The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (17 page)

But Olympia’s own generation had turned the business of producing edible calories into a higher calling. Not infrequently, Olympia would find herself at dinner parties in Brooklyn
where everyone would be sitting around talking about naturally evaporated sea salt or herb-infused olive oil, and she’d feel as if she were visiting from Mars. Neighbors of hers had built a cheese cave in their backyard; another guy she knew in the neighborhood had a giant beehive from which he extracted honey while wearing a black bag over his head that looked eerily like the ones used to humiliate prisoners at the Abu Ghraib prison during the War in Iraq. “Wow, your mom is really organized,” Olympia murmured to her niece.

“Yeah, she’s kind of a control freak,” said Sadie.

“What’s a control freak?” asked Lola.

“Someone who likes to be really neat,” said Olympia.

“And who freaks out if it’s not neat and has to take her medication,” added Sadie—to Olympia’s shock and fascination. Was her sister on Zoloft too? And, if so, why hadn’t she ever told Olympia? Then again, why had Olympia never told Perri about her own prescription? What if the two sisters had more in common than either would ever be willing to admit?

Eggs, milk, and oil all found their way onto the countertop. “Are you girls going to help me?” asked Olympia. “Because, truth be told, Old Auntie Pia isn’t much of a chef.”

“Can I break the eggs?” Sadie said excitedly.

“Can I mix?” said Lola.

The project was a roaring success. Olympia managed to flip at just the right moment and without excessive splattering. For once, Sadie was being almost sweet. And Lola seemed ecstatically happy to have a “big sister” for the day—so much so that, for a brief moment in time, Olympia allowed herself to imagine they were all one big happy family and that this was her four-bedroom Tudor; her toile-upholstered kitchen nook; even her (god forbid) husband sitting in it, flipping through the Weekend
Journal, Noah on the floor next to him zoom-zooming a toy digger around a pretend building site. Her brother-in-law was no one’s idea of tall, dark, and handsome, Olympia thought. But he was all man. His hands in particular had a certain meaty appeal. His wedding ring and neatly clipped nails aside, she could almost imagine Mike as a caveman in prehistoric France, pulling apart an animal carcass.

In the afternoon, they all went to the hospital to visit Carol. At the sight of her broken leg still suspended in traction, guilt consumed Olympia. She suddenly grasped the discomfort that her mother must have been in all that month, as well as her own failure to have made that month any more bearable for her. Olympia couldn’t precisely say what had kept her away from Yonkers other than sheer lassitude. If Carol was miffed at her, however, she didn’t let on. “It’s lovely to see you, Pia,” she said, to Olympia’s surprise and relief.

Then she relayed the joyous news that, if all went as planned, her doctors were promising to release her on Sunday or Monday.

“Well, isn’t that something,” said Bob, looking so happy that Olympia thought he might burst.

It didn’t seem like a good time to tell Carol (or Bob) what was going on in Perri’s marriage, or at Olympia’s job. So Olympia repeated her previous lie about how her older sister had left at dawn for a closet conference in San Diego.

“How strange. She didn’t mention it when I saw her,” said Carol. “But you girls are so in demand! I don’t even try to keep up anymore.”

Saturday evening, Gus and Jeff came over for pizza. Just as Perri had feared and suspected, the two were now a couple. The thought crossed Olympia’s mind that Perri’s motives for leaving town included some deep-seated dread of seeing her sister and her brother-in-law romantically entwined. Since Jeff was sitting across from her, Olympia had plenty of opportunity to study his face.
Stunningly handsome
was the verdict, she decided, if in a highly studied way. Clearly, he’d put a lot of thought into making his hair appear as if he’d just climbed out of bed. Or maybe he really
had
just climbed out of bed—with Gus. Or had they not slept together yet? Olympia couldn’t tell. Either way, Olympia was surprised to find herself feeling resentful, as well: Why should
she
have to deal with Perri’s mess while Gus spent the weekend gallivanting with Perri’s husband’s handsome brother? Wasn’t Olympia supposed to be the Pretty One in the family? Didn’t that count for anything anymore?

Or had the tiara been passed down? Olympia had to concede that, if anyone was looking stunning that evening, it was her younger sister, Gus, who had pulled her hair back in a tiny ponytail and was wearing—was it possible?—eyeliner and lip gloss. Until just then, Olympia had never noticed how fine her sister’s features were. The loss of her nose ring definitely enhanced the picture, as well. And why was she smiling like that and giggling at everything Jeff said? Olympia liked to think of herself as someone who didn’t begrudge others their happiness and especially not her sisters—so long as they didn’t gloat. But with each passing minute, she found the sight of Gus and Jeff more and more unbearable.

On account of (a) Perri’s glaring absence and (b) the need to keep the truth about that absence from Bob, the conversation at the dinner table that evening was as desultory as it was stilted.
Bob remarked on how tasty the crust was before asking if the rest of them were aware that pizza dough operated on similar principles as standing-wave ultrasound, providing insight into the motors used in micro-actuator technology? No one was aware. At another lull, Olympia asked Aiden, “So, what’s your favorite movie these days?” (Having already eaten dinner, the younger kids were in the adjoining den, watching
Mary Poppins.
)

“
Transformers,
” he said, without skipping a beat.

