My only sister and I let another Christmas pass without calling each other.
Five years older than I, she lives in central California. But we’re divided by far more than years and miles now and haven’t been on speaking terms in almost 12 years.
Even from the first, we weren’t especially close. When we shared a double bed as children, for example, we fought so fiercely and so frequently that our mother rolled up a blanket, placing it between us each night as a sort of no-trespass barrier reminiscent of the 38th parallel in Korea.
Later busy as young adults raising kids and building careers, we often went for months-long stretches in which we only communicated secondhand through our Florida-based parents.
That’s not to say Sis and I never cared about each other. She helped me with homework, loaned me clothes and staged little-sister treats for me such as a weekend stay in her college dorm; I left my husband, Fred, and then-small sons for three weeks to attend her during cancer surgery in California.
But when our mother died suddenly in Florida some 12 years ago, my sister and I spent five days under our late parents’ roof, sniping at each other about funeral arrangements and, later, the details of my mother’s estate.
For more than a decade now, our sibling interaction has been limited to the exchanges of impersonal Christmas cards, infrequent photo swaps and occasional health updates, sporadically relayed through our sister-in-law.
A therapist I consulted told me not to stew about our break, that it was better to accept it the way I’ve learned to live with nerve damage in my dominant arm or vision loss in my right eye. A priest counseled me to keep trying to heal the family fracture. While their advice sounds contradictory, I’ve nevertheless alternately followed both.
I didn’t expect such an enduring breach, anticipating making up at subsequent family events in Florida – perhaps at the 100th birthday party of our oldest aunt (planned before my mother’s death) or at Auntie’s funeral or that of another elderly relative. Yet neither celebration nor funeral service drew my sister from California, because, I suspected, she wanted to avoid me.
The even-tempered, ever-congenial Fred doesn’t entirely understand my angst. He says, “Just call her on the phone; how hard can that be?”
Pretty tough, I’m here to tell you.
Probably, I fear rejection, because it seems even when my sister or I make what might be considered conciliatory moves, our efforts are perceived as spiteful digs.
For example, Sis sent us a wedding invitation when her daughter, my niece, got married several years ago. But it arrived three weeks after the rest of the family received theirs and, unlike their English versions, Fred’s and my invitation was in Spanish.
But I promise I had only the best intentions last February when I sent my sister a memorable letter I uncovered when sorting through the voluminous correspondence I inherited from the earlier mentioned aunt, who was a world-class pack rat.
My mother had penned the letter to my aunt in 1944 from the hospital where she’d given birth to my sister three days earlier. Realizing at the time that Sis’ birthday was just three days away, I didn’t take time to read the letter before mailing it to her, but I did make a copy for my genealogical files.
When Fred heard what I’d done, he read that copy and was horrified. He said, “Your mom called her an ugly baby with a huge nose who was too big in every way. And you sent your sister the original?
“You’ve probably set your relationship with her back another 12 years.”
He may be right since, 10 months later, she hasn’t acknowledged receiving the letter and didn’t reciprocate with a Christmas card this year. Still, with the promise of Advent so recent and the new year’s potential so fresh, I find myself hopeful a reconciliation with my sister may occur in 2011.
This column represents the first time I’ve been able to write about our painful separation, and expressing my thoughts on paper has always been a positive, cathartic process for me. Possibly I’ll go a step farther and place a call to my sister. I might just do it. Perhaps soon. Maybe.
E-mail Jan Galletta at jangalletta@yahoo.com