I think... at least I hope I put in my  Blogger information somewhere that my blog is an exercise in writing for me. Exercise, as in, using my brain to prevent atrophy. Anyway, sometimes I post fiction. And this tale is fiction. Any familiarity to anyone I know is purely accidental. This story is a product of my crazed imagination. (I can visualize my sister's eyebrows arching as she reads this. I anticipate the telephone call or email this is going to elicit from my sister. “You know, some people believe all this crap you write.” Or, “Dear, not everyone gets your humor.” Hmm, I guess she’s got a point. I’m probably the only person who finds me funny.)

Beans, A Different Tale

The phone rings. I glance at the caller I.D. and see my sister’s name pop up. I have the usual hesitation before I pick up the phone. “Okay, Sofe,” I tell myself, “brace yourself.”

“Hellooo!” I answer, in some goofy attempt to put gaiety into my voice.

“Uh..., Sophie?”

Yup, she heard me trying to force it.

“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Beatrice.” I call her by her given name and not the childhood nickname she’d never outgrown, Beans.

“Sophie,” she begins awkwardly. “Um, listen, did you know this is the 6-month anniversary of our sister, Lisa’s death?”

“Yes, I did. I saw it posted on Lisa’s daughter’s Facebook page.”

“Oh, I wish I had a computer...” She gives off a faint laugh here. “I’m so behind on things like that. Well, I just wanted to make sure that you knew. Did Mealy call you? I called her and she promised me that she would call and remind you.”

“Well, she didn’t!” I don’t mention that our youngest sister, Amelia, and I are barely on speaking terms at the moment. But that’s another story.

There is a long pause and I know that she’s bothered by the fact that Amelia has failed to pass along what she, Beans, considers to be vital information. Poor Amelia. I’m sure I just set her up for an earsplitting rant. Oh, well, too bad for her. That's what she gets.

“Anyway I just called because I wanted to make sure that you knew,” she repeats. Then hesitantly, “You..., you know, Sophie, um, we..., on the anniversary of our ancestor’s death, we, I mean our family, we have a custom. It’s a custom that we put out a little..., well you know, a little dish of the favorite food of our relative on their death anniversary, to sort of honor them.” Another pause. I wait patiently. “Not that I even know what her favorite food is!” She bursts out with a loud guffaw and I can picture her throwing her head back with laughter. She catches her breath. “So, maybe you could do that, huh? Oh, and while you’re at it, put a little glass of wine out with the food, if you know what I mean.” She has a good chortle here. Then, quietly, “Oh, but hey, I forgot, you’re Catholic now. So maybe you can just say a little Catholic prayer, you know, in memory of our sister.” Beans sounds like she’s crying now. Just a short conversation with ol’ Beans can run the emotional gamut like that.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking “What family is she even talking about?” Never, do I ever remember seeing or hearing of any relatives putting dishes of food out on the anniversary of anyone’s death. Not that I would challenge Beans about it. There’d be no sense in further upsetting her. Besides I do marvel at how she still attempts to finagle us into her made-up rituals.

My sister has always been, well, different. Her birth had been a difficult one for our mother and she’d suffered brain injury as a result. In those days, there wasn’t much offered my mother in the way of rehabilitation or early intervention. The rural hospital simply sent my mother and her brain-injured baby home with a wish for “good luck.”

When I was a child, I once overheard someone whisper that my sister, Beans, was “not quite right in the head.” I’d tried to research that phrase at the library and found a science dictionary that said it meant, “to be lacking in one or more of the mental abilities that most people have.” I guess that would sum up Beans pretty well. But, what the definition didn’t include was that she also had an excess in an area that most people don’t have. When it came to tact or diplomacy she had none, but what a talent she had for the theatrics. If I’d accuse her of taking a favorite sweater, she’d remonstrate with such emotion, that’d I’d end up begging her forgiveness for having even considered such a thought. Then later, I’d find my sweater, tucked under her pillow.

When our sister, Lisa, was in the hospital, the staff gathered my siblings and I to discuss “end-of-life” options. While a male doctor carefully explained the delicate situation, Beans, stood beside him, intently looking up at him, as though carefully discerning his every word. When he finished, she said, “Your teeth are so perfect. In fact, you’re so beautiful, I’d like to lick your face.” Yup, that’s my sister, Beans. She’s different and I love her. So, I dutifully promise her, smiling to myself, that I will both, say a Catholic prayer and put out a dish of food with a little glass of wine.