Dog Stays in the Picture by Susan; Morse

shoot out of the room. (There is something wrong with that rabbit!)
    That was that. Joey sat down and started cleaning himself: You are now my bitch, dog .
    Voice mail from Mother Brigid:
    Ech-ehhmmm. It’s Ma. Susie? I can’t hear you. What’s wrong with this thing? Ech-ech-ehhmmm. Are you there, Susie? I think my phone may be broken. Put this by the bed, Doris, or Florence. Oh. Florida. Sorry. Thank you, Florida. I’m calling my daughter back now.
    (Scuffling noises followed by BOOP BERP BEEP BOP BOOP : the jarring, distinctly recognizable melody of my touchtone number—she has forgotten to disconnect before redialing.)
    (Silence.)
    Susie? Oh dear. …
    Now, Dor … erm … Florida, could you please bring me the honey from the little cupboard over the sink. The one that says “Local Honey”—tea with local honey is better for allergies because local bees pollinate local flowers, and that’s what I’m allergic to. Ehhmm. I can’t stop clearing my throat; it’s dreadful.
    Susie, are you there or not? Well. If this is me leaving you a message, then I have to tell you thank you very much for inviting me for New Year’s Eve but I promised Babbie I’d meet her at a party here this afternoon and I don’t know how long it will go, so I think I’ll be tired tonight.
    (Extended silence.)
    Thank you, Florence, this tea is perfect.
    (Slurping noise.)
    Ech-ehhmmm.
    (More scuffling.)
    Oh, and Susie, did you get an e-mail Father Nectarius sent for you to give me that has all the homilies by Saint Theophan the Recluse, and if you did, can you please bring it as soon as possible? It’s urgent. And it’s Ma. How is Lilly? God bless and call me back.
    (Click.)
    My mother has always taken up a huge chunk of my attention, partly because she won’t have it any other way, and partly because I am a little fixated. She’s extremely interesting, which is an understatement. My father used to say he hoped to die before Ma because his life would be too boring without her. I often wonder what he’d make of the new identity she’s assumed since he left us fifteen years back.
    Ma’s kind of picky about her religions. After trying six or seven she settled, quite late in life, on Orthodox Christianity. I was skeptical about her level of commitment, but it seems this latest religion has stuck—as demonstrated a couple of years ago when an Orthodox bishop came along and made her a nun at age eighty-five on the eve of cancer surgery, and she almost took up permanent residence in a skilled nursing facility located inconveniently two hours from here in the farmlands of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, because it was close to her church.
    But then, a luxury retirement community nearer to me offered a clergy scholarship of sorts. Confronted with a choice between frequent communion with the priests upstate, and the chance to spiritually enrich the life of her infidel youngest daughter (me) during her twilight years, Ma picked the latter. The priests in Carlisle gave their blessing on the condition that Mother Brigid (that’s her nun name) stay in close touch, meaning visits on the high holy days, health permitting.
    The distance has been a challenge. There are other clergy at the new place, but Ma’s the only Orthodox. She follows the discipline as well as can be expected, given her infirm condition and particular upper-crusty sensibilities. Her financial-assistance package is fair but does not cover all the helpers we believe are required to keep Ma mellow—kind companions like Florida making tea—that’s up to my siblings and me. It’s truly lucky we can afford to help, because my mother is not the sort to suffer hardship easily, despite her monastic inclination.
    As a nun, Mother Brigid wears no jewelry save a cross. All her clothes are black. (Silk, linen, or cashmere. Nothing synthetic, if you please.) There’s nobody nearby to consult