Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [40]
Ann Marie promised herself that when she got older, there would never be so much as a raised voice in her home and that she would conduct herself with decorum at all times. Pat agreed—he said his sisters, especially Kathleen, were so intent on dredging up the past that he’d already done more than his fair share of reflecting and arguing by the time they met. Kathleen was the sort of person who labeled herself an alcoholic for sympathy, and perhaps also as a way to criticize the rest of them for enjoying a drink every now and again.
(Last Thanksgiving, when Ann Marie opened a bottle of champagne to serve with the pie and said, “Just a taste!,” Kathleen had said, “You know, people in families with a history of addiction should treat that stuff like rat poison.”)
“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go?” Kathleen was saying now, and Ann Marie wished she had the guts to say, “Why don’t you or your sister try lifting a finger for your own mother for once?” Instead, she did the usual—caved to Kathleen’s demands, and jumped to pick up the pieces.
“Never mind,” she said. “You’re right. Forget I brought it up.”
Kathleen softened her voice a bit before they said good-bye. “Sorry if I sound like an asshole. I’m overwhelmed right now. The farm is crazy. We’re busier than ever.”
The farm. Ann Marie and Pat found it terribly amusing that Kathleen always referred to her home that way, as if she were raising chickens and cows and goats. A filthy garage full of worms was not a farm, it was just a spectacle.
Kathleen continued, “And I’m worried Chris is floundering.”
“I’m sorry,” Ann Marie said, and she genuinely felt it. “I’ll tell Little Daniel to give him a call. They should talk more, maybe have a beer sometime. Or lunch! Lunch would be good.”
“Thanks,” Kathleen said.
“It sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” Ann Marie said. “I’ll handle Alice, don’t worry.”
She cancelled her plans for late June and arranged to head to Maine on the twentieth, her frustration rising as she made each call, every single excuse. She normally sat for her grandkids on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, until Patty or Josh got home. Now they’d have to find a sitter.
Her sister Tricia sounded annoyed when she shared the news: “I thought you were taking Ma to her appointment on the twenty-second,” she said.
“If you do it this one time, I’ll take the next three,” Ann Marie said. “And I’ll do all the runs for her medicine until I leave.”
She wanted to call Kathleen and say, “By the way, I have my own mother to think about too.” But of course she wouldn’t do that.
It wasn’t that Ann Marie minded caring for Alice; she didn’t. She was brought up to believe that you looked after your elders, no matter if they sometimes tried your patience or weren’t exactly who you expected them to be. No one was exactly what anyone else expected.
She genuinely enjoyed spending time with Alice, though her mother-in-law could be a handful. For all her good manners, Alice occasionally behaved atrociously in public: She wrapped up dinner rolls and butter pats in a napkin and smuggled them out of nice restaurants, as if she were a pauper. Recently, while they were having lunch at Papa Razzi, Ann Marie had returned from the ladies’ room to see her stuffing a saltshaker into her purse.
Ann Marie was forever afraid of ticking Alice off, since her mood could change on a dime. Though for the most part, they had fun together, getting their hair done, driving into Boston to shop. Alice was an interesting woman; her daughters never seemed to appreciate this. She followed the news and read lots of books and always had an opinion on the latest PBS series. She reminded Ann Marie of herself in this way—they had both come from humble beginnings and made something of themselves. Ann Marie’s own mother, God bless her, just sat in front of the tube all day, every day, watching some faraway bishop say Mass over and over on a loop. She had always been a caretaker: From the time Ann Marie was six years old, there was some bachelor uncle or down-on-his-luck second cousin living