Blast from the Past

Mary, Buddy’s brother at Carlo’s Bakery, wanted a birthday cake for her fraternal twins, specifying pirates and princess. Buddy, the Cake Boss, was up to his alligators with paying projects and simply did not have the time to indulge Mary's egocentric tirade about her wants/needs, so he tuned her out. Mary, who will not be ignored, picked up a finished cake and slammed it to the floor. Buddy told her to get the hell out of his sight, but, by the end of the show, apologies are made and all is forgiven.

Why? Why is Mary forgiven? This is not the first awful thing Mary has done, but a pattern of bad behavior that has escalated with the popularity of both the show and the public recognition Buddy has earned. Buddy says family is family, but there are things that family do that are not forgiven, much less forgotten. When I saw what Mary did, my mind flashed back to an incident that happened when my mom was dying.

I learned the term “passive aggressive” from my mom and my sister, who perfected the art form of smiling to my face while sharpening the knife behind my back. The horrible things they both said, as well as did, will always be part of who I am and how I live my life. However, as Buddy says, family is family, so after listening to one of my sister’s wah-wah-wah tirades, I decided to do something nice for her, all the while knowing that nothing I did could ever match the sacrifices she made, including putting her own marriage at risk to provide care for our mother (her whine) so our brother and his family could have a few days off. I drove to my sister's home, shooed her and her husband off for a day of doing whatever they wanted, while I cleaned, cooked, did laundry, etc., all the chores my sister usually did.

Of course, my sister came back early, uncomfortable with me inside her home because I seldom (if ever) did anything the way she did it, which meant, of course, that once I left she would redo everything I had done. However, she remained pleasant and complimented me on both helping her and the meal I cooked before I cleaned up the kitchen and left for home.

Weeks later, my sister and I were sitting in our family home, with my youngest brother and his wife. My mother was dying in her bedroom, and every week I drove from my home in PS to my sister’s home in LA, picked her up, then continued the drive to SB to be with mom, while I continued to work a full-time job. Before her cancer became so invasive that she was bedridden, mom used to come stay with me, even though it meant that I had to pay for in-home care while I was at work. When my sister and I went to SB, I also paid for hotels and meals, as well as the gas, as my sister could never afford anything, another litany of poor me she learned from our mother. In the course of our family conversation, my sister brought up the day that I had driven to her home and did chores so she could have a day off, which was, on the surface, nice of her to share. Imagine the punch to my gut when she didn’t just remind everyone that I didn’t know how to clean or do laundry, but when she told me that I drove her crazy as I prepared the meal because … I didn’t wash up the dirty dishes, dry them, and put them back in the cupboard as I cooked, I was stunned into silence!!

It didn’t matter what I did because all that mattered was what I had not done … her way. I should have seen it coming, but she had let enough time pass that I thought I had dodged the bullet and she had, finally, accepted a kindness from me. After an entire lifetime of being the victim of her passive-aggressive attacks, I should have known another one was lurking just beyond the present, but I always thought that, this time, she would just let it go. Buddy told his sister to get the hell out of the bakery, but I had to suck it up because this time, it was about my mom, not about my sister.

Since mom died, my sister is no longer a part of my life: my choice. The memories remain, and when they blast out of the past and ambush me, they are painful. It no longer matters in the grand scheme of things, but it will always matter to me.

PS: Happy birthday, sister. The last time I shared a birthday with you, you screamed at me to leave you alone because you were grieving your mother's death. You told me that it didn't matter that I never loved her because you did -- and you would never forgive me for calling you to say happy birthday. Got what you wanted!