She gives me a hug and a kiss and we say good-bye. I watch her back out of my driveway and disappear around the corner. In my mind's eye, I can see her headed for the highway. Her phone is ringing and she's picking it up to answer the call.

august

It's August again and that means that Maya's orchestra is putting on its annual summer pops concert in the park at the Mission San Luis Rey. Despite the fact that I always go, we have the same conversation every year.

She says, “You should come. It's a nice program and you can bring a picnic.”

And I ask, “What are you playing?”

This year, the program includes a tribute to Frank Sinatra and themes from
Star Wars
. Blaze will like the concert, he always does, although in years past, he's spent more time splashing water out of the fountain than sitting on the grass enjoying the music. Still, he's always eager to go, always asks Maya complex questions about the music and the composers, always remem
bers every tune, and always likes best what Maya and I both assume he will like the least. Maya has several concerts during the year, and Blaze actually attends more of them than I do, as he sometimes goes with Déja or with our parents. Maya rarely urges anyone in our family to attend her orchestra events unless she thinks the music will be particularly appealing, but the pops concert is always an exception.

My uninspired idea of a picnic consists of a few nectarines, some energy bars, and a couple of organic colas. I throw these items into a plastic bag, elicit promises from Blaze that he will remain quiet during the actual performance, and we're ready to go. As we have in years prior, we're going to make the half-hour drive to the mission with Gwen, Maya's stand partner.

Maya and Gwen have been friends and stand partners for almost a decade. They play in the first violin section, in the third and fourth chairs. On the face of it, they seem like unlikely pals. Gwen, a midwestern transplant, grew up during the Depression, married her childhood sweetheart, raised three boys, and never worked outside the home. Gwen steadfastly refuses to divulge her real age, but it doesn't matter, because she looks and acts more youthful than most fifty-year-olds I know and refers to women much younger than she as “old ladies.” Still, she keeps referring to forty (the age I'm currently bemoaning) as “childhood.” Age difference notwithstanding, her background and Maya's are as dissimilar as any two could be. But the surfaces of age and background are notoriously deceptive. Gwen and Maya both possess the wacky eccentricity common to all the musicians I've ever met (especially those with classical training). They share the same offbeat sense of humor and both reject any kind of sentimental attachment to the past. And both Gwen and Maya are completely devoid of bias when it comes to class, age, or religion. Perhaps it is their shared love of music that allows them to transcend those barriers or perhaps they
are
musicians
because this transcendence is innate. In either case, the bond is there, strengthened by real affection and mutual respect.

On their weekly rides to rehearsal in Gwen's Cadillac (which Maya drives, because Gwen, who didn't start driving until she was nearly forty, doesn't drive at night) Maya shares details about her life or feelings with Gwen that she doesn't think of telling me. And I know this because when Gwen calls during the week to chat with Maya, she often gets me on the phone instead and we have our own conversations.

“So, Maya's going to Las Vegas for the weekend?” Gwen will ask me.

“First I've heard of it,” I'll answer.

Or Gwen will say, “Has Maya told you about that good-looking cellist we've had sitting in with us? I think the two of them could really hit it off.”

“Well, no,” I'll respond. “She hasn't.”

But Gwen and I don't confer about Maya very often when we talk because Gwen's always very up on what's going on in
my
life as well and that provides plenty of fodder for discussion. Gwen knows all about my books, knows all about Blaze, knows all about my siblings, and knows all about my love life, which, until recently, she mourned.

“I don't know what's the matter with you girls,” she said. “You're so lovely and talented. I just don't know why you aren't with anybody.”

When I did start seeing someone seriously, she was one of the first to know.

“So Maya tells me you're seeing a real nice fella,” she said. “I just think that's great. And, you know, Maya's so excited for you, says he's just a great guy.”

“She does?”

“Oh yes, she's so happy for you, you know. Now if we could just find someone for her….”

