1. Call Dr. Wang’s office and ask for Carol. Insist that Maxine be seen today. Do not be browbeaten. My address book is on the hall table.

You have to look up the meaning of browbeaten before the implied insult sinks in. To avoid a conflict you’re not prepared to win, you proceed to number 2.

2. Cancel the paper.

You should have practiced. You try now while a phone rings on the other side of the city.

“My mother who’s dead/died/ passed away/Saturday–”

“Thank you for calling,” a female voice says. “Push one for options.” You push 1, then 3, then whatever else she asks. The whole time Maxine is rubbing against your leg and purring an opinion of her own. “Poor old Maxi-bear,” you purr back. “Not feeling well?” Her white back arches expectantly under your hand. Turns out it’s easy to cancel a newspaper.

3. Return the library book in the front hallway.

You start to poke Entertaining at Home into the slot. Thinking this an ungracious end, you go inside to leave it on the counter. A fussy young man in a cardigan barely glances in your direction, so you wait in line to ask that it be checked.

4. Cancel the cleaning service.

Darlene sounds hurt. She’s been with Mom fifteen years. You hear the thunder of children in the background. “How’s the kitty? You give him his meds? You’re sure I shouldn’t come by?”

“No, no. Your check is ready to be mailed. I’m heading for the post office right now.” You hang up before she can launch into a story about one of the grandkids or a neighbor.

5. Drop off mail inside the post office and have them hold future deliveries.

The clerk takes the bundle like it’s all bad news. She waves a hand toward the paperwork and tells you to fill it out and come right back over. When you do, everyone in line glares.

You run through rain, barely catching your breath when someone toots for you to hurry up. You let the engine idle while the driver decides you’re not going anywhere. Browbeaten? You don’t feel guilty at the sight of an old woman scurrying like a wet hedgehog from the far end of the parking lot. Maybe a little.

1. Call Dr. Wang’s office and ask for Carol. Insist that Maxine be seen today. Do not be browbeaten. My address book is on the hall table.

“There’s no number for “Wang” in the book, so you check “V” for veterinarian. Bingo. Carol is on vacation, but the receptionist says there’s a note in Maxine’s file. You listen to shuffling paper and clacking computer keys before she tells you, “Our earliest opening is 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

Mom’s been buying insulin for five years. The fridge is stocked. Tomorrow would be fine. From the look of Maxine’s silky coat, even next week, but you cannot be browbeaten. Not this time. “My mother was determined she be seen today.”

There’s barking at the other end, the sound of an office being torn apart. You’re shocked when the receptionist offers 2 o’clock.

6. Call Kathleen if you need help. Do not take no for an answer.

“Listen, you’ve got to get Maxi to the vet by 2:00.”

….

“Today! Mom wouldn’t have put it on the list if it wasn’t important”

….

“How should I know?”

….

“You don’t have to do anything. Apparently she made the appointment a while ago.”

….

“I am not yelling. Call me when you’re leaving so we can meet at the house.”

….

“2:00! I left a house key in the planter.”

7. Speak to Father Raffi about the service. Remind him that he is to speak no longer than necessary about my contributions to the church.

Father Raffi tells story after story about your mother’s generosity. He’s a round-cheeked man who could easily fit behind a desk at the bank. The sort of person who pulls lollipops out of thin air for antsy children. You expect a rather long service but decide not to mention your mother’s caveat. He offers a mint before you leave.

8. Pick up my gray suit from the cleaners (ticket is on the refrigerator). Before you pay, check to see they have removed a quarter-sized stain from the right pocket. Under no circumstances will I meet Our Dear Lord wearing a stain. There is an alternate suit in the bedroom closet. Deliver the appropriate clothes to Patrone and Son. Deal directly with Mr. Patrone and not his idiot offspring.

The woolen suit is visible through the plastic bag. Too hot for July and old-fashioned but your mother was adamant that it not be donated with the rest. You can almost hear her through the tap dancing of rain on the car roof: “Oscar de la Renta will not suffer the indignity of becoming a Halloween costume.”

