Being told I was better than Wendy at anything was as good as receiving a trophy. “Am I?”

“I dropped something off one day, and there was clutter everywhere. Piles of papers, dirty dishes. It was right before Analena was due. I felt sorry for her.”

I took out pods and filled the coffee maker. “Maybe Wendy was having a hard week. I have a taste of how tough her life is. Work, kids, a husband gone most of the time. I guess a few piles here and there were natural.”

Mom perched on the same stool Teo had used. “She was the neatest child. Neater than I was, if you can believe that. The kitchen smells good, by the way. What did you make for dinner last night?”

“Spaghetti sauce and meatballs. Noelle can roll a mean meatball.”

“And they like cooking?”

I nodded. “Do you remember all the nights you and I cooked together?”

“Apparently they were productive. Now you’re passing on what you learned.”

“Trying. Noelle remains convinced a tablespoon is a spoon that’s been left on the table.” I ventured what might sound like criticism. “I don’t think they cook much with their mom.”

“I don’t think Wendy cooks much period.”

“See my prior statement. Work, kids, husband at sea.”

“I tried to cook with Wendy, too. We did sometimes, but your sister was always so busy with school activities.”

I hadn’t been as busy, and now I was glad. “Those were our best times together.”

“I never knew what else to do with you. Wendy kept me so busy, I never had to think about what to do next. But you? You were so self-contained. You were happy by yourself, doing whatever appealed to you. And I was afraid to interrupt.”

“Afraid?” I put the first mug under the coffee maker and pushed a button. Coffee poured out and smelled delicious.

“I don’t like being unsure of myself,” she said.

That being true, I couldn’t imagine a worse scenario for Mom than our lives at the moment. Wendy vanishing. Dad undergoing surgery. Unsure and insecure were the watchwords of our days. Of course finding a cabinet filled with controlled substances hadn’t helped me feel any more secure, either.

I decided to go back to my sister’s housekeeping. Could neglecting dishes and dusting be a symptom of drug abuse? Or was Mom, who cleans up after her vast array of cleaning ladies, judging my sister by her own unusual standards?

I set the first cup of coffee in front of her. “So when did Wendy go from being a neatnik to a slob?”

She sipped as I made my own, and I had the feeling she wasn’t trying to remember, she was trying to decide how to explain. She didn’t speak until I’d made myself as comfortable as I could on the second stool facing her.

By now she was staring into her cup. “Wendy changed after her friend died. It was a very emotional, a very difficult time for her. The last thing I wanted to do was nag, so I didn’t. I never found the right time to insist she start cleaning up after herself again, and she got used to letting things go.”