How to Be a Sister Eileen Garvin (online e reader .txt) 📖

And then a hollered apology, “I’m sorry, Eileen! That’s GOOD waiting!” followed by a bear hug. It was pretty easy to piss me off that week, and my irritation just seemed to increase her ebullient behavior. More than once I threatened to leave. But I really didn’t want to leave. Leaving would mean going home to eat spaghetti in my studio apartment with the two of them. And I only had two chairs.

Plus, telling Margaret we were going to leave made us even more noticeable.

Me (sotto voce): “That’s it, Margaret. If you can’t wait quietly, we are going home.”

Margaret (forte!): “No! No! No, Eileen! No! Ha ha ha! That’s good behaving! You’re going to eat spaghetti! That’s GOOD waiting!”

On this particular night she was laughing as she yelled this, not crying, which didn’t make her any quieter. But laughter was on the right side of normal, so we stayed. And we waited. And waited. After it grew dark and I could see the streetlight glinting across Margaret’s teeth as she teased me, they gave us a table.

As the three of us followed the very hip host through the crowded bistro to our table, I felt like everyone was staring at us, even though they probably weren’t, yet. This kind of paranoia was a family affliction. After years of being center stage during my sister’s very public outbursts, I always felt like we were being watched. Feeling that we were the subject of observation added a buzz to my already tense state of being, so I ordered a carafe of wine before we even sat down. I couldn’t complain about our table. After the long wait, it couldn’t have been more perfect. We sat near the window with a broad view of the entire room. I took it all in: Strings of tiny white Christmas lights cast a magical glow on the crowded tables of twos and fours. A man sat hunched over the piano in the corner, laying down a thread of music under the buzz of voices. The wine came, and we had bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My mother and I drank and talked as Margaret grew more and more quiet. I felt so normal. What had I been worrying about? We looked over the menu and waited for someone to come take our order.

Looking back, I imagine that this part of the evening, the best part for me, was not so much fun for Margaret. The place was crowded, it was hot, and she was sitting with her back to a room full of strangers. The piano player started playing something lively, and then everyone was talking loudly to be heard over the noise. But I finally had my mother’s ear, and I was excited to show this place to her, share a bit of my newfound city life.

While Mom and I were chatting, Margaret decided that she had to use the bathroom, something she often does in a rather sudden way. Your average person might think, “Hmmm. I think I have to pee. Nope, I don’t . . . Yep. Yep. I do. I have to pee. Should I go? Hmmm. Wonder where the bathroom is? Maybe I’ll wait a few minutes and watch to see where someone else goes. I’ll wait until we order. I’ll wait until we finish this drink. I’ll wait until I can ask someone. Oh, there’s the sign. Hmmmm. Ah, looks like someone just came out of there, so it must be free. Well, okay, I think I’ll go now.” And then you’d say “Excuse me,” and push yourself away from the table, put your napkin down, stand up, and carefully make your way to the bathroom. Right?

I don’t know what goes through Margaret’s mind when she decides that she has to use the restroom. But it always looks like someone has just shouted “Now!” in her head, at which point she leaps out of her chair and launches herself through the crowd like Harrison Ford fleeing the police in The Fugitive. She’ll make a mad dash toward a perceived direction of the restroom, sometimes knocking into chairs, other people, sometimes ending up in the kitchen or the men’s room. Margaret has never been a petite person, so this kind of public sprinting tends to have consequences. My family is used to this, so usually one of us is not far behind, bowing and scraping our apologies to people she might have run into, and then we hurry to catch up with her and make sure the door is closed before she gets her pants down. I’ve chased her through lobbies, movie theaters, and cafés like this because I know that she unbuttons and unzips as she goes. She does not mean to be rude. She’s just made up her mind, so you’d better get the hell out of the way.

Margaret sprinted for the restroom with my mother trailing behind smiling apologetically, leaving me alone at the table. Our cover was blown. I could feel it. The whole place was staring at the ladies’ room door, which Margaret had just slammed on our mother’s heels. All heads seemed to turn to me, the lone weirdo still at the Weirdo Table. Cover. Blown. Uncool. I told myself I didn’t care. I downed my wine and watched the waitress circulate the tiny room.

This waitress was one of those eccentric Seattleites who had made the town so exotic to me when I first moved there from provincial Spokane. She must have been in her late thirties and was very pretty in a theatrical kind of way. She was wearing a sexy, 1930s-era dress with combat boots. Her lipstick was a badge that said, “I’m eccentric! Don’t fuck with me!” This woman was part of the reason that the café had gained an aura of celebrity. She did not really wait on people; she just kind of emotionally abused them and then brought them food after a really, really long