Late
Late
We could hear the highway noise from the back porch. From the insufficiently mufflered beaters to the flatulent downshifting of the semis, the grinding vehicular medley made its way down from the road through the woods behind Mom’s yard. Wouldn’t it be a miracle if you were in one of those noisy contraptions, Sam? And you’d drive up soon with your windblown hair and perpetual smile?
“The car is late,” Mom says. She has a unique way of dehumanizing situations. Remember when she called your friend Jen a talking machine of interminable suffering? I liked Jen. Whatever happened to her? We had fun in the basement, listening to her records, each of us with our hairbrush microphones pretending to be Christina or Britney. Remember?
[==S==]
Ah, right, you wanted to be Gwen Stefani.
“The car isn’t late,” I say, playing along. “It has no sense of time or purpose. Sammie is late.” (Sorry, I know you hate being called Sammie. It still slips out occasionally.) Mom’s apron ties are dancing in the cool, autumn breeze as she paces the porch. I think she always worried about you more than she did me. Been that way forever, don’t you think?
[==S==]
Shut up. I know she loves you more.
“Well, your sister Samantha knows when people are waiting for her and makes every effort to prolong her tardiness.” Okay, she may have a valid point; you’ve always seemed to be habitually late, Sam, even for your own family. I had to wait two hours for you to bring the spare key when I locked myself out of my apartment that time. You were even forty-five minutes late to your own birthday party once. It’s a good thing we had walked to school, or you would have missed the bus every day.
The smell of Mom’s chicken and roasted potatoes is starting to fade. She won’t start to eat without you, Sam, that’s for damn sure. Remember when Dad left and you chased after him down the street, bawling your eyes out? A seven-year-old girl versus a ’92 Buick Century—no contest. Mom waited a half-hour until Mrs. Rivera and I got you back before putting anything on the table. Cold spaghetti and a brick of garlic bread—yum.
“Where could she be, Izzy?” Mom’s fretting the way she does. Does she ever do that with me, Sam?
[==S==]
Yeah, right. And I can tell she wants her vape, but guess who lost her bag again? Yep, she has no car keys, no wallet, and no vape. She just carries around your stupid phone you left on the counter. You’re such a doofus someti
[==S==]
Don’t bring that up. I was, um… under the influence.
“Probably traffic, Mom.” I need to say things like that because Mom’s doing the thing with her hands again. Wasn’t it always your story when you finally came bouncing in with your sorries and your lame excuses and your imitation pouts, which magically turned into dazzling grins? Mom was all Dear this and Dear that, saying ‘Are you hungry, dear’ and ‘Wash your hands, dear’ or ‘I got you the juice you like, dear’ and the fretful waiting was forgotten after a half-hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then Mom took you by the hand and led you into the kitchen, and you looked back at me with a resigned smile, accepting your return into the fold with mock humility. I wanted to punch you in the shoulder, but I picked up your bag and rubbed the back of your sweater with my knuckles.
Why are we so different, Sam? Has it always been this way? No, I can remember we played with the same toys and wore the same types of clothes. When did it change?
[==S==]
Sixth grade? What happened in sixth gr
[==S==]
Okay, right. Yeah, no need to discuss that any further. It was also around the time I cut my hair and when Carly and I met.
[==S==]
I know, I know, people called her Gnarly Carly, which was so mean. I loved Carly; she was my bestest friend back then. We did everything together. She was more of a… never mind.
“Did she tell you where she was going, Izz? She never tells me where she’s heading off to.” Mom’s got a head full of bees over you, Sammie girl. I think I’m going to need to get her to the doctor to up her prescription. Of course, it’ll mean no more Pinot for her anymore. Hey, remember the time you and Mom got drunk from Craig and Sarah’s homemade wine? How did you guys drink that stuff? It smelled like turpentine.
[==S==]
I did not; I had like a tiny sip. I had never seen you two laugh so hard. But you paid for it the next day, didn’t you?
“No, Mom, she didn’t say anything to me.” I hate it when she gets like this. You’re such an idiot for taking off, Sam. Always the butterfly, flitting from one flower to the next, with no regard for the people you leave behind. And one day some little boy caught you with his net. So, where did you go, Sam? Why had it been so important for you to leave? Oh, by the way, Mrs. Flannagan came over earlier with some boxes.
[==S==]
She’s Mom’s friend, fluorescent red hair, lives near the mall, wears those silly shoes. Anyway, she was very surprised to see me here. Said she didn’t even realize I was part of this family; thought I was just a friend of yours. You know, I I used to get lots of people saying, “I can’t believe you two are twins.” But what they actually meant was, “I can’t believe you two are even sisters.”
Oops. “Dammit!”
“Izzy! What happened?”
“Sorry, Mom, I broke Sam’s mug.” Remember those mugs we made at art camp? Your glaze turned out pretty damn good, I must admit. I was so jealous. I loved the textures around the middle, and your handle came out perfect. You nailed it, Sam. Mine looked as if it was rescued from a dumpster fire—all misshapen and a nasty brown. Mom threw it away years ago.
“Aw, honey, I loved that mug.” Mom’s going to win an Oscar nomination at dinner reminiscing about the time you brought home your mug; just you wait. Now she’s going inside with her part-of-me-just-died look. No doubt I’ll be getting the smallest piece of pie ever for dessert.
“I’m sorry, Mom, it slipped.” Sorry, Sam, I accidentally knocked it off the porch railing, and it crashed on the patio bricks. A million pieces. No way I can glue it back together.
[==S==]
It was an accident; I said I was sorry. It’s not as if you use that old mug anymore. Tell you what—I’ll go get a bag and collect all the pieces for you. Will that make you happy?
[==S==]
I don’t know; I take it out every once in a while when I’m over here.
[==S==]
All right, all right, let me get a bag.
Sam, Mom’s crying again. You know what that means, don’t you? It’s funny how her moods change, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other, like the gigantic pendulum we saw at the museum in Washington. Maybe I should break more of your stuff.
[==S==]
I was joking, jeez. I’d be thrown out of here for good; no more visiting Mom, and then she’d have nobody left. Let me go see if I can calm her down.
Damn, I miss you, Sam. I knew my little butterfly sister would get herself in trouble sooner or later. I wish you would sashay in here, wearing one of my “borrowed” sweaters, which you never returned.
[==S==]
Oh, yeah? So why can’t I find my black and blue checked v-neck or my olive green duster cardigan? It’s okay; you looked better in them anyway. But I do miss your stupid smile, Sam. Or your equally stupid pout. Like when you would show up at my door when the most recent beau-of-the-month broke up with you. Did you come over because you wanted to vent, or because you knew I always keep Grey Goose on hand?
Well, Mom’s got her coat on, and her crying jag is pretty much over, so we’ll be seeing you in a bit. When I was a kid, I always thought cemeteries were cool. I don’t think that way anymore, knowing you’re down there in the cold ground, a victim of stupidity and bad timing. Of course, Mom will need to stop and get some flowers on the way. I’ll bring the pieces of your mug and a small shovel. When Mom’s not looking, I’ll bury them with you. Maybe I’ll keep a small piece for myself. See you soon, Sammie girl.
[==S==]
What?
[==S==]
Yeah. I know.
