Between Sisters

“Oh. ” Ali’s little face scrunched up. She bunched up her left cheek, then her right. Then she looked up at Claire. “C’n I call him Daddy?”

“He’d like that. ”

“So at school, on family day, he’ll come for the sack races and help Brittani’s dad barbecue the hot dogs?”

Claire released a breath. It wasn’t easy for her to make blanket promises for another human being. That kind of faith lived in the hearts of women who’d grown up in safer homes, where Mom and Dad could be counted on. But she believed in Bobby as much a

s one of her mother’s daughters could believe in any man. “Yes. We can count on him. ”

Alison grinned. “Okay. I want him to be my dad. Daddy. ” She was obviously testing the word, weighing how it felt to say aloud. It was amazing how many little girls’ dreams could be contained in those few letters.

Big girls’ dreams, too, for that matter.

Alison gave Claire a quick kiss, then scampered off, dragging a dirty Elmo on the floor behind her. She went upstairs to her bedroom. Seconds later, The Little Mermaid theme music started.

Claire stared down at her engagement ring. As makeshift as it was, it gave her a warm feeling of hopefulness.

“One down,” she said aloud. Actually, it was two. Both her father and her daughter had put their stamp of approval on the wedding plans.

That left only two blood-related holdouts. Meghann, who definitely hadn’t sounded approving, and Mama, who probably wouldn’t much care. Claire had been putting off the call. No good ever came from talking to Mama.

Still, she was her mother, and she had to be called.

The funny part was, when Claire thought of her “mother,” the face that came to her was Meg’s. In every childhood memory, it was her sister who’d been there . . . until, of course, the day she decided she’d had enough of caring for Claire.

And Mama. Well. Truth be told, Claire’s memories of Mama were sketchy at best. Claire was lucky in that; the brunt of mama’s flightiness had fallen on Meg. Still, they all pretended that they were family.

Claire picked up the phone and punched in the number. It rang and rang. Finally, an answering machine clicked on. Mama’s thick-as-honey-and-twice-as-sweet Southern drawl was accompanied by music. “I do so appreciate your call on m’private number. Unfortunately, I’m too darn busy to answer, but leave me a message and I’ll return your call just as soon as I can. And look for my interview in People magazine, on newsstands in late June. Bye, y’all. ”

Only Mama would self-promote on her answering machine.

“Hey, Mama,” she said at the beep, “It’s Claire here. Your daughter. I’ve got some big news and I’d like to talk to you. Call me. ” She left her number, just in case, and hung up.

She was still holding the phone, listening to the dial tone when she realized her mistake. She was getting married in less than two weeks. If she waited for Mama to call, the wedding would be long past. The point was to invite Mama, not to simply inform. You had to invite your mother to your wedding, even if the woman who bore you had the parenting instincts of a mosquito, and there was little chance she’d actually show up.

By the time Mama had managed to fly from Los Angeles to Seattle to see her only granddaughter, Alison had been four years old.

Claire still remembered the day vividly. They’d met at the Woodland Park Zoo in downtown Seattle. Mama had been in the middle of a Starbase IV promotional tour (yet again) that touched down there.

Claire and Alison had been sitting on the wooden bench by the zoo’s entrance for more than an hour, waiting.

Claire had almost given up when she’d heard a familiar high-pitched screech. She’d looked up just in time to see Mama, dressed in a bronze silk caftan, bearing down on them like a Thanksgiving Day parade float.

Lordy it’s good to see my girl again, she’d cried out loudly enough that everyone nearby stopped to stare. A hushed buzz of recognition twittered through the crowd.

It’s her, someone said. Tara Zyn from Starbase IV.

Claire had fought the urge to roll her eyes. She stood up, her hand clasped tightly around Alison’s. Hey, Mama. It’s good to see you again.

Mama had swooped down on one knee in a movement that sent silk wings flying up on either side of her. Is this darlin’ little thing my granddaughter?

Hello, Mrs. Sullivan, Alison had said, stumbling awkwardly over the name she’d practiced for a week. Claire had been sure that Mama wouldn’t appreciate the word Grandma. In print, she claimed to be looking forward to her fiftieth birthday.

Mama had studied Alison carefully. For a moment, only that, a kind of sadness passed through her blue eyes. Then that smile was back. You can call me Nanna. She reached out one bejeweled hand, stroked Ali’s curly hair. You’re the spittin’ image of your mama.

I’m not allowed to spit, Mrs. . . . Nanna.

Mama had looked up. She’s spunky, Claire-Bear. Just like Meggy. Good for you. It’s the spunky ones that make it in life. I think she’s the most well spoken two-year-old I’ve ever had the pleasure o’ meetin’.