Debbie pulled her aging Old's 88 to the curb across from the two story clapboard, once white, now a mottled, weathered, gray. She was assaulted by the familiar odor of rotting leaves masking the smell of garbage and rotting shingles. Her sister stepped down from the porch of the house they were raised in and walked across the street. "You gonna come in this time?"
"How is she?" Debbie spat the words.
Dark hair tumbling across Megan's face couldn't hide her expression. Mad. She had a right to be, Debbie knew. But she'd be damned if she'd admit that to her sister, or to her mother. She could see the glow of a cigarette just behind the screen door opposite. It was a standoff. Her mother wouldn't come out, and Debbie hated going in, to admit she'd chickened out. Ran away.
"Look, don't do this," Megan said. "It's dad all over again."
Debbie turned off the motor, gripped the steering wheel with both hands and lay her forehead on her knuckles. "I'm not like dad!" she said in a low growl. "I'm not!"
"Then come inside. She doesn't have any of the old bite left, I can tell you. She's mom, and she's tough and she won't be sweet. But dammit, she really needs us both right now."
Debbie sighed. She hesitated, then opened the door. "Shit," she said, climbing out. "Shit."
(9/26/2012 - Lascaux Flash Fiction contest entry)