Sister Mother Husband Dog: (Etc.) Read Online Free PDF

to die in five weeks. We hoped she would live—we all hoped she would live to see
Lucky Guy
on Broadwaystarring Tom Hanks, and if she didn’t go into remission that she would limp along for a while, maybe go home and we would deal with the problem then.
    I’m glad she didn’t tell, because one of the things I admired the most about her was her refusal to go down. To let “them” see her pain. To let people feel bad for her.
    •  •  •  •
    Critics were hard on her, much harder than on male directors who did half as good work. This country likes to take down strong women. Everyone loved Hillary more after Bill cheated during his presidency. In her own campaign for president, her popularity spiked when she cried during the run-up to the New Hampshire primary. Martha Stewart was sent to jail to jeers of satisfaction. Michelle Obama, who could mow us all down with her intelligence, pretends to be all about motherhood. Defang the women: It’s a national pastime in which women are both the victims and collaborators.
    Nora, in the most irritating way (to many people), came back from stuff. Carl Bernstein (her first husband) betrayed her when she was seven months pregnant. She wrote a bestseller about it,
Heartburn
, which became a movie. Then she fell in love with Nick and marriedhappily ever after.
Lucky Numbers
, a black comedy, and
Bewitched
put her in movie jail (what they call a director whom no one wants to hire). She wrote herself out of it with
Julie & Julia
.
Imaginary Friends
, an inventive and playful play, was insanely trashed. Even check out the reviews for the film we wrote together,
You’ve Got Mail
, which is beloved: begrudging. So regarding the outpouring of affection . . . because I am my sister’s sister, and my mother’s daughter, I have to point out the obvious. How easy for everyone now. Nora finally did something she can’t bounce back from. She died.
    Nora and I were not huggers. We never greeted each other that way or often even with a kiss on the cheek. One day, when we left a doctor’s appointment—one of the first appointments about the thing we had been dreading for six years, that her disease had morphed into something dreadful—when we left that appointment at the hospital and walked along the curving driveway to the street, I linked my arm in hers. It was the first time in our lives that I had ever done so.
    •  •  •  •
    Somewhere in there, in the midst of the intense chaos that followed, the daily worries, the vigil, the relentlesscaring and helplessness that had overtaken our lives, I realized my dog was chewing her paw and got a recommendation from my vet for a specialist. Here it was weeks later, Nora was dead, and Honey had a two o’clock appointment.
    I was thinking about how Nora liked corn flakes while the vet took Honey’s history. When did her paw-chewing first start? Was it worse in certain seasons? Was it only one paw, was it occasionally other paws? Was she drinking more water?
    I tried to focus. I couldn’t activate a search. “Does everyone know the answer to these?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I don’t.” I considered whether to mention my sister had died. How perfect. Nora never admitted her fatal disease, no excuse she shows up, and I am a second from blaming my bad dog-mothering on her.
    The vet rattled on—did I want to rule out a bacterial infection versus a yeast infection (yeast being worse) for a hundred and twenty-five dollars more? I said yes—how could I not? The bliss of being a dog, of not knowing what you are in for, became abundantly clear as Honey, not realizing she was going for an unpleasant medical procedure, went happily into the elevator with the doctor.
    While I waited, I hung out with Nora. I don’t mean I sensed her presence. I wish I had. She’s simply part of my consciousness, more or less lurking. I remembered Nora’s telling me she was good at tree pose. Tree pose is a yoga position.
    Nora came very late to