Mom and the Two of Me

My mother thinks I am two different people. Sometimes, like today, when I took her for blood tests, she tells me confidentially that Robbi is not like me. She is harsh and mean, and refuses to buy shoes when they are needed. I, on the other hand, take my mother out for cream cakes and look after her health. No wonder, my mother says, shaking her tousled head (she won't allow the hairdresser to touch it, claiming that the hairdresser knows nothing about cutting hair), poor Robbi lives alone, while her husband and son live just down the road, refusing to allow her to occupy the same apartment. My mother thinks that it is fortunate that I show up sometimes, or she would be in trouble.
It is hard to remember sometimes that she is not herself either. I can't carry on a conversation with her, since she will ask how the honeymoon or the cruise or the trip to the another planet was, and did I bring pictures? What does one say to that, especially when she doesn't hear the answers I make anyhow. I just shake my head, and try to straighten out the mess in her closet, or peel off the top two outfits she is wearing so that only one remains, or encourage her again to try on the shoes in the closet that she has never worn or worn only once that fit her instead of wearing the too-big ones that fall off her feet and cause her to trip on the carpets.
Sometimes I do wish there were two of me. Things would be a lot easier, and wouldn't it be great to have someone to blame when things don't turn out as I would like? No such luck.