I was tinkering on a post that was going to be published here tonight, about the conclusion of the birdhouse project and the start of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, when the phone rang. It’s often a circus when my phone rings because I have a tendency to forget about it entirely and wander away from it, and then I have to go from room to room, or up (or down) a flight or two of stairs trying to find it.
My watch buzzes simultaneously, adding to the bedlam, and if I’m wearing AirPods the situation feels like something from a Harold Lloyd film — which device will answer the call? Where should I speak? Can any of us hear each other? I’d have an easier time dialing a rotary phone, which is probably a byproduct of being so late to the iPhone party.
It was Middle Sister on the line, as I knew it would be. Usually my top callers are Crankenstein, automated reminders from doctors’ offices and pharmacies, and strangely enough, my mother’s ass. (After saying “Hello” a few times without a recognizable response, I’ll ask “Are you there or am I talking to your ass again?” Then I hang up and after she realizes what’s happened, she texts me: “Sorry, butt dial!”) Lately it’s Middle Sister atop the leaderboard, and at some point I need to give her a fake name here and explain why it’s something like Tom, but let’s not get distracted.
Middle Sister is like a street urchin peddling newspapers; she always knows the headlines before I do. When either sister calls, I assume there’s a medical or gossip emergency; they’re young enough to otherwise prefer texting, which they do with a puzzling quickness.* Often the first thing she says is “You haven’t checked the group chat…” which makes my heart drop to my stomach. Crankenstein and I belong to a group text with my mom and sisters and are lax about checking in when we’re focused on deadlines. Relatives have a tendency to die or require hospitalization when we aren’t looking. Youngest Sister might have had another kid or two we’re unaware of.
Twice in recent months Crankenstein has diagnosed serious conditions via group chat (after watching video clips) and sent people to the ER. Each time, Middle Sister bat-signaled me to put it on our radar and it was only a coincidence that Crankenstein was free to take a look. There was no game of mystery diagnosis tonight, but something was happening that we needed to be aware of and, more than that, I think Middle Sister needed to talk to someone who resides on her same planet, since not all of our relatives currently do. And so the birdhouse and lighthouse post, and details of another oddball personal project I’m about to start, will have to wait until tomorrow.
* Before my left hand started going downhill, I could type 160 words per minute at my fastest on a laptop or desktop keyboard. Texting on a phone is a different beast, plus I’m hesitant to use emoji and don’t understand texting etiquette. Did you know you’re not supposed to punctuate the last sentence of a text with a period? It can imply curtness, which is preposterous to me. Same thing with saying nothing more than “OK” or “Yes” in a response. “It took me a while to realize she wasn’t mad, it’s just how she types,” Crankenstein told my sisters once in a conversation about this. I had no idea what they were talking about.