I've been here before

My brother left a message on my answering machine yesterday morning, "Marie, it's your brother. Call me as soon as you can," and I thought, "It's Mom."

I know it's Mom because I can't think of anything else that would make his voice sound like my dad's voice -- deep, authoritative and brooking no nonsense. I call him and he answers, "Good morning," in a tuneful way so that I know my first thought, that Mother had died or was mortally ill is wrong. He wouldn't sound so cheerful, I think, so normal, if it was really bad.

He rants for a little while about the upcoming election. "It doesn't matter who we elect! We're fucked, either way! They're both going to raise taxes!" I ask him if this is why he called, hoping that this will, after all, turn out to be nothing more than a brother/sister jam session, bu he says no, and all at once he's sober again, serious. "Mother tried to kill herself last night by means of a sharp implement to her wrist." "One wrist?" I ask. "One wrist," he says. "So, not a serious attempt?" "No, not a serious attempt."

I feel sorry for my brother because it's him that's closest in proximity to Mom than anyone else, so it's him that has to deal with Mom. It sounds bad, to say it like that, "deal with Mom," but there isn't any other way to think of this thing with my mother.