The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (28 page)

“Also, I promise to buy toilet paper more often.”

“So you’re inviting yourself to move back in?” The nerve was astounding, Gus thought.

Debbie looked hopefully at her. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I want right now,” said Gus. And it was true. She was just beginning to adjust to life on her own. And she still had so much anger at Debbie; it was hard to say when, if ever, she’d be able to let it go. And she’d never felt so needy in a relationship as she had with Debbie. Why would she want to repeat that experience? Then again, it was Debbie who was the needy one right now. But how long before they reverted back to their old roles? And who was to say that, in six months’ time, they wouldn’t find themselves in the same bad place as before? “All I know,” Gus told her, “is that when I heard you’d left me for that bitch from Lamda Legal, I felt like someone had put a bullet through my chest.”

“I’m sorry,” said Debbie. “I was tired of being criticized. That was part of it. I felt like nothing I did was right.”

“Well, I’m sorry you felt that way,” said Gus.

Debbie stood up. “Gussy,” she said. “Take me back. I’m begging you. You’re my family—not Maggie. I was just sick of all the fighting. It seemed like we didn’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“And what makes you think we’ll have fun now?” asked Gus.

“Because”—Debbie gulped—“I love you.”

“Is that right?” asked Gus, her eyes filling with tears at all the accumulated hurt and longing. “Well, maybe I love you, too.” With that, she fell into Debbie’s arms and wept. If that made Gus a masochist, so be it.

At midnight, the two could be found eating defrosted burritos on the living room sofa and reminiscing about their lame
week in Provincetown the previous summer—they’d accidentally booked a room for Bear Week instead of Women’s Week—when Gus saw Jeff’s name flash across the caller ID screen on her phone. She didn’t pick up. “Fucking telemarketers,” she said.

“You know, you can put your name on a no-call list,” said Debbie. “I have the number somewhere.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Gus. She figured Jeff would get the message eventually, if he hadn’t already.

20

O
N THE MORNING
of the Second Sisters’ Summit, Perri woke to find the sun sparkling in a cloudless blue sky. The weather gods had cooperated. She’d been hoping to do the meal outside. That wish, it seemed, would be granted. She’d also made arrangements for Mike to take all three kids to Rye Playland until midafternoon. After the Lexus pulled away in a cloud of juice boxes and sun visors, Perri sighed with pleasure at the quiet around her. Then she got to work setting the table.

She’d already decided on the color scheme (Provençal-inspired yellow and blue); the centerpiece (forsythia branches clipped from the garden); and the menu (
croques monsieur
made in her new sandwich press). If Jennifer Yu didn’t eat ham, Perri thought, that was too bad! A tossed green salad and walnut brownies would round out the meal. Perri was also planning to mix up some homemade lemonade. Keen to convey how comfortable she was in her own life and skin, she’d dressed for the occasion in a new jean skirt, yellow sandals, and breezy floral silk-chiffon blouse. Not that she was feeling particularly
comfortable about anything. But in the weeks since the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist, she’d become more resigned to the idea that there was only so much you could control on this planet. Possibly, you couldn’t control a damn thing.

The previous week, Gus had arranged for both Bob and Jennifer to spit in cups. She’d then had the globules analyzed at a lab. The results had come back five days later and had indicated a match. Which meant that Jennifer was indeed Perri’s
older
half sister. How could she turn the woman away? And how could she ever forgive her father? It wasn’t just the crime of cheating on Carol for which Perri held him accountable. It was the fact that he’d stripped Perri of her entire identity, as the elder stateswoman of the Hellinger Sisters. It was as if she’d found out the world was flat after a lifetime of having been told it was round. Jennifer’s earlier date of birth wasn’t the only thing that rankled Perri. From the information she’d gleaned via Google, her new sister was the most distinguished and impressive Hellinger sister of all: a Harvard Medical School graduate who spent her days saving children with cancer. How could Perri begin to compete? All she had to offer society was creative solutions to closet clutter. It was enough to make Perri want to hide in one of the storage boxes she marketed and never come out again.

