The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters

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For my father, Peter Rosenfeld (1936–2012)

“But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it.”

—J
ANE
A
USTEN
,
Mansfield Park

1

O
LYMPIA
L
OUISE
H
ELLINGER HAD
always been the “Beautiful One” in her family. Among her sisters, she was also understood to be the Artistic One, the Flaky One, the Chronically Late One, the Mellow One, the Selfish One, and the Unambitious One. Whether reality reflected reputation was a matter of opinion. But at thirty-eight she was the events coordinator of a small museum of contemporary Austrian art, located on the Upper East Side. She was also a single mother. Little wonder that, as much as she loved spending time with her three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Lola, she also longed for more hours to herself.

For years, Olympia had been painting watercolors of little girls and furry animals. This had been true even before she’d given birth to Lola—or brought home Clive, a borderline-obese New Zealand white rabbit with pink eyes, from a local pet store. In her spare time, Olympia also enjoyed shopping for clothes; listening to music; setting up other single friends on blind dates; perusing symptoms lists on WebMD and fearing that she’d
contracted a fatal disease (and feeling, somehow, that she deserved it); and then, as a distraction from her worries, drinking too much and reading the mystery and espionage novels she’d loved since she was a child, beginning with
Harriet the Spy.

A week before Christmas, however, a more serious form of sleuthing beckoned. Impatient to begin, Olympia started “bath time” fifteen minutes earlier than usual. “Story time” followed. For the sixth night in a row, Lola wanted Olympia to read her
Madeline’s Rescue.
Miss Clavel having turned off the light for the last time, Lola demanded that her mother “ask her a silly question.”

Olympia complied with this request as well. “Excuse me,” she began. “But there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Can you explain to me why there’s a slice of pizza coming out of your elbow?”

“Ask me another silly question,” Lola replied with a giggle.

“I was also wondering why there’s a piece of celery sticking out of your ear?”

That was apparently an even funnier image to behold. Lola laughed so hard she burped.

“Also,” said Olympia, “could someone tell me why there’s a cheese sandwich attached to your behind?”

Now in stitches, Lola collapsed onto her mother’s lap, then the rug. Enchanted by the sound of her daughter’s laughter, Olympia momentarily forgot what a rush she was in, bent over Lola’s tiny body, and, in an attempt to prolong her hysterics, tickled her exposed tummy. (Lola’s beloved Disney Princess nightgown, a hot-pink firetrap given to her by her babysitter and featuring the entire royal assemblage clustered like newscasters on a billboard, had ridden up to her armpits.)

Shortly thereafter, Olympia’s internal clock resumed ticking.
“And now it’s sleepy time for Sleeping Beauty,” she announced, lifting Lola into the air with her as she stood up.

“I’m
Belle
—not Sleeping Beauty,” declared Lola, her laughter abruptly ceasing.

“Well, Queen Mommy has decreed that all princesses must be asleep by eight thirty.”

“One more silly question.”

“No. You have school tomorrow.”

“It’s not real school. It’s daycare.”

Olympia released a heavy sigh of exasperation before attempting to regain the upper hand. “Okay, here’s my
last
silly question: can you please tell me why you’re not in bed already?”

“That’s not silly.”

“Nighty-night.”

“But you didn’t sing ‘Favorite Things’ or do ‘This Little Piggy’ yet!”

Olympia had a new tack. “If I do both things, do you promise to go to sleep?”

“Okay,” Lola agreed.

“But do you
promise?
”

“Promise.”

And so Olympia assigned neighborhood destinations to all ten of Lola’s toes. Then she did her best Julie Andrews impression.
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes!,
she sang in a high register, secretly impressed with her own vocal skills and, for a split second, wondering if she could have made it a career.
Silver white winters that meld into spring
, she went on. Or was it
melt
into spring? And did it matter? Finally, Olympia arrived at the last of the
feel so bad
s. “Okay, that’s it. It’s eight thirty,” she said. It was actually eight twenty-seven; luckily, Lola hadn’t yet learned to tell time.

Olympia deposited Lola in her toddler bed, then switched off the butterfly lamp on her dresser. The room went dark but for the fluorescent glow of a night-light.

“Noooooo!” moaned Lola. “No sleep. Not tired.”

