secret motel

I spoke with my sister, C., over the phone earlier this week. I think it's the first time we talked since the day we buried our father two years ago. She is making another rare west coast visit in a few weeks and would like to see me. And she is bringing her husband this time. He usually doesn't accompany her on her California visits. I haven't seen him in twenty-four years. I wish my niece, J., was coming, too. But she now has a job teaching kids music.

I'm nervous about seeing them. I'm always nervous about people I know visiting the city. I am a horrible recluse, so I'm pretty clueless about new restaurants and other stuff to do. I guess it'll be okay.

C. plans to visit Modesto while she is here and wondered if our mother would be receptive to meeting up with her. I couldn't really say. Our mother has flabby, old-lady arms--but, goddamn, she can hold a grudge forever. I applaud C.'s efforts at diplomacy. But I think our mother prefers to stay angry. That woman is batshit crazy and enjoys conflict.

C.'s voice broke up a little when she said she might go out and visit our father's grave. I've considered it, but I'm not sure I'll ever go out there again. It took a long time for that grief to settle down. I now tiptoe around it and try not to wake it.