“An excellent film,” said Jeff. “I thought Megan Fox really brought depth to the character of Mikaela Banes, the all-knowing auto mechanic.”

“I guess,” said Aiden, who still didn’t like girls.

“What about you, Dad?” asked Olympia.

“Let’s see. I enjoyed
What’s Up, Doc?
with Barbra Streisand. I suppose it was many years ago now. But Carol and I have never laughed so hard in a movie theater. I also enjoyed Woody Allen’s
Sleeper.
A very amusing film.”

“Interesting choices from yesteryear,” said Olympia. “Jeff?”

“Let’s see. I remember digging
The Shawshank Redemption
when I saw it. On a lighter note, I definitely enjoyed
Wedding Crashers.
”

“That
was
a seriously funny movie,” offered Mike, chuckling for the first time all weekend. “That scene when the weird gay brother climbs into Vince Vaughn’s bed and tries to seduce him—hilarious.”

Gus took the opportunity to shoot her brother-in-law an angry look and mutter “Homophobe” while an apparently newly sensitized Jeff added, “Easy there, bro.”

Meanwhile, Olympia’s mind traveled at the speed of a flying pizza back to Brooklyn and her black file cabinet, whose
bottom drawer she mentally pulled open to reveal the donor profile of #6103. They were
his
favorite movies, too. A coincidence, she hoped. Only, what did that coincidence say about Lola’s father? To the best of her abilities, Olympia had blocked out Dawn Cronin’s New Year’s missive, refusing to believe that her daughter’s father could possibly be a second-tier underwear model named Randy from Las Vegas.

Or what if, by some freak chance, it wasn’t a coincidence at all? What if Jefferson Sims, in need of cash for a new pair of Rossignols or the like, had paid a few visits to the Cryobank of Park Avenue five or six years ago, en route to Stowe? Olympia suddenly recalled Perri’s saying that he’d spent one semester at medical school in the Caribbean before quitting to start a T-shirt and Boogie Board business on Venice Beach. Plus, he was over six feet tall with blue eyes and brown hair. Moreover, #6103 had listed skiing as one of his favorite sports, albeit the cross-country variety.

Olympia thought she was going to be sick. She put down her fork and reached for her wine. “Jeff,” she said, swallowing. “I have a strange question. By any chance do you like the Boston Red Sox?”

“The Red Sox?” he asked, squinting.

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “I’m not really a team sports kind of guy. But the Sox are pretty awesome if you like baseball. They’ve got Big Papi—”

“Right. Excuse me,” said Olympia, rising from the table.

Each of her legs seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as she mounted the stairs. Closing the door to the kids’ bathroom, she sat down on the toilet seat, pulled an emergency pack of American Spirits out of her handbag, yanked open the window (so
Sadie’s and Aiden’s monogrammed towels wouldn’t reek), and then, her hands trembling, lit up.
Surely she was just being paranoid.
Lola and Jeff looked nothing alike. Or did they? Flipping from one disturbing thought to another, she thought of Patrick and wondered what he was doing just then and if he ever thought about her, ever missed her, ever realized the heartache he’d caused her. She also thought of Perri and how crazy she was to be throwing away this life of bounty, this life that Olympia actually wanted. There, she’d finally admitted it to herself. She was tired of going it alone, tired of pretending to be brave and sleek and free of neediness, like some honey trap in one of her beloved John le Carré spy novels. She was getting too old to keep up the act. Her eyes filled with tears, but she kept them at bay for as long as she could. Then she couldn’t anymore and began to weep—not loudly, but apparently loudly enough for Mike to hear.

Whether he was worried and had come to check on her, or just happened to be walking by, she never knew. But there was a knock on the door. “I’m in here,” Olympia called out in a thin voice, as she instinctively stood up, lifted the toilet seat, and pitched her cigarette into the bowl. As if she were a teenager about to be grounded, even though, while she was growing up, Bob and Carol regularly pretended not to notice the smoke that billowed out of Gus’s bedroom and hers. (Even in middle school, Perri was violently antismoking.)

“Pia?” came the tentative response. “You okay?”

By then she was crying too hard to answer.

Mike cracked the door, peered at her in silence for a few moments, then took a step in and closed the door behind him. From there, he slowly walked over to where she now sat, slumped on the floor beneath the window. “Hey,” he
said. Squatting before her, he laid a tentative hand on her upper arm.

“I’m okay—thanks,” Olympia finally choked out, both embarrassed to have been discovered in such a pathetic state and, in truth, thankful for the sympathy. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. A fluttery breeze danced in circles over their heads.

“You don’t look okay.” He handed her a tissue.

“I’m just—it’s nothing,” she said, blotting her nose and eyes.

Mike stood up, slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and appeared to examine a bottle of scented moisturizer on the glass shelf over the toilet. Then he let out an acid chuckle, and said, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be crying.”

“Go ahead,” said Olympia, laughing herself now, if secretly disappointed that he’d already turned the conversation back to himself. Why were men always doing that?!

“Nah, I’m done with that part,” he said, turning to lean his backