“Yep, they wanted to rule out brain tumor, broken bones . . . you know, a whole litany of stuff.”

“Jeez. A zillion dollars in tests for nothing.”

“That’s what they do these days.”

“It’s practically criminal. Should I send flowers? I mean, I can do that. No problem. Would it cheer her up?”

“That’s your call. Would anything cheer her up besides you coming home? I expect I’ll bring her home tomorrow. Maybe send them to the house?”

“Okay. I’ll send her something fun. What about getting some kind of guardrails? You know, the kind you use for toddlers?”

I looked at the ceiling. Didn’t my sister know how impossibly juvenile our mother was? “Right! Then she’d crawl over them and fall on her head, and I’d really be in trouble. You know, she breaks a hip, pneumonia sets in, and pffft! She’s a goner!”

“Well? That’s one answer, isn’t it?”

“Leslie! You’re terrible.”

“Gallows humor, sister. Gallows humor.”

“Funny but not really. So how are you and Charlie doing?”

“We’re fine. Well, I’m fine. Charlie’s been acting sort of odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just odd. He wants to go to Atlantic City. He hates gambling! But suddenly, he wants to go to Atlantic City and see a bunch of shows.”

“Sounds like fun to me.”

“Sounds like fun because you’re stuck on that miserable island with the Queen of Mean. You know I don’t like all that noise. And all that craziness.”

Wait. Was my sister no longer Miss Party Hearty?

“Well, darlin’? Maybe that’s why he’s got a hankering to go to Atlantic City! To inspire you!”

“To do what? Wear high heels to bed? Get myself a trashy see-through chiffon robe to wear while I fry the chicken?”

“And here I always thought you were the wild one!”

“Well, now you know. Anyway, we’re going to Atlantic City next week for four days. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“And I’ll keep you posted on Momma.”

“Do that. I’ll call 1-800-Flowers in the morning.”

“So, aren’t you going to ask me how I’m doing?”

I could hear a deep sigh.

“How are you doing?” she said. “What’s new? Nothing, right?” Everyone thought I was a pitiful old maid at thirty.

“Um, actually? I had Archie and his boys over for dinner tonight.” Maybe I said it a little too brightly. The minute she heard a drop of happiness in my voice, I knew I was going to get an earful.

Dead silence. Followed by a slowly drawn out, “Really? Is there anything to report?”

“Beyond one marginally awkward moment when he was leaving? Nope.”

“Hmm. What did you cook?”

“Chicken. Lemon chicken with mashed potatoes, peas, and hot apple pie.”

More silence.

I finally said, “Are you still there?”