Three Sisters, One Chat

The group is called "The Ortegas," with a fire emoji Lucía added in 2019 that nobody has had the courage to remove. There are three of us. Andrea is 37, with two kids, a husband who grills meat like it's his religion and a job at an insurance company I have never understood. I'm the middle one. Lucía is 28, lives in Monterrey, works in something to do with digital marketing and changes her mind about her life every three weeks.

I read the group backwards, like everything else. I wake up at four in the afternoon to a hundred and eighty messages. I read them from the top, one eye still closed, like someone catching up on a soap opera. At nine, Andrea sent a picture of her youngest dressed as a tomato for a school show. At ten, Lucía: "HAHAHA why a tomato?" By eleven thirty they were already fighting about Mom's birthday present. At one, someone said something the other took the wrong way. At two, silence. At three fifteen, a sticker of a crying cat. And I show up at four, newly born, to a fight that already got resolved without me.

The middle sister's job

They say the middle sister is the mediator. In my family that's true, but not out of virtue: it's the schedule. Since I'm late to everything, I arrive after things have cooled down. I type "what did I miss?" and both of them tell me their version privately, each convinced the other one overreacted. I read both versions and usually they're both right and both exhausted, which is what's going on with most people most of the time, inside the hospital and out.

Andrea feels alone with the kids and doesn't say so. Lucía feels far away and doesn't say so either. What they say is "ok." with a period, which in my sisters' language is a declaration of war.

The day off

Last Saturday I had my first free weekend in six weeks, and Lucía flew in from Monterrey without warning, or rather, warning us with a photo of her boarding pass once she was already at the gate. Andrea left the kids with her husband, who accepted them like a man receiving a mission. And the three of us drove to Bernal.

We didn't climb the big rock. We talked about it a lot, we said yes, this time for sure, and we ended up on a bench in the square eating gorditas and watching tourists head up with their brand-new hiking poles. Lucía made a comment about the energy of the place and Andrea answered that the only energy she was feeling came from the gordita. I laughed so hard soda came out of my nose, which, as a healthcare professional, I do not recommend.

On the drive back Lucía fell asleep in the back seat with her mouth open, exactly like when she was little and we used to drive to Guanajuato to see our grandmother. Andrea was driving. I was in the passenger seat with the window down, and at some point Andrea said, without looking at me, "You look tired, skinny." It wasn't a reproach. It's how my older sister says she loves me: by diagnosing me.

I told her yes, I was tired. That the hospital had been rough, that the half marathon had my knee acting weird, that sometimes I felt like I lived in another country, another time zone, where things happen while nobody else is watching. She said, "Well, we're here," and turned up a Maná song all three of us hate and all three of us know by heart.

The day after

On Sunday Lucía went back to Monterrey. On Monday I went back to my shift. On Tuesday afternoon I woke up to two hundred and twelve messages in the group. Another tomato photo, this time with a participation medal. A debate about whether Mom needs a new phone. A four-minute voice note from Lucía I still haven't listened to.

I typed "what did I miss?" They both answered at the same time.