But in couples counseling in Mamaroneck, “Dr. Jane” was encouraging both her and Mike to face their fears and also to be more honest and open about them with each other. (Wary of running into someone he knew, Mike had begrudgingly agreed to attend ten sessions on the condition that they didn’t see a therapist in Larchmont.) They’d been to only two sessions so far. Yet it seemed to Perri that a lot had already been accomplished. Mike had admitted that, on account of his job loss, he’d
felt inadequate. Perri had conceded that, following the birth of her third child, she’d begun to doubt her own attractiveness. Both she and Mike had also confessed to having at least flirted with the idea of extramarital affairs. To Perri’s horror, Mike had copped to coming on to her sister Olympia after Perri disappeared to Florida, though only after she gave him “welcoming signals,” whatever those were. Perri realized she’d probably never learn the truth about what had happened that night in the kids’ bathroom. Meanwhile, she’d admitted to meeting up, albeit consummating nothing, with Roy Marley in South Beach. “Jesus Christ—not Rasta Roy!!” Mike had bellowed at the revelation.

“Can you try not to be racist?” Perri had countered. “The guy is from Chevy Chase, Maryland. Okay? And his father was an orthodontist.”

“Whatever. The guy was an asshole twenty years ago and he still is! And he tried to fuck my wife.”

“People. People,” Jane had interrupted them in her soothing therapist voice. “Let’s concentrate on saying constructive things to each other. Using profanity is not constructive in this situation. Perri, why don’t you go first and apologize to Mike for saying something that was purposefully hurtful.”

“Why do I have to go first?” Perri had whined.

“Because I asked you to,” Jane had replied, further convincing Perri that she was on Mike’s side. Even so, she’d gone ahead and apologized (though it had almost killed her to do so). Perri had also taken Jane’s advice that she and Mike try to “reengage with their courtship years.” The night before last, they’d gone on a proper dinner date in the city and had even played footsie under the table. But while they were waiting for their tuna steaks to arrive, Mike had started humming Bob Marley’s “No
Woman, No Cry.” Footsie had soon deteriorated into shin kicking. “That’s really not funny,” Perri had declared. Not surprisingly, they’d eaten dessert in silence. However, later in the evening, on their way back to Larchmont, they’d had their first real post-breakup laugh talking about the skinny kid on Aiden’s Little League team who’d lost his pants while running to second base. And in the parking lot, after their date night, they’d kissed.

They’d also decided to get a live-in au pair to help with the extra housework and childcare. (Dolores had announced that she was planning to move back to Colombia that summer to be closer to her family.) Perri had only one stipulation regarding the new person: no one from Sweden, Norway, Finland, or France. Preferred countries of origin: Bulgaria, Romania, Albania, and Moldova. The agency had promised to come up with a name by the following Monday.

She and Mike still hadn’t made love. But maybe, some time soon…

Jennifer Yu had been invited for one p.m., Perri’s “real sisters” for twelve thirty. Or, rather, Perri had invited Olympia for noon with the assumption that she’d be at least a half hour late, as she always was. With any luck, Olympia and Gus would show up at the same time and well before Jennifer did.

So much for planning well… The bell rang at twelve sharp. Praying it was the FedEx guy—Perri hadn’t even washed the parsley yet!—she opened the door and found Olympia wearing practically the same outfit that she herself had on: a jean skirt, flat sandals, and a billowy chiffon blouse. “Oh, it’s you!” said Perri. “Looking like me.”

“Nice outfit,” said Olympia, seemingly taken aback, as well.

At least this time, Perri didn’t have to worry about being mocked for her sartorial choices, she thought. And yet the sight of Olympia standing there, looking like a clone of her, only a comelier version, made Perri’s blood pressure rise. Had Olympia been wearing the same shade of lip gloss the night that Mike tried to kiss her? She wondered. And when, if ever, would Perri be able to forgive her sister and husband for their transgressions? “Same to you,” Perri said quickly. “Meanwhile, what are you doing here already?”

“You told me to come at noon.”

“But I meant twelve thirty.”

“Then you should have said twelve thirty.”

“But you’re always late.”

Olympia rolled her eyes. “I’m not
always
anything—you’re as bad as Mom with the constant labeling!”

Perri flinched at the charge. In truth, she’d always identified with Carol’s need to define what was what. And, at the same time, she liked to imagine herself as being a more refined version of their mother, who had all the social graces of a buffalo. “Fine. Come in. It’ll be a little while before Gus and What’s Her Name arrive.”

