The Scenic Route (Part II)

I didn’t know that the last time I was in my half-sister’s home, was in fact, the last time. It’s funny how that happens. It was a mild day in May. She’d spent most of our time together telling me about the details involved in her their upcoming move to Brooklyn — she seemed off kilter, puffed up, slightly manic, and sleep deprived. There was a heavy load of bluster to weed through, and an inordinately high number of “actuallys” to ignore — man, she loved that damn word. It was painful.

That looks good, actually. I know a lot more about that than you think I do, actually. We’re going to go there for dinner ready, actually. The broker I spoke to was really nice, actually. They were really impressed with my husband, actually. Actually, actually, actually!!

I love me a good adverb as much as the next person, but for the love of G*d, share the love — no need to pick just one! I have language tics of my own, so I get it — it was annoying nonetheless.

I’d seen that particular flavor of behavior before. From her. From her mother. It often arose in both of them when “a big, amazing opportunity!” presented itself. It always seemed like there was more at stake than just a choice to be made, or a new opportunity to accept or not accept — it always seemed as if there was some sort of grand reveal underway: ultimate proof of they were truly unique, special! The belles of the ball, ta da!!

Her pace was quick as she rattled off her plans, their plans: where they were going to live in Brooklyn, how much money her husband would earn, the proximity of the apartment she hope for was to Prospect Park. She even said she already knew exactly how much their groceries would cost because she’d done a pretend order on Instacart — I’d found that super clever.

I didn’t say much — I mostly just oohed and aahhed as she shared — talked about how great it would be to live in such an epicenter of culture.

I didn’t feel like having a repeat of the unpleasant exchange we’d had a few weeks earlier when she’d initially called to tell me her news. She’d asked me for my input, asked where I’d lived in New York. I was happy for her and happy to answer her questions, but at some point early into my share she responded with a bitchy sort of uh, huh and I’d snapped at her.

Sorry, I can’t pretend that I didn’t live there! You’re so incredibly defensive! Why are you asking me these questions if you don’t actually want to hear what I have to say?

Her response was to hurry up and get off the phone, I have to attend to my children! Right. K, bye! I’d responded in as much of a that’s total bullshit tone as I could muster.

She was still telling me about the “amazing” location of the “amazing” apartment off some major street in Brooklyn as we made our way front door and I was about to leave. I can’t recall the exact name of the street now, I think it may have been Eleventh Ave but I’m not sure.

I really hope you guys get the apartment you’re hoping for! I’ll think good thoughts for you and imagine your family walking up and down Eleventh Street from your new place on your way to Prospect Park, I’d offered as my parting gift to her.

It’s not Eleventh Street, It’s Eleventh Ave! See I know stuff! she’d said in a tone that would have put any aspiring adolescent to shame. What a childish, petty bitch. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so annoying.

She was a grown woman, well into her thirties, with a husband and two children, and she seemed utterly (a nice adverb option!) incapable of reigning in her incessant need to throw her ego a bone and gain the imagined upper-hand between us regardless of the circumstances.

Woohoo! You got me. Good one. That’s your response to someone telling you their rooting for you? I thought. K, bye! I said.

I gave her a quick hug and walked away.