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“This isn’t about you,” I said, recognizing the futility of my words even as I spoke them.Everythingwas about Tracy. Oddly enough, it was part of her charm.
Another shrug. Another “Maybe.”
Once more I rose from my seat and headed for the kitchen, ostensibly to check on the salmon and vegetables I had marinating in the fridge, although there was no need to do so. But there was only so much I could take of my sister’s self-absorption without wanting to hurl something at her head, and the plastic superhero digging into my side was a little too convenient for comfort.
“So, where is everyone?” Tracy asked, looking around, as if noticing for the first time that neither my husband nor my children were anywhere in sight. Which was likely the case. “It’s so quiet.”
“Harrison is picking Daphne up at daycare. He took Sam with him.”
“He’s a good dad,” she remarked.
“Yes, he is.”
“He does a lot with them.”
“He’s their father,” I reminded her.
“Still, not all fathers are so involved,” she said, perhaps thinking of our own father. “You’re lucky.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Harrison’s lucky, too. You’re a really good mom,” she added, catching me off guard. I was unused to complimentsfrom my sister. From anyone in my family. We weren’t exactly a family given to expressing our more positive feelings, although we seemed to have no trouble highlighting the negative. I couldn’t remember the last time any one of us had said, “I love you.” Had we ever? I wondered. Was that the reason I made sure to tell my children every day how much I adored them, to make sure they never doubted their worth?
“I like to think I’m a good mom,” I said, feeling guilty about my earlier unkind thoughts where Tracy was concerned. “I try.”
“Will Harrison be teaching that creative writing course again this summer?”
“Yes. He’s looking forward to it.”
“Maybe I should sign up for it.”
“What?”
“Well, I’ve had an interesting life, and I have a good imagination. How hard can it be to write a novel?”
There’s a little thing called discipline,I thought, but decided not to say. “I don’t think it’s as easy as you think,” I said instead.
“You just don’t think I can do it.”
“Not so,” I protested. “I think you’d be great at whatever you set your mind to.” It was true. The problem was that Tracy never set her mind to anything, at least not for any length of time. She was what Harrison called “a dabbler.” In the last few years alone, she’d spent a small fortune of our parents’ money on training to be a Pilates instructor, a yoga instructor, a teacher of modern dance, an instructor at the Arthur Murray dance studios, a bartender, a runway model, and a nutritionist, only to abandon each course before the first semester was complete. There’d also been lessons in bridge, tennis, and golf, none of which she subsequently pursued.
The same was true with the men in her life, a largely appalling cross-section of suitors who usually disappeared after one or two dates.
“I wish I could be more like you,” she was saying, anotherunexpected compliment that underlined my lack of generosity. “But this whole regular job, marriage-and-kids thing isn’t for me. You’re so good at it. I’m just too creative, too much of a free spirit.”
Now,thiswas the kind of backhanded compliment I was used to, the kind I’d grown up with. My father was a master at it. I smiled. I couldn’t fault my sister for learning from the best.
The front door suddenly opened and Sam and Daphne burst through.
“So much for quiet,” Tracy said as Harrison closed the door behind him and Sam and Daphne raced down the hall toward us.
“Look who’s here,” I said as they flew into my arms. “Say hi to Auntie Tracy.”
“Hi, Auntie Tracy,” Sam obliged.
“Hi, Auntie Tracy,” echoed Daphne.
“Hi, Auntie Tracy,” Harrison said, leaning against the wall.
