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Illustration by Alex Siklos
My younger sister and I meet at a local pub every Tuesday night. Over light beer and Bang Bang Shrimp Tacos, we have much to say. She is my therapist, my comedy partner, my kick in the seat of my pants, my sounding board, my witness and the devil on my shoulder. Our tab should be covered by health insurance because it’s a cure for all that ails us.
But it’s been a long road to Tuesday Nights. For decades, my role as big sister and the resentment it spawned got in the way. I’m free from the hard feelings now and that’s what makes Tuesday Nights a carnival of emotion.
We were raised by a mostly single mother. Our parents split up after my younger sister was born and were later reunited for several years. But it was the triangle I shared with my mother and sister that made me mean.
Before I was born, my mother had a boy with a weak heart who died. The doctor told my parents that the best cure for my mother’s sadness was to get pregnant right away. I came along quickly to cheer her up. According to family lore, I emerged screaming, punching and kicking. Not my sister. When she was born 2½ years later, she was proclaimed “delicate.”
In photos of her christening, I’m padded in baby fat, pink-cheeked and cherubic. She’s big-eyed and scrawny with an egg-shaped red birthmark on her forehead. What the pictures don’t show is the wound on her back from surgery to remove a large growth or the constant ear infections that made her howl.
I loved her, as sisters do, but I burned with jealousy, as siblings will. After my sister was born, her needs came first. If there was a conflict between us, my mother pointed at me angrily and said, “You’re older, you should know better.” My sister could do no wrong, I could do no right and it stayed that way.
One Tuesday Night, I asked my sister why our mom treated us so differently. My sister, who untangles emotions for a living, said, “When she lost the boy she didn’t get a chance to grieve. You took her mind off him but I had all those health problems.
“I think Mom was terrified that I was going to die, too.”
It explained a lot.
My sister outgrew her delicate nature and became wise and adventurous yet reckless with her heart and finances. I became well-rooted and responsible, a planner who chewed every decision to mush. I continued to see my sister as needy. I worried about her like she was my child and supported her with small loans and favours, although never graciously.
When I was in my 30s, after long years of infertility, my partner and I had a baby boy. After his birth, I was anxious and fragile. Sleeplessness made me raw. One day, my sister dropped in and began to cry. She told me that her first attempt at becoming a single mother was a success and she was terrified. It had happened too soon and she wasn’t ready.
She needed my support but I only felt rage. Some wall in me broke apart and hurtful words poured out.
“I won’t be there for you,” I shouted. “This problem is all yours. I can’t take care of your family and mine, too. I’m sick of you dumping your problems on me. And don’t even think of borrowing money.” On and on it went.
She screamed, “I don’t need you,” and left.
We barely spoke for months. I was stuck in the mire of my feelings, trying to understand my cruelty. But then she reached out, saying that her birth coach couldn’t make it to an ultrasound appointment. Would I come?
When I saw my niece on the screen I was overwhelmed by something unexpected: Gratitude. I was grateful for my sister, grateful for my niece and grateful to be part of it. For the first time, I loved my sister without resentment.
Later, much later, when my mother was dying, my sister had the idea that we should blend our households and take care of her. For eight years, we rented a house with six bedrooms. My son and niece lived like siblings and I had the chance to heal the relationship with my mother. We sat together for long hours and I held her hand. She taught me to knit. When she began to suffer from dementia, I tucked her into bed at night and kissed her on the forehead.
After our mother’s death and we were living in our own places again, my niece texted me. She was preparing to leave for university in Nova Scotia and she was worried about leaving her mother alone. She wanted me to look after her mom. I had to laugh because, as I realize now, my sister is the strong one – I’m delicate. But that’s how Tuesday Nights were established.
Even if I could, I wouldn’t take back that fight with my sister. Without it, there wouldn’t be Tuesday Nights, and we need this weekly opportunity to take care of each other.
Lori Fournier lives in Etobicoke, Ont.
