My SIster, Breath Jaws Molar, The Dental Hygienie

My sister just called to ask if my husband and I would be the parents of the child she wants to adopt, should she and her husband experience a premature demise.

Ten days ago, Beth and I had a big fight about my teeth. It was a stupid argument that led to both of us yelling. Finally, I said to her—or maybe I yelled, “I’m hanging up. I’m hanging up.” She didn’t stop, and I did hang up. She called back and left a yelling message, so I deleted it after hearing the first three words. When I got home and calmed down a bit, I sent her an e-mail telling her I love her and am grateful for concern, but I know my own teeth, and the suggestion she relayed from the dentist in her office (who should’ve told me herself, rather than through Beth) was not one I would seriously consider. My sister did not agree and wrote me a many-capital-lettered e-mail back, also saying she loves me.

I called her a couple nights later and left a message—about something completely unrelated (and too stupid to tell you, for fear you’d think less of me) (OK, I wanted to see if she was watching Rock Star: Supernova)—saying I guessed she was asleep. She usually calls me back immediately, even when I say not to call me because it’s not important. I didn’t this time.

She never called me back.

On Thursday, I left for vacation with my daughter and my parents. Beth and I usually talk to each other several times a week, but she did not call me, and when she talked to my mother, she didn’t mention me—except once, to say I’d have been proud of her for swimming 40 laps.

I was.

But we hadn’t spoken since the teeth incident until just now, when she called to ask me if I would take care of her adoptive Korean baby, when she finally gets one, if she dies. We talked for a long time. It was as if we hadn’t talked in a week.

We hadn’t.

We’re close, my sister and I, in proximity, age (relatively; three and a half years is close), beliefs, values, secrets. But we argue a lot, and it bothers our husbands, who blame us both equally, even though it’s not at all my fault. (This is my sense of humor. In fact, when Beth told me I was in the will to take care of her son, Graham, I said, “Does that mean I’m legally bound to do it?)

Just before our fight about my teeth (she wants me to see a TMJ expert to have all my teeth ground down so that I don’t hit any one more than any other; I want a new night guard because I loathe the one her office made for me—a bottom piece), I edited the autobiography she had to write for the adoption process. She wrote:

My sister, Leslie, and I didn’t get along well as children. We are very different, and we fought a lot. She spent a lot of time reading and writing to pen pals. I spent a lot of time outdoors. We didn’t have anything in common except singing. We had a handful of major fights, and I remember she wrote me an “I’m sorry” letter once, and I saved it for years. My first real memory of us doing anything together was when I was twenty-three. We went on a shopping spree to Contempo Casual for a seventy-five percent off sale. We had the best time. Leslie’s e-mail signature says she is a “Writer, Editor, Teacher, Graphic Designer, Mosaicist, Mom, and Cake Fanatic.” She works from home writing, mostly, and is the smartest person I know. We’re still very different but close now and do things together all the time. In fact, we used to live only five block away from each other with nearly the same address; only two numbers were switched. We used to get each other’s mail.

I cried when I read it.

Malissa says her experience with her sister was similar: “All the years of friendship we wasted! Too bad.”

Too bad, indeed.

There are a lot of things wrong with my sister. With me, too. And there are lots of things right with us both. And even though it took me 23 years to figure that out, I figure that’s better than never having done so. And when she turns 46, and I am 49 (and still look like her younger sister), we can celebrate a friendship that has lasted half her life. (I'll need to be 52 to celebrate that milestone, and there's no sense putting of a celebration that might very well involve cake.)

* * *

A few years ago, when Beth first became a dental “hygienie,” I wrote her this poem.



Apology to My Sister

Our parents’ bed was an ocean.
You were swallowed
by our father’s side,
limp and spring-less,
bobbing up for a breath,
a glimpse of TV.
I floated atop the firmer side,
Mom’s half,
a plywood board beneath.
Blame the paint,
a cheerless Butter,
or the thin walls
eroded by neighbors’ shrieks.

Blame poverty, sibling rivalry,
or the television,
grey and perverse.
I was just a child.

You didn’t faint or bleed
when I knocked your head
against their headboard twice,
four times, five.
You didn’t tell.
You said nothing
when the door closed
on your ear
twenty years ago.
You didn’t breathe word.

We’re grown now,
you a successful dental hygienist
I a walking cavity.
You’ll be working on my teeth
next month, scaling, root planing,
all those metal prods and pokers,
instruments of torture,
of revenge.
I lend you an expensive velvet dress
and hope all is forgiven.