Three Sisters Complete a Unique Family Circle

It was exhausting trying to craft an itinerary that would satisfy both my sisters on their visit here. One’s “must see” list included psychic bookstores, “The Vagina Monologues” and a strip of African boutiques along Degnan Street. The other’s list had movie stars’ homes and the studio where they tape “Judge Judy.”

And frustrating trying to plan meals that would please a vegan whose blood sugar fluctuations require that she eat small meals of vegetables and sprouted grains every few hours, and a chocoholic who considers a Coke, a bag of chips and a candy bar something akin to a gourmet meal.

And wearying waking up each morning to the competing strains of the New Age music that one sister used for her meditation and exercise routine, and the laugh track from the “I Love Lucy” marathon the other sister watched incessantly on TV.

But the day after my sisters left for their homes in Ohio, after spending 10 days here with me, I woke up to a house that seemed uncomfortably quiet, and stumbled through my day locked in melancholy.

I thought I’d feel some relief at their departure, and slipping back into my routine. Instead, I found myself missing them, remembering not the ways we clashed, but realizing that they went back with part of me.

We were waiting in line for movie tickets at one of those giant complexes with 16 screens. My sisters were, of course, waiting for different movies. In the courtyard, a software company hawking a karaoke machine had a demonstration underway and needed volunteers.

A free T-shirt and a stint on stage were all the inducements my sister, Anita, needed. Back home, she sings professionally, when she’s not at her day job in computer marketing. She climbed onto the stage and belted out a version of “Like a Virgin” that would have given Madonna a run for her money, complete with jazzy vocal riffs, pouty air kisses and swishing hips.

Our sister, Janet, her thick brows knitted in perpetual worry, stood off alone at the side of the crowd. I couldn’t tell if she was peeved, embarrassed or horrified, but she looked like she wanted to disappear through the floor.

I clapped and cheered as Anita sang, admiring her talent and gumption. But when my gaze met Janet’s, we rolled our eyes and shook our heads. Neither of us could imagine ourselves in the spotlight.

My daughters stared at them, wondering, no doubt, how my sisters could be so different from one another, and from me, their practical older sister. After all, we all grew up together, same parents, same household. And as I walked the beach with my sisters later that weekend, I found myself marveling at that as well.

Janet is gentle and shy. She babies our dogs and dotes on her son--now 19--as if he was a little boy. She doesn’t drive, so she takes the bus each day to her job, cleaning guest rooms at a fancy hotel. She videotapes her favorite soaps to watch in the evenings when she gets home. And every night, she sets her hair with pink sponge curlers and slips into her favorite bathrobe--one she bought for our father just before he died 12 years ago.

Anita is outgoing and seems oblivious to convention. She wears her hair in spindly twists that spring from her head like a lion’s mane. She buys outfits made of mudcloth or silk in thrift stores, vintage shops and backstreet boutiques. Her weekends are filled with plays and dance classes and visits to “Whole Life,” expos where she studies healing through music and past-life regression.

So I was not surprised, as we strolled along the Venice boardwalk, when Anita steered us toward a group of drummers gathered on the sand. She slipped inside the drumming circle to join a knot of dancers whirling to the beat. Meanwhile, Janet headed alone toward the water’s edge, drawing her hood tight around her neck to keep the wind from ruffling her hair. And I stood between them: swaying to the beat of the drums but with my gaze turned toward the sea.

En route to the airport on the day they left, Janet was characteristically silent. Anita, as usual, talked incessantly. She was taking home a beaded leather pouch, a hand-carved wooden “rain stick” and a book on prophecy. Janet had purchased a pair of sweat pants and a tote bag full of t-shirts with such sayings as “My Mom Bought This for Me at Venice Beach.” I was left with three rolls of pictures and a tangle of emotions and memories.

And in our final moments, we connected in a way that transcends our differences and similarities. As they turned to call “goodbyes” and I waved them away, I realized that all three of us were crying.

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Sandy Banks’ column is published on Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.