Jane and I exchanged our patentedWhy has the Lord burdened us with little sisters?look, a silent communication we’d perfected over the years.
“Fine. If she hasn’t seen the video, then why does Mom hate me?” I hissed, just as Mom called, “Rachel! The stuffing?”
My question went unanswered all through dinner. We sat down to enjoy our repast as much as we were able—in her heightened emotion, Mom had accidentally put raw onions on the yams and marshmallows in the brussels sprouts.
“Delicious, dear,” Dad said. (He was, as always, a sport.) “Shall we give thanks?” He paused; the twins were sucking the marshmallow off each sprout, leaving the vegetables soggy and uneaten on their plates, and Mom was (alarmingly) glaring at me from down the table with tears in her eyes.
“I’ll start.” Dad stood up. “I’m grateful for my beautiful family and the impending nuptials of my eldest daughter.”
Jane glowed. “Thank you, Dad. And I’m so—” But she was interrupted by a loud snort from our mother.
“Yes, Mom?” I was getting tired of her histrionics—little did I know they had barely begun.
She seemed to be on the verge of speech, and then she abruptlystood and disappeared into the kitchen, from whence we heard vigorous clanging. Around the table, each member of my family, including Owen, touched a finger to their nose.
“Hey!” I said.
“Nose goes,” the twins said.
“Fine.” I pushed back from the table. “Apparently I am the most mature adult here.”
I found Mom banging a wooden spoon against the bottom of a pot.
“This pot is all”—clang, clang—“crusted over. Impossible to clean.”
“And you thought whacking it would do the trick?” I approached cautiously and reached for the spoon.
She turned on me so quickly I stumbled backward with my hands in the air.
“You.” She shook the spoon at me. “Why, Rachel? Why?”
“Why what, Mom? What have I done this time?”
“Why haven’t you foundanyone? Jane’s wedding is five weeks away. Do you know how humiliated I’ll be if you don’t even bring a date to your sister’s wedding?”
I dropped my hands. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Surely a sane mother shouldn’t care this much about her daughter’s love life? Is this some kind of mental illness, I wondered?
Not wanting to antagonize her further by suggesting she was mentally ill, I opted to appease her.
“Five weeks, though.” I tried to keep my voice calm and upbeat. “That’s plenty of time. I could definitely still find a date.”
“A date. A date!” The scathing tone of her voice suggested she was not, in fact, appeased. “I don’t want you to find a date in fiveweeks, Rachel. You had a year! I told you about Christopher Butkus on January first. And you couldn’t make it work!” She gripped the wooden spoon in both hands, a tortured expression on her face. “And now? Now I would be happy with anyone. Because now I fear there’s no one who will ever take you, and all of the guests at Jane’s wedding will know!”
“They’ll know what, exactly? That I’m destined to be single forever? You know, a lot of successful women never got married. Susan B. Anthony. Mindy Kaling. Oprah!”
At this Mom let out a theatrical scream. I returned to the dining room without another word. Everyone stared as I took my seat. Dad and the twins were still eating.
Mom followed me, and Jane asked, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Your sister refuses to date! She won’t even try.”
“That’s not true!” Jane cast me a sympathetic look. “She does try.”
“Just not very successfully,” Abby added.
And then everyone began to voice their own opinion of why I was still single:
“She’s focused on her career,” Dad said.