We're taking Gwen's Caddy again today, and along for the ride and the concert is Gwen's sister, Judy, whom I've met once before on a similar outing. Gwen and Judy live within ten minutes of each other. They see each other often and speak to each other every day. When they get into the car, I can feel the ease between them. The subtext of their relationship, at least what I pick up on an instinctual level, feels very familiar to me.

Maya drives and Gwen sits in the front. I sit between Judy and Blaze in the back. I give Judy a long look and decide she must be Gwen's younger sister. Like Gwen, she has a very youthful appearance. She's small boned, but doesn't appear frail in any way. She's dressed impeccably and I'm envious of her perfect makeup, which is understated but enhances all of her best features. After studying her for a while, the word
elegant
comes to mind and stays there.

Maya has told me that Judy is a retired librarian and that her daughter makes sculptures out of butter. I can't find a jumping-off point conversationally with either one of these topics. I also know that, unlike Gwen, she's been married more than once, which doesn't give me much to work with, either, so, for the time being, I remain silent. Judy is much quieter than Gwen, who is laughing with Maya over another viola joke (the violists being the constant butt of gibes by violinists).

“How can you tell when the violists are out of tune?” Maya says and doesn't wait for a response. “When their bows are moving. Wait, here's another one: why do violists put their violas on the dashboards of their cars?”

“Oh, I haven't heard this one,” Gwen says.

“So that they can use the handicapped parking,” Maya says and Gwen howls with laughter.

“Musician humor,” I say to Judy, and she smiles. It occurs to me that she's probably been hearing these kinds of jokes for as
long as I've been on this earth. “Why do you always pick on the violas?” I ask Maya.

“Oh, jeez, because it's so easy,” Gwen answers, which makes Maya laugh but doesn't really answer my question.

“I'm not positive,” I tell Judy, “but I'm starting to think that musicians are even weirder than writers. And that's saying something.”

“Really?” Judy asks. “Why do you think writers are weird?”

“They spend too much time inside their own heads,” I say. “They tend not to have the best social skills. But at least they don't pick on violists.”

“You don't play an instrument?” Judy asks.

“No, Maya's the musician in the family. My parents always encouraged me to write. I don't remember being offered music lessons at any point.” I raise my voice slightly at the end of this pronouncement so that Maya will hear.

“You could have played an instrument if you'd wanted to,” Maya picks up. “You never asked.”

“I would have asked if I thought it was an option,” I say.

“You know, you're always complaining,” Maya says, without any rancor. “Such a hard time you've had. So much neglect.”

“Oh, you girls,” Gwen says.

“Anyway, Debra sings,” Maya says. “We sing together sometimes.”

“Maya does great harmony,” I add.

“Oh?” Gwen says. “Judy sings, too. She's got a lovely voice. Let's sing something together.”

“Oh yes, yes,” Maya says, excited, as always, for the opportunity to belt one out. This is a woman, after all, who bought her own karaoke machine.

“No show tunes!” I implore.

We debate the music choice for a while and I'm pleasantly
surprised by how willing Judy is to burst into song. I would have thought she'd be more reserved. We settle on “Amazing Grace” because it has unlimited possibilities for harmony and everybody loves it. We're all a bit tentative at first as we find our places in the music, but we are soon comfortable and the sound of our four voices together is actually pretty good. Blaze has a huge smile on his face. He just loves this kind of thing, especially when Maya and I sing together. “Amazing Grace” carries us almost the entire way to the mission. We only stop when we run out of verses.

Gwen's having problems with her knees these days, so we pull up as close to the stage as we can get and climb out of the car. Judy carries Gwen's violin for her as well as a folding chair she's brought for the occasion. I sense that this isn't the usual way with the two of them, that Judy doesn't normally carry anything for her sister and that Gwen dislikes that fact that Judy has to in the first place. I realize that my sister is loaded down as well with her violin, a box for tickets, and a bag full of music, so I offer to take something for her. Like Judy, this is not usually my way.

Maya and Gwen head over the stage and Judy, Blaze, and I spread a blanket on the grass and settle in. Because we are here with performers, we're early enough to take the best spot, right in front of the orchestra where we can see everything through the yellow glare of the slowly setting sun. Judy dons her sunglasses (as tasteful and current as the rest of her outfit, I notice) and studies the program.

