When I was really little—like 3 years old—I remember not being exactly sure how Elberta, Mother and I all fit together. I knew that Mother was Mama but Elberta was like mama. She was the one I adored—the one that always had time for me—the one I’d watch rubbing lipstick on her cheeks for rouge. And it was years later in a therapist’s office that I began to sort out the searing pain of her disappearing one day with no word.
She hadn’t really disappeared of course. My big sister, Elberta, had gotten married at the age of 24—saving herself from the hateful title of spinster. But all my 4 year old mind could grasp was that my beloved, beautiful Berta was no longer a part of my days and nights. I knew she was getting married and I was bereft. To this day, the word “marriage” carries a deeper meaning of death and abandonment to me.
So we went on with our lives—she had three children and outlived her husband in our small West Texas town. I left that town and lived a very different life. And Elberta and Carol became sisters—the oldest and youngest Archer girls—seeing one another at family weddings, funerals, holidays. Just sisters. Until she had a massive heart attack and ended up in Houston in the care of her daughter, Sylvia, who arranged for her Mom to live in assisted living 5 minutes from my home.
When Sylvia also passed away in 2005, I became my sister’s keeper.
Now, being my sister’s keeper meant that I took care of everything for her, went to see her 4 to 5 times a week and made sure everybody at Pine Tree Assisted Living Facilities knew that I was there and watching and knew all of their names. And Elberta and I went out to eat, to visit parks, to visit kinfolks—to pal around. We basically rekindled our special relationship from my childhood.
Elberta was happy there, sharing an apartment with another lady—whose family (named Bennett) adored Elberta and came to see her everyday and brought her little gifts each time they came. And I wasn’t privy to that part of her life.
And now we come to the chocolate chip cookie. One day I went by to see her. She was sitting at the table eating a huge chocolate chip cookie—the expensive soft kind that comes from a good bakery and costs about 75 cents to a dollar PER cookie. And I said, “Hey Berter—where’d you get that cookie?” And she said, “The Bennetts brought it to me.” And that just got my goat and I said, “Well, isn’t that just special”. And I got up from the table where I’d just sat down, and said over my shoulder, “Well I’ve got things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
So I stomped out from her apartment and as I passed a little bench, I thought “What is wrong with you?” I sat down and took a good look at myself. Her roommate’s family actually checked on her everyday and were really good to and for her. In fact, they could do things for her that I couldn’t.
And the truth was that I didn’t want anybody else to “get credit” for taking care of her; I was jealous. And then I had a thought. The grown up Carol put her arm around the scared 4 year old Carol Mae and asked her, ” Do you really want credit more than you want Elberta’s happiness?”
And my tears were my answer. Absolutely not. More than anything in the world I wanted my big sister’s last years to be as glorious and happy as possible. I would willingly give up credit or anything else for that. And then another thought occurred to me – something much bigger was taking care of Elberta; I was merely an instrument of that Holy Mystery as was the other family. It was that Holy Mystery that loved, nurtured and cared for my sister— And if I was not there, someone would be there to care for her.
And in that moment I was given a gift even better than a $1.00 Chocolate Chip Cookie. In that moment, I knew that if that source of goodness would take care of Elberta, that same source would be there for me when I arrive childless in my old age.
And a fear and dread that I’d carried all my life began to dissolve
Elberta and Carol Mae on Elberta’s 91st birthday