“You mean, our
half sister, Jennifer?
” said Olympia.

“Whatever. She doesn’t have my last name. Until that happens, she’s What’s Her Name.”

Olympia followed Perri into the backyard, where she sat down on the wooden swing beneath the giant oak and raised her face to the sun. “I didn’t feel like talking about it when I saw you in Hastings, but I quit my job,” she said. “Or, I guess you could say, it quit me.”

“Huh,” said Perri, not all that surprised. It seemed to be a
biannual occurrence. “Well, congratulations, or I’m sorry—depending on how happy you are to be out of there.”

“I’m happy actually. I might take some time off from looking for a new job and devote myself to painting. For as long as I can afford it, that is.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

“I hope so.”

“You don’t like committing to one thing for too long, anyway.”

Olympia dug her toes into the dirt, so the swing came to a stop. “You really hate me, don’t you?” she said, squinting at her sister. “Like, you fundamentally dislike everything about me.”

Perri was caught off guard. She’d never really thought about it that way. “Look, I don’t hate you,” she said, balling up a paper napkin. “But, to be honest, it hasn’t been easy thinking about my husband making a pass at you.”

“It hasn’t been easy for me, either,” said Olympia.

“Oh, really?” said Perri, dubious of the claim.

“Over the years, I’ve gotten a lot of attention for the way I look—I admit it,” Olympia went on.

Could her sister’s ego be any larger?! “And?” asked Perri.

“And I feel like this thing with Mike has just reinforced your impression of me as some dumb bimbo or, even worse, evil temptress.” Perri was about to deny the charge, if only to deny Olympia some of the sexual potency of which she so clearly thought she was in possession—when Olympia declared, “That’s not who I am. I’m actually a pretty sensitive person. And it’s been hard for me, watching you and Gus become such successes, while my career, if you can even call it that, has been one big flop.”

“You’re an artist,” said Perri, surprised to find herself taking pity.

“An artist?” Olympia laughed. “Wow, thanks. I think you’re the first person ever to call me that. In New York, you actually have to
sell
art to be able to call yourself an artist.”

“No, you just have to be talented.” Perri couldn’t imagine why she was being so nice.

“Gee thanks,” said Olympia. She paused to watch a squirrel stick its nose into the ground. “If you want me to be even more honest, it’s not your husband I covet”—she motioned with her chin toward the garden—“it’s this. You have a real home out here. I’ll never have anything like this. For one thing, I’ll never be able to afford it.”

“But I thought you’d rather die than have two point three kids and live in suburbia,” said Perri, surprised by Olympia’s admission. “That’s what you always said.”

“I never said that,” said Olympia.

“Well, you implied it,” said Perri.

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

Just then Gus walked in. “Twin alert,” she said, noting the clothing coincidence.

“Hey, at least I’m not wearing a hood ornament around my neck,” said Olympia, dabbing at her eyes.

“It’s not a hood ornament,” said Gus. “It’s a laughing Buddha. It’s supposed to be a good luck symbol. He’s the patron of the weak and poor.” She paused. “Debbie gave it to me.”

“Debbie?”
asked Olympia.

“Wait—are you trying to tell us that you and
Debbie
got back together?!” asked Perri.

“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” said Gus. “But yes, we got back together.”

“Wow—congratulations,” said Olympia.

“You’re kidding—that’s fantastic news!” cried Perri, who
could hardly contain her relief. She hadn’t realized how much she’d detested the idea of Gus and Jeff being a couple until she discovered they definitely weren’t anymore. That phase of Gus’s life appeared to be over, thank goodness. The Sims family was once again Perri’s private domain to love and loathe. Who could have guessed that Perri would have been so happy to think her youngest sister was a lesbian, after all?

A short while later, the doorbell rang. There was only one person left who it could be. Perri took a deep breath, sucked in her stomach, and strode to the door. Olympia and Gus hung back in the hall, near the console. A beautiful and elegant Asian woman soon appeared in the doorframe, backlit by a gleaming sun. “Hello,” she said. She was wearing a lightweight beige power pantsuit to outpower all of Perri’s previous attempts to exude sanguinity, capability, and calm. A single gold bangle hung from her wrist. “Welcome. You must be Jennifer,” she said, meeting the woman’s outstretched hand and scanning her face for signs of her father. (She could find none.)