Sister Sister

She can’t know, of course, that on a Tuesday in the near future, Juju’s phone will ring a guilty death knell in dark minutes before midnight.

Juju's windshield wipers slap against the October rain. Paula, better known as Mother P, sits beside her, hands folded over her purse, staring out the side window at the colorful wet blur of New Hampshire maples. The heater hums, pushing back the damp chill that settles into Juju's bones during their brief walk from the hospital entrance.

Paula says in a whisper, "I don't see how you know where you're going."

"Almost there," Juju says, squinting through the streaked glass. The familiar scent of Mother P's lavender hand cream mingles with the antiseptic hospital smell still clinging to her clothes.

Mother P nods. The vaccination bandage peeks from beneath her sleeve, a small square of white against her papery skin. "Merideth says Scotty learned to count to twenty."

A grain of sand kicked up from the road by a truck has caused a fine crack spreading slowly like a web across the corner of the windshield. Juju's eyes keep returning to it as she drives, watching how the raindrops catch and redirect along its delicate lines.

"That's wonderful."

"And he asks for me at bedtime."

Juju is struck by how her mother’s voice brightened as she was saying this, the same way it did when Juju was seven and had won the spelling bee.

Juju checks the rearview mirror, changes lanes preparing for the exit. Her mother's oxygen tank hums in the back seat, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rain. Three weeks in the hospital, and all Mother P talks about is getting home and Merideth's grandson Scotty.

"Larry sends his love," Juju says, her wedding ring catching the gray light as she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel. "He wanted to come, but…."

"Work. I understand." Mother P pats Juju's hand on the gearshift. Her fingers are cool and light as bird bones. "You're a good daughter."

You're a good daughter? How about that? I nurse you in the hospital for two months, at home for six, and back to the hospital for three weeks, and I get you're a good daughter?

Merideth's farmhouse appears through the rain, white clapboard against a darkened sky. The maple trees in the yard blaze orange and red despite the downpour.

Scotty runs circles in the yard, yellow raincoat flapping, his shouts carrying through the closed car windows. “Merrydeath’s coming! Merrydeath’s coming!”

"There's my boy!" Mother P presses her palm to the window, her breath fogging the glass.

Juju parks on the gravel driveway, the tires crunching beneath them. Before she can get the umbrella open, Merideth is there, pulling open Mother P's door. Her black hair, the same as Juju's but without the gray and cut in a practical bob, is already plastered to her head. Her clothes appeared too tight for her, emphasizing the rolls of fat around her stomach and arms.

Looking at Juju, Merideth says, "Finally! Come inside before you catch your death."

Juju watches Merideth hug Mother P too tightly. Watches her mother wince. Scotty wraps himself around Mother P's legs, his small hands leaving damp prints on her slacks. His nose drips with more than rain. He sniffs loudly every ten seconds.

"He's got a cold?" Juju asks. She groans as she lifts out the oxygen tank, its weight familiar after weeks of hospital visits. Too much for Merideth’s bad back.

Merideth waves her hand, raindrops flicking from her fingers. "Kids get sick. It builds immunity." Juju notices Merideth’s widow's ring still visible on her right hand, three years after Tom's death. A seasonal flu. A lack of immunity.

Inside, the kitchen smells of cinnamon and apples. Mother P inhales deeply, closing her eyes briefly. The kitchen table holds a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on a plastic plate decorated with cartoon dinosaurs. Scattered papers. Bottles of echinacea. Zinc lozenges.

Juju can’t help but think that the printout on the table with the bold title "WHAT THEY DON'T TELL YOU ABOUT VACCINES" is purposely visible.

"Tea?" Merideth asks. She reaches for the kettle, the familiar movement reminding Juju of their mother doing the same thing countless times throughout their childhood.

"Thanks, but not for me. I have to get back. I'll get her suitcase," Juju says, stepping back into the rain.

Mother P's room is ready, the same guest room she's occupied for three years. The quilt, one Mother P has made decades ago, is smoothed across the bed. Photographs of Scotty and his mother Veebee dominate the dresser. One small frame holds a picture of Mother P with both daughters at Juju's college graduation, all three smiling in the spring sunshine. Juju straightens it, then sets out Mother P's medications in careful rows, the orange bottles catching the dim light from the bedside lamp.

In the kitchen, Juju tells Merideth, "She needs the heart pills with food." The kettle whistles, its high-pitched scream cutting through the patter of rain on the windows. "And the blue ones before bed."

"Okay." Merideth stirs honey into tea, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. Her sleeve rides up, revealing the small tattoo of a spiderweb on her wrist.