“Good music,” she says, and smiles at me. “Don't you love these concerts?”

I smile back at her in response.

When the music starts and we watch our sisters lift their bows and start playing, I can feel the shared thrill run silently between us. For a moment, I turn my attention from Maya to Judy and study the small, satisfied smile illuminating her face. I have a
fleeting moment where I can clearly see myself in her spot, watching my sister years from now and in all the years in between. I'm thinking that Judy and Gwen are the sisters I assume—no, I
hope
—that Maya and I will be decades from now.

This vision is very different from the one I had about ten years ago, on the heels of a nasty breakup with a man I was planning to be with forever but who walked away after two years. Maya, Blaze, and I moved out of the house we'd been sharing with that man and into a smaller condo. I was sure I'd reached the end of my romantic world then, as it seemed to be in too many pieces to ever put back together again. Maya and I were both working in the same Italian restaurant, sharing a couple of shifts, but mostly passing each other between lunch, dinner, and the occasional split shift.

“
Sorelle
Ginsberg,” our Italian manager would say when the two of us showed up at work together in our matching black-and-whites. It was easy for me to see the two of us like that forever then, going to work and coming home, the home we shared, until we were physically unable. I saw us slowly filling our house with knickknacks as one or both of us developed a need to collect something—frogs, maybe, or elephants, or demitasse cups and saucers. We'd get progressively more eccentric, start wearing black all the time instead of most of the time, read mysteries, and complain about the cold. In my mind, I saw us becoming two old Italian spinster aunties, sitting alone in our respective rooms until we died. And I say Italian, specifically, because in all the old Italian films I managed to find on video, there were always a couple of these women (hovering, dressed in black) who never married and who, whether or not they had each other (and some spectacular failed loves in their pasts), had missed an essential element of existence by living out the best parts of their lives without a man. Usually, in the films and in
my own scenario, when one sister died, the other couldn't live without her and passed on shortly after. There wasn't much emotion attached to this mental picture I'd painted for myself. It was merely something I could see spinning out of the place we were in.

I was thirty years old and Maya was still in her twenties when I had this vision of our future. We'd only been living together for five years. I was beginning to doubt that I could have a successful domestic relationship outside of or in addition to the one I had with Maya. And she showed no signs of entering one herself that would disturb our arrangement in the least. And did we talk about this? Did I share my Italian-spinster-aunt vision with her? Had we ever talked about what would happen when or if one of us met the man of her dreams and wanted to move out, move away, move on?

No, no, and never.

Long before, when Maya and I were Mariannas, it was I who created the husbands Harry. My need to flesh out my make-believe mate with details as to his looks, preferences, and dragon-slaying abilities could possibly be explained by the fact that I was the older of the two of us. But, even when she grew older, Maya's Harry remained almost an afterthought, an add-on who existed mostly to react to my Harry. While I was creating marital storms and passions as part of our game, Maya's imaginary domestic life was always “fine.” Beyond that, she had little to say and hated to be pressed. This never changed. There has always been an unwillingness on Maya's part to discuss affairs of the heart—hers or mine. Perhaps this was because, even when we were little girls and far away from actual romances, I was already creating relationship “issues” to go with the invented ones (it was rarely smooth sailing with my Harry) and she just didn't want to deal with it.

Because of this, the Harry component of the Marianna game
slowly faded out of prominence. Gradually, too, I stopped trying to press Maya into discussions about romance, boyfriends, or the desire for either. In fact, desire as a general concept was removed from our conversations. There was something she seemed to find distasteful about it all—at least in the way I presented it. So I didn't confide in her when, at twelve, I watched Donna and Frank (both fourteen) make out on the bus every day on the way home from school and wished that I was old enough to be in Donna's place. I didn't tell her about the boys I thought were cute (we always had such a divergence of opinions in this area anyway that to mention I thought someone was good-looking was to invite ridicule for my poor taste) or the boys I wished would ask me out.