The last time she tried it on, you couldn’t decide exactly where the wool had begun to droop. Her reflection in the mirror was more interested in you for a change. It meanly asked why you still carried baby weight when the baby was entering seventh grade. Then it smiled at your mother and complimented her perfect size six. Like Kathleen, she could eat and eat without gaining an ounce. “Bury me in it,” your mother said, almost disappearing when she turned to the side. “Or burn it.”

~

Mr. Patrone checks his watch. ““Help yourself to coffee and I’ll come get you when we’re ready.”

~

“No problem,” the receptionist says, mopping a coffee river overflowing the waiting room table. “Happens more often than you think.”

~

You do understand other people’s failings. Except your sister Kathleen’s. As your mother implies in her note, Kathleen is a train wreck who can turn the simplest task into high drama. The sign overhead asks that calls be taken outside. It’s raining harder, you notice, as if that matters. You have no intention of answering her barrage of excuses and complaints anywhere.

                                                             NEW MSG: WHERE R U?

                                                             NEW MSG: ANYBODY OUT THERE?!

                                                             NEW MSG: HELP!!!!!

                                                             NEW MSG: SOS!!!!

                                                             NEW MSG: fuk u

                                                             NEW MSG: bitch!

~

At the first red light you remember Mr. Patrone or rather his head. The black nest of his crown as he demonstrated the deliberate tuck of your mother’s right hand. The stain hidden underneath. “I promised this lovely lady everything would be perfect,” he said, testing the hinge of her tiny wrist. (Stain on, stain off.) “But see how dignified she looks? Her hand just so?” Other drivers honk and swerve around where you sit and weep at the light that is yellow, then red. Is it too late to change her clothes?

9. Discuss the final arrangements with Kathleen. Check what she plans to wear to the service and make suitable modifications. If you have given her a house key, retrieve it immediately! Do not show weakness.

The house is creepy without Maxi tangling herself in your legs. You set a bag of donuts on the counter and spill grounds trying to start a pot of coffee. You empty the Tupperware from the fridge and haul out the trash. The grayish lumps of meat and dough are reminders of a previously active social circle. Filmy jars of gourmet pickles are more recent leftovers for gossip and complaints at the kitchen counter. The longer you stay, the grimier the surface of everything feels. In the last month, as your mother became more tolerant of Darlene’s chattiness, she seemed to have missed her waning skills in the housekeeping department. No. It couldn’t be that. Your mother missed nothing. You move quickly.

You take the shot schedule down to post on your own fridge. Along with the meds, you pack a tote with Maxi’s dishes, food, and favorite blanket. You call home to warn the kids to take it easy on the old cat. You’re happy they’ll have this distraction. Pets are good for kids. They teach responsibility, a lesson Kathleen missed. Unmarried, fancy-free at thirty-five.

A half hour passes and another before she waltzes through the door without the cat carrier. You want to rack your nails down the pretty, made-up face. Since you saw her forty-eight hours ago, she’s managed to have her brown hair streaked an orange shade of blond and from somewhere in her closet found a black jersey a half size too small. It’s too much. The absolute limit. A train wreck. “Where’s Maxi-Bear?” you shout. “Give me the key!”

She pulls a jelly donut from the bag and inspects it as she has since you were children. Scrunching her shoulders, she takes a tentative bite and pretends to struggle swallowing. Her little waiting game.

“I gave up texting when I remembered.” The statement hangs between you like the powdered sugar stuck to her puffy lips. Up close the veins around her nose are red like she’s done some crying. Like she’s not done yet. You offer a napkin, aware of your magnanimity, and she lets it flutter to the floor. A white flag. Another game.

“It was a funny word she had to describe you,” she says and instantly something tingles along your scalp. Something wormlike shivers down your back. Instead of a normal laugh, she howls. Tears run down her cheeks as she sinks onto a stool, the sticky yellow of the pendant lights washing the brassy highlights. She wipes her nose on the back of her hand and suddenly you see them together. Heads almost touching, fingers deep in the jars of stuffed olives and endive spears. Snickering about you like high school girls. Where’s Maxi?” you repeat calmly, afraid Kathleen’s performance will escalate. “Give me the key.”

Her head snaps up and she throws back that dramatic mop of hair. “’Browbeaten,’” she says, serious for once, the grownup. “Big house you’ve got and kids, and couldn’t stand up to her. Not even dead. Couldn’t let the poor thing live.”