“Lola, you promised!!” said Olympia, her temperature rising.

“I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of? I’m going to be in the next room.”

“I’m scared of the dark.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s not even that dark in here.”

“Is
so.
”

“Is
not.
”

“Is too,” said Lola, throwing her legs over the side of the bed as if preparing to stand up again…

Blood rushed to Olympia’s cheeks and forehead. “ENOUGH!” she cried. “YOU’RE DRIVING ME FUCKING INSANE!!” With that, she pushed her daughter back onto the mattress—harder than she’d meant to.

Lola burst into hysterical tears. Guilt and fear consumed Olympia. How soon before Children’s Services arrived? “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said, taking Lola back into her arms. “Mommy’s had a long day.” As Olympia held her close, she lamented the wet spot forming on her new blouse, but felt unable to justify altering the position of her daughter’s drooling mouth.

“You pushed me, too.” The child wept. “You’re a bad mommy!”

“All right, all right,” said Olympia, who, despite feeling bad, thought Lola was laying it on a little thick. “Sometimes grown-ups get mad just like kids get mad.”

“What does ‘fugging’ mean?”

“It means ‘very.’ But only grown-ups can use it.”

“Like,
I’m fugging hungry?
”

“Something like that,” said Olympia, cringing.

Lola’s bedroom was really just an alcove of her mother’s, separated by a curtain. “Will you lay on your bed until I’m asleep?” she asked.

Every night, Olympia told herself she wasn’t going to do so anymore. And every night she did. How could she say no now? “Okay, but only for two minutes,” she said.

Two minutes, of course, turned into twenty-five, during which time Lola issued a stream of unanswerable questions (“Why can’t people fly?” “Why does cheese smell?” “Why don’t cows and dogs wear underpants?”). Finally assured of her daughter’s slowed breathing and splayed limbs, Olympia tiptoed out of her bedroom and, half closing the door behind her, felt as if she’d just posted bail from a developing-world prison.

Her interests never strayed far from her captor, however. After downing the remainder of a half-filled glass of Côtes du Rhône, Olympia walked over to her black file cabinet—once a floor model; hence the dent—and pulled out a manila folder marked “Lola-Birth.” She opened the folder and removed several sheets of rumpled copy paper, the first page of which was headed “Anonymous Donor Profile #6103.” It had been several years since she’d looked at the printout. Earlier that evening, gazing in fascination at Lola’s hazel eyes, abundant freckles, and flaming red curls, Olympia—who had straight brown hair, light olive skin, and green eyes—had wondered if she’d missed some salient detail that the profile contained.

To both her relief and her disappointment, as she read through the document, she found nothing new in it:

Ethnicity: Anglo-Saxon

Height: 6′ 1″

Weight: 185 lbs

Hair: brown

Eyes: blue

Education: B.A., Ivy League college

Occupation: medical school student

Describes himself as: motivated, thoughtful

Athletic skills: rowing, lacrosse, and cross-country skiing

Education/occupation of father: businessman

Education/occupation of mother: homemaker

Favorite movies:
Shawshank Redemption, Wedding Crashers

Favorite sports team: Boston Red Sox

Favorite author: Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chromosome analysis: normal male 46…

Clearly the hunky scion of a grand old WASP family, down on its luck, Olympia had thought at the time she’d purchased his genetic material—back when that assumption had been enough. Back then, she’d liked the idea of having a child with no identifiable paternity. Wounded by a tumultuous love affair with a married man that left her in doubt about the self-sufficiency on which she prided herself (and deeply ashamed as well), she’d seen the arrangement as refreshingly uncomplicated. Plus, the married man had had a vasectomy, so there had been no question of becoming pregnant by him.

It was only recently that Olympia had begun to question her decision to have a family on her own. Increasingly, she felt as if there was no one to share her daughter’s small but, to Olympia’s mind, miraculous milestones—from Lola’s first steps without holding on, to the first time she’d drawn a figure with arms and legs, to her sudden ability to write her own name in crooked caps. Olympia’s friends, even those who were parents, couldn’t be expected to care. Her own parents seemed distracted. And when Olympia tried to tell her older sister, Imperia (known as “Perri”), her sister invariably pointed out that
her
daughter, Sadie, had done whatever it was six months earlier than Lola had.