A slightly longer version of this essay was published in Vol. XI, Spring 2023 print edition of Metonym Literary Journal.
My ninety-one-year-old mother is shivering on the patio on a cool spring day. I remove my shawl from my shoulders and drape it around hers. She opens her eyes. “Ew! What are you doing with that thing? I don’t want that!” She tosses it to the ground. I pick it up and walk away feeling hurt and ashamed. I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s my first time in my mother’s new house on the other side of the country. I try not to disturb the precarious balance she and my sister, Tiggy, her permanent caretaker, have established.
Dinnertime isn’t for a couple of hours, but my body is on a different timetable. I find a pot of water on the stove, sniff it, and boil a potato in it. Ten minutes before it’s done I add a stalk of broccoli. As I’m eating, I think, broccoli certainly is sweet in this part of the country. What an odd variety.
Tiggy enters the kitchen and goes to the stove. “Where’s the water that was in this pot?”
“Oh! I used it.”
“That was hummingbird syrup! Why didn’t you ask first?”
I laugh at my mistake. “No wonder the broccoli was so sweet!”
She is not amused. She flips a hand and slaps her thigh in exasperation, then leaves the room. I feel clumsy and stupid. I get out my phone and look up on the Internet how to make hummingbird syrup and have just found a bag of white sugar in the pantry when Tiggy reenters the kitchen. “Don’t bother,” she says.
“I just thought I’d help.”
“Well, please don’t.”
Bruised and angry, I grab an umbrella and go for a long walk in the rain. I reach a friend on my cell phone and tell him my woes. By coincidence, he’s also visiting family and tells me his. We laugh and take courage from each other.
Late at night, in the privacy of my sister’s art studio which seconds as a guest bedroom, I lie naked on my yoga mat in front of the space heater. It’s how I relax and unwind. Is it my imagination, or do I smell paper burning? Someone taps on the door. The doorknob twists back and forth. My sister knocks loudly. I quickly pull on my bathrobe and yank open the door. She stands there looking rejected and hurt. “Why did you lock it?”
“I like privacy.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you woke me up,” I lied.
“If you hadn’t locked it I would have snuck in quietly. I wouldn’t have woken you.”
She gets what she needs, then softly closes the door behind her. I hesitate, my hand poised over the knob, but leave it unlocked.
The next morning Mom looks up from her crossword puzzle. “Did you hear me yelp last night? Tiggy made a batch of hummingbird syrup, forgot it was on the stove and set off the smoke detector. I was terrified!”
I open the back door and find the scorched pot on the stoop; billows of charred lava fill it to the brim. I pick it up, thinking I’ll scrub it clean, hesitate and put it back down.
Later, I drive Mom to a national wetlands park nearby Tiggy says Mom won’t like.
It has finally stopped raining and only a few people are there. We sit on a bench listening to birds and admiring the view.
“It’s lovely out here,” Mom says. “Peaceful. Tiggy would love it.”
I agree. I want to carry her here in my arms and make her sit and breathe.
Returning home, I notice the weedy flowerbed encircling the massive ponderosa pine out front. I enjoy weeding. The physical exertion of digging into the Earth and releasing Her fragrant richness soothes me. After depositing Mom into her favorite chair, I go to the garage and find a trowel and spade but no gardening gloves. I’d ask Tiggy if she has some but decide against it, thinking she’ll tell me not to bother.
I bite into the impacted, grass-bound bed with the spade, then kneel on the cool ground, disentangling various bulbs from roots and put them aside in a pile to replant. A few mounds of grass clumps are scattered around me when Tiggy rushes outside. “There are all kinds of bulbs in there! You’ve got to be careful!”
The roots of our sisterly frustration pull at me. I resist, but not successfully. I smile wanly, pick up the trowel and spade, and without a word, take them back to the garage. Then I retreat to her studio and sit on the bed, arms folded, and stare out the window at nothing, my mind a wall of frustration. I look about at her art projects everywhere—huge, bold oil paintings, delicate watercolors, wire sculptures of playful characters—a woman eating peas, a cowboy singing, and wonder at the woman who creates so marvelously and uninhibitedly. This is the sister I want to be with, not this brittle, tense person I now see.
My eye falls on an empty glass I hadn’t noticed before sitting on the wicker trunk that acts as a bedside table. It’s etched with the words, “The Pumpkin Ball.” “Pumpkin” is my mother’s pet name for me. Then I turn and notice for the first time the clothes rack that had been lying in a jumble on the floor earlier is now assembled with a few items Tiggy offered me hanging from it, including a very nice black mohair jacket that no longer fits her. I am touched by her thoughtfulness, her generosity. I feel chastened. I look around at the dazzling expressions of my sister’s creativity, appreciating her artwork. It is all so stunning. I ache because she is stunning, and I miss her.
I hear Tiggy coughing and clearing her throat in the next room. I want to make up with her but don’t know how. How can I walk through the adjoining bedroom without an ugly encounter? I yearn to return to the flower bed, to dig in the soil, to pull and weed, to tidy things. Then I remember, I’m not nine years old anymore. I can do what is best for me without hurting anyone. Perhaps I have been careless and disruptive. But right now, I need to be outside, digging and pulling and breaking apart. I close my eyes and pray. Help me, Lord. Let me be kind and patient and good to us both.
I stand in the doorway. “I’m going back out to weed, if that’s alright.”
Tiggy turns from her computer. I detect a fraction of relief, an easing of tension about the eyes and mouth. She holds out three left-handed gardening gloves. “It’s all I have. It really would be lovely if you want to weed. I just wanted you to know what’s in there. I’m sure you’d feel the same about your garden.”
“You’re right. I’m sure I would.”
I am three-quarters of the way around the tree, shaking out dirt from a root ball when Tiggy approaches. At first, I think she is going to tell me I’m doing it wrong, but then I notice she’s smiling and holding out a glass of wine.
“What? Now?” I survey my work. A few primroses past bloom breathe freely, two lily stalks yet to flower stoop slightly, clumps of volunteer blackberry seedlings lay in a pile ready to be transplanted. “Maybe in a bit,” I say, “but thanks.”
“It looks good. Are you going to be here all night?” she teases.
“Just a while longer. I’m almost done.”
She retreats and a moment later I hear tapping at the window above me. Tiggy and Mom wave. They put their hands to their brows and turn left and right as if scanning the horizon searching for me. I mime binoculars with my hands and stare back at them, grinning.
After all the tiny crocus bulbs and large tulip bulbs are replanted, and I’ve swept away the dirt from the brick border and dumped grassy clumps by the compost I enter the house to wash up. Vegetable soup heats in the crock pot on the counter. I help myself and when Tiggy enters the kitchen she looks alarmed.
“You said to help myself to whatever was in the kitchen,” I say, mid-mouthful.
She stammers, “Yes, but….” Then pauses and relaxes her shoulders. “Okay…it’s not quite ready.”
She’s right, but I’m famished and scoop another spoonful into my mouth. “It’s delicious just the way it is.”
She accepts my choice with a faint smile. A truce, then, as if she’s acknowledging, to each her own.
The rest of our visit goes relatively smoothly. Eventually we talk about Mom’s estate. I tell Tiggy how much I appreciate the care with which she has managed all of Mom’s financial affairs. She’s made a huge sacrifice to take care of our mother. I endeavor to accept her choices and not interfere. It’s difficult; I feel guilty not doing more. But I hold myself back. All I can do is take care of myself, watch from a distance, and hope my love is enough.