Member-only story
MEMOIR | PERSONAL ESSAY | WOMEN
The Sisterhood: Women Holding Hands Through Time
She called me because she needed her mom
I glanced at the caller ID on my phone and groaned — I was not in the mood for this. Rachel is eternally in some crisis, usually of her own creation, and the odds were good this would be yet another debacle. Getting to hear all about it in excruciating detail is one of the downsides of being an attorney.
Just the sight of her name on my phone will cause immediate weariness.
But I’m very fond of her. I’ve always been fond of her, and I could not exactly tell you why. She’s always been annoying — if not for gravity, she’d twirl right off the planet.
I’m still amazed that her parents survived raising her. They faithfully saw her through such episodes as horrendous motorcycle crashes and myriad husbands — some of whom she married twice.
Now Rachel’s 50 years old — just about the same age her mother, Janie, was when she passed — and nothing has changed, except that Janie is gone.