"I just want…."

"We'll be fine. She's home now." Merideth's voice softens, and for a moment, Juju sees the sister who has held her hand at their father's funeral. And she notices how her sister has added weight since his death. Even a double chin.

We’ll be fine? Juju frowns. And then frowns again seeing Mother P, settled in her armchair with snotty Scotty climbing onto her lap, his small fingers already reaching for her oxygen tube.

"Scotty, careful with Gramma's breathing tube," Juju says, moving toward them.

"He's fine," Merideth says, intercepting her. "He knows to be gentle. Don't you, buddy?"

Scotty nods solemnly, then immediately tugs at the tube again.

"Maybe he could wash his hands first?" Juju suggests, the same careful tone she'd used at Thanksgiving when Merideth had let him hand bread slices to everyone.

"You sound just like Dad," Merideth says. "Always hovering. Always worrying." She ruffles Scotty's hair. "Kids need to build immunity."

Mother P pats the sofa beside her. "Sit with me, Juju. Tell me about your students."

Juju hesitates. She thinks of her own quiet house, the guest room with the hospital bed, the oxygen hookups, the emergency call button. The fresh sheets she's put on each morning. The vase of Mother P's favorite daisies on the nightstand. And now?

Home?

"I do have to get going. Call me if anything changes," Juju says, kissing Mother P's forehead. Her skin is warm and smells faintly of hospital soap.

"Drive safe," Mother P replies, squeezing Juju's hand.

Merideth smiles and walks Juju to the door, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. "Drive safe," she says, her hand briefly touching Juju's shoulder. "And thanks for bringing her back." Her eyes, the same hazel as Juju's, hold gratitude.

Juju calls her mother every day. "How's your breathing today?" she asks, phone tucked between ear and shoulder as she grades papers or prepares dinner.

"Better," Mother P says. Each time.

In the background: Scotty's voice, cartoons with their tinny theme songs, Merideth calling something about lunch.

Then a Tuesday arrives. Scotty coughing by the phone, the wet, hacking sound unmistakable.

"Is he sick?" Juju asks her mother. Her stomach tightens.

"Just a little cold. Veebee dropped him off this morning. She cancelled her clients. She needed a break. She sounded like she was really sick."

"Covid?"

"I didn't ask." The slight defensiveness in Mother P's voice is familiar, the same tone she'd used when Juju questioned her about driving at night after her cataracts worsened.

"Mother, she isn't vaccinated either."

"Okay. I am."

"Maybe you should let me pick you up."

"We're fine, Julia." Mother P only uses Juju's real name when drawing boundaries. "I love when he visits."

The sound of a small hand patting the receiver, Scotty's congested giggle.

"I could come get you for a few days. Get you out of that sick cauldron."

"No need to worry."

Juju and Larry sit at their kitchen table. The clock ticks loudly in the silence. Outside, colorful leaves flutter by like noisy butterflies. Juju notices a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, trembling slightly with the furnace's breath.

"She's an adult," he says, his reading glasses reflecting the overhead light. "It's her choice."

"She doesn't understand the risk."

"Neither does Merideth."

"That's different." Juju closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Merideth chooses not to understand."

Three days later, the phone rings at 11:42 p.m. The sound jars Juju from sleep, her heart racing before she answers.

"Mother's not well," Merideth says, her voice small.

Juju's body reacts before her mind fully processes the words. Heart racing. Fingers fumbling with the bedside lamp. Larry stirs beside her, murmuring a question she doesn't answer.

Juju drives through darkness. The same road. The same rain. The same two hours. Seem endless.

She finds Mother P in bed. Breathing shallow, each inhale a struggle. Skin hot to the touch, her nightgown damp with sweat.

"When did this start?" Juju asks, pressing a cool cloth to her mother's forehead. The bedroom smells of menthol and sickness.

"This afternoon. I thought it was just fatigue." Merideth stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself. Her hair sticks up on one side, pillow-creased.

"Did you call Dr. Winters?"

"Doctors pumped her full of chemicals for weeks. She needs rest, not more hospitals."

Mother P's eyes flutter open, unfocused. "Julia?"

"I'm here." Juju takes her mother's hand. Cold. Deathly cold.

"I don't feel right." Her voice is thin, reedy.

Juju takes her mother's pulse. Too fast, too thready.

"We need to call an ambulance."

"It's the middle of the night," Merideth says.

Juju digs out her phone from her purse. "I'm calling."

Merideth's face is inscrutably blank. As always. Every day. Year after year. But Juju notices the way she keeps glancing at Mother P.

