Sisters have complicated relationships that many people find it difficult to describe. But I can sum it up in one sentence: “I can call her a bitch, but don’t you dare ever say a word against her or you’ll have me to answer to!”

Tomorrow — September 18th — would have been my sister Merna’s 90th birthday.

Six years ago, on this date in 2017, I was at one of the lowest points of my life. Merna was dying — not of the “traditional” plague of our family, cardiovascular disease, but of the thing we always said our family “didn’t do”: cancer. She had fought it once, suffered through six months of chemo, enjoyed a year and a half in remission, and then . . . WHAM! . . . it metastasized. And when the doctor told her that a second round of chemo would only buy her an additional couple of months — and miserable months at that — she chose to stop fighting the inevitable. And now we were in a holding pattern, with me trying to take care of her as best I could, with the help of some wonderful home health care folks. I cooked her favorite foods, even though she had little appetite; and I appointed myself her entertainment committee — a committee of one — to try to keep her spirits up. Which isn’t easy, when there’s no one around to do the same for you at the end of the day.

I’ve written about Merna before, so you know that she and I were BFFs. Not for our entire lives, but since the death of our mother back in 1991, when we finally came to realize that the lady who was supposed to have had our best interests at heart before her own . . . hadn’t always. Now, without her constant presence, we were able to enjoy each other’s company. And we did. We frequented Washington’s outstanding theaters, sampled a wide variety of foods at dozens of restaurants, shopped at every mall within a 25-mile radius, toured the countless museums, saw movie after movie, and discovered cruising on Holland America’s big ships. And, though we lived just a block apart from one another, we spoke on the phone a dozen times a day. Little things, silly things, meaningless things. And I still do that.

Well, not actually, of course. I mean, her number’s long since been disconnected, and I haven’t completely lost touch with reality. But I still think about reaching for the phone several times each day, and oh, how I miss those conversations. So when things pop into my mind that she would have wanted to know about, or there’s a name I can’t recall, or something I think she needs to be reminded of — then I imagine the talks, playing both roles, and wishing . . . well, you know.

So what do we talk about in my imagination? Well, mostly details from the past, because there’s no one else left now who can remember the things we shared. Like . . .

Me: Hey, what was the name of the actor who played opposite that actress . . . oh, who was she? . . . you know, in that movie we both hated? Merna: Well, that’s helpful. How the hell should I know?

Or . . .

Me: Don’t forget, it’s a pint of sour cream for the cheesecake, not half a pint. Merna: Yes, I know! You’ve only told me a thousand times.

Or (agonizing over a Sunday crossword) . . .

Me: What’s a four-letter word for a “piercing implement,” beginning with “f” and ending with “k”? Merna: It’s “fork,” you idiot!

Sometimes I really got on her nerves. But then there would be the funny reminiscences . . .

Me: Remember when Mother had a couple of drinks and dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor? Merna: Yes . . . and it was already cooked!

And . . .

Me: Remember how embarrassed you were when you fell off the bar stool at the Jockey Club? Merna: Yeah . . . Well, that really wasn’t funny, you know! Me: Not funny for you, but watching it was hilarious. I do remember the bruises, though. Merna: Bitch!

Or, wistfully . . .

Me: Remember that Mother’s Day in Richmond at the “choo-choo” restaurant near the train station? Merna: Oh, yeah, when the kids were little and so cute. (Both sigh.)

And . . .

Me: Remember Mother’s reaction when she found out you’d been in Vietnam instead of Bangkok, and that I knew it all along? Merna: Boy, was she pissed! She swore she’d never trust either of us again. Me: Well, she never did anyway, so what kind of threat was that? Both: (Laughing together.)

Or about shopping . . .

Me: Did you see that three-piece outfit in the Lands End catalogue? I think I’m going to order it. Merna: Seriously? I just did, in blue. Just be sure to get it in a different color. Me: Never mind, then. I’m tired of people asking if we’re twins.

Or remembrances of things like surviving Hurricane Agnes in 1972, and the blizzard of ‘83; old boyfriends and disastrous blind dates; binge-watching Downton Abbey together; the time we were so angry we didn’t talk for weeks over something we couldn’t even remember later; flying to Rhode Island for our mother’s funeral, with her (in her casket) in the cargo hold on the same plane; and the countless times I embarrassed my poor sister by saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right moment. Little things, all funny now.

*. *. *

These days, I even miss hearing — for the 100th time — stories of her adventures in Vietnam in the late ‘60s, and me retelling mine from Russia in the early ‘90s. And even the no-longer-funny jokes and catch-phrases from decades past. And ending our last call of each evening with a repeat of the Huntley-Brinkley News sign-off: “Good Night, Chet; good night, David.”

And I miss something I’ve never actually had: the one person who would unfailingly have read every single chapter of my blog, word for word, from beginning to end, and would always have said they were great, even when they weren’t so hot. But she didn’t live long enough to see them.

Or maybe she still can. I hope so . . . especially this one, because it’s for her. Happy birthday, “Merner,”* wherever you are. I miss you way more than I ever thought I would.

Love,
“Brender”*
9/17/23

* New England pronunciation: always drop the “r” at the end of a word, or add one where there is none.