The Committee

In the fading light of a mild October evening in eastern Pennsylvania, four women, indistinguishable from one another except by their ages, sit around an oblong outdoor table in a lush backyard. A brown-eyed girl, around eight, perches in the lap of a beautiful, skinny teenager who could easily be mistaken for her sister. Grandmother sits on her right, cropped white hair and those same copper penny eyes. To her right, a smiling woman in her early fifties, radiating a secure sense of self. A conspicuously empty chair is on her right, and beyond that is a desperate-looking damsel in distress in her mid-twenties. A light glows from inside the house through a kitchen window overlooking the backyard. A woman in shadow stands at the window, her head bent over the sink. The teen speaks up. 

“She’s washing dishes, should we try to figure this out?” 

“Yes, but we’ve got to be quick and hard or she’ll put a show on her phone and numb out before we get anything done,” replies the middle-aged woman. 

Resigned, the damsel offers, “Pull up the memory of that bridal shower last week. How Anna came over to say hi to the granddaughters but ignored her.”

The teen searches around the inside of her head with her eyes. “Uploading. There it is.” 

Something happens inside each of the women. The little girl turns her face into the teen’s chest, whimpering.

“Shame,” the middle-aged woman says, naming the experience.

“K. We’re obsessed with this for at least five to seven minutes,” the teen talks over the little girl’s head as she wraps her arms around her.

Damsel sighs miserably. “What are we trying to sort out again?” 

“Do we do something about the bad blood with our bitter, alcoholic mother-in-law or pretend it’s not happening?” 

The middle-aged woman holds up her hand. “Woah woah woah. How do we expect to get anywhere from the perspective of ‘bitter’ and ‘alcoholic’?” 

“Facts are not a perspective. Facts are facts,” the teen fires back.

“And what are those facts? She asked us for a ride to the baby shower - -” 

“Baby blessing,” the teen interrupts, smirking. 

“Blessing. She asked us for a ride to the baby blessing in Connecticut and we said no.” 

The little girl whimpers again.

“Not right away we didn’t,” the teen corrects. “First we had to run around asking Frank and our sponsor if it was ok to say no and how to say it. And then, we didn’t even do what they said!”

The middle-aged woman closes her eyes slowly, effortfully and breathes deep. “It has taken us years to even consider how we actually feel about something before a knee-jerk, people-pleasing reaction and having a sponsor and a program has a lot to do with that.” 

“Yeah alright fine. But when it comes to people like our lovely monster-in-law, people who just push and push until they get it their way no matter how hard you’ve worked on yourself… Sometimes you need a hammer. And I’m not gonna put up with that crap.” 

“And you didn’t. And here we are. She won’t talk to us at family gatherings, ignored our birthday and our wedding anniversary. It’s getting out of hand.” 

In the window overlooking the pool, a shadow shifts and the water turns off.  

Grandmother finally speaks up. “Let’s hear from you,” she says, pointing to the damsel, “you’re the most uncomfortable with this situation.” 

The teenager strokes the little girl’s hair and plays a quiet finger-linking game with her. “I don’t care if we ever speak to her again. She only likes us if we do what she wants.” 

Grandmother puts a long, bony finger firmly against her wrinkled lips and silences the teen. They wait, trying not to stare at the pathetic damsel. 

“What if one day we need her for something? What if she slowly turns the whole family against us? And what about the holidays? It’s going to be so awkward, and there are only so many migraines we can reasonably have on the days of family events. What if we get divorced?” She looks terrified at this last one.

The teenager sneers. “All I hear is fear and control.” 

“Why don’t you just tell us what to do?” the middle aged woman urges Grandmother. “I know you can see this more clearly than we can.” 

Grandmother takes a deep breath, pursing her thin mouth in thought. “It’s not that I can see it more clearly, it’s that I know how little it really matters in the long run.” 

The teenager scoffs; Grandmother ignores her.

“In the end of it all, these little things are so unimportant. She’ll be gone one day soon - -”

“Not soon enough,” says the teen. 

“Sooner than you think,” Grandmother snaps back. “And so will we.” She lets the heaviness of that inevitability settle in the unchanging air.

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” the teen shouts. “And she’s punishing us to get us to believe we did. She didn’t even really ask us. You remember the text. ‘I may ride with you.’ That’s not a question! It’s a decree.” 

“We could have helped her,” the little girl offers in a still, small voice, not looking at any of them.

There is nothing for the other women to say in the face of that quiet fact.

Finally, “We are allowed to say no to things we don’t want to do,” the middle-aged woman reassures. 

“We could have handled saying no better,” replies the damsel. 

The teen groans. “All this back and forth has her thinking about Brian again. If we don’t come to some kind of decision, I’m gonna take over before we lose her.” 

“Please, we are living where that has gotten us,” says the middle-aged woman. “What’s best for her now?” 

“She doesn’t know, that’s why we’re having this meeting!” 

“Is apologizing for the way we handled it really giving in?” asks the damsel. 

“Yes! Any show of weakness and she wins.” 

“It’s not about winning or losing - -” starts Grandmother, but the shadow in the window moves again. “She’s picking up her phone. We’ll have to table this. No wait, it’s a text. She’s writing a text to her.” 

The women at the table sit silently watching the woman in the window, seeing in their minds the message she crafts.

 The middle-aged woman looks at the teen. “I can be happy with that.” 

The teen shrugs. “She just has to push send this time, and we can move on.” 

The women start to fade. 

“She deleted it! She’s putting on a show instead,” the damsel sobs. 

“Ah well, we’ll reconvene when she lays down to go to sleep,” sighs the middle-aged woman.

“And if that doesn’t do it, I’m waking her up again at 3am and finishing it.” The teenager hugs the little girl close as the women fade.

The last one left at the table is Grandmother, and she looks into the window and smiles as she disappears.