The waiting room smells of disinfectant and old coffee. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making Juju's head ache. Merideth scrolls through her phone, occasionally turning the screen toward Juju. The vinyl chair squeaks whenever she shifts position.

"See? This doctor in Sweden says hospitals make COVID worse."

Juju stares at the clock, watching the second hand tick around the face.

"And heart patients shouldn't get vaccines at all. That shot probably weakened her system."

"Please stop," Juju says.

"You always do this." Merideth's hands opened and closed over and over. "Tom used to say I knew more about natural medicine than half the doctors in New Hampshire. Just because you teach doesn't mean you know everything."

The doctor appears at 4:17 a.m., his shoes squeaking on the linoleum. "COVID pneumonia. Her heart is under significant strain."

"Will she…?" Juju can't finish.

The doctor's expression provides the answer.

"I need to check on Scotty," Merideth says, standing abruptly. Her chair scrapes against the floor. "Veebee's alone with him."

"Now?" Juju asks.

"He has nightmares when I'm not there." Merideth's voice catches.

Juju watches her sister leave, phone in hand. Shoulders hunched.

The doctor's words hang in the empty space Merideth left behind. Juju sits alone, watching dawn's first gray light seep through the waiting room windows. A nurse eventually leads her through corridors that smell of bleach and fading hope, past rooms where other families hold similar vigils.

"Ten minutes," the nurse says gently, holding the door open to room 318.

Room 318 is quiet except for the machines. The rhythmic beep, the hiss of oxygen. Mother P looks small under the blankets, her chest barely rising with each breath. Juju holds her hand, the skin paper-thin, veins blue beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry," Juju whispers. "Really sorry. It's my fault."

Mother P's eyes open slightly. Cloudy. "Sweety."

"Merideth will be here soon."

"Both…." Mother P's breath rattles, a sound Juju knows she will never forget. "Both my…."

Juju leans closer, the antiseptic smell of the room mixing with her mother's new unbearably alien odor.

"Tell Merri.... Tell her…."

The machines change their rhythm, a frantic beeping that brings nurses running. Mother P's hand tightens around Juju's, then goes slack.

Indeterminate time passes. Nurses come and go. Forms are signed. Juju sits, still holding her mother's cold hand, unwilling to be the first to let go. The room gradually lightens as morning arrives indifferent to her loss.

She doesn't hear the door open, only becoming aware of her sister's presence when a shadow falls across the bed. Merideth stands there filling the doorway, coat still on. Looking blank. Her face is pale, making the freckles across her nose, identical to Juju's, stand out starkly.

Juju shakes her head.

Merideth's face crumples, then reconstructs itself. She approaches the bed slowly, places a hand on Mother P's shoulder.

“She’s so cold.”

"She was asking for you," Juju says.

Merideth doesn't answer. Her fingers straighten Mother P's collar, a gesture so like their mother's own fussing that Juju has to look away. The dawn light creeps through the blinds, painting stripes across the now-silent bed.

In the corner of the window, a spider web catches the first light, its intricate pattern holding droplets from the night's condensation. Each droplet contains a tiny reflection of the room.

The funeral is on Friday. The church smells of lilies and furniture polish. Merideth chooses everything. The casket, polished oak that gleams under the lights. The flowers, arrangements of white roses and baby's breath. The program with a photo of Mother P holding Scotty, her smile wide and genuine.

"She would have wanted simple," Juju had suggested.

"She deserves the best," Merideth had said, her voice leaving no room for discussion.

“It’s a waste of money. Mother said it was a waste of money.”

Merideth's son arrives with his wife. He hugs his mother. Merideth barely acknowledges her daughter-in-law, though she wears the scarf Mother P had given her last Christmas.

Veebee hovers nearby with Scotty, who wears a clip-on tie and keeps asking when they can go home, his voice carrying to the corners in the quiet church.

After the service, at Merideth's house, Juju stands in Mother P's room. The medication bottles are gone. The bed is made with different sheets, blue instead of the floral pattern Mother P had preferred. On the dresser, the graduation photo has been replaced with another of Scotty, gap-toothed and grinning. Juju can see how Scotty will become bulbous like his grandmother Merideth.

"She didn't suffer," Merideth says from the doorway. The house smells of funeral casseroles and coffee. "That's what matters."

Juju turns. "She didn't have to die."

"Everyone dies, Julia. She was old."

"Not like this. It could have been prevented."

Merideth says, "What are you saying?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I just should have insisted," Juju says. “I just should have….”

It is quiet between them as they both watch a tiny spider slowly climb an invisible thread from the windowsill.

Juju says, "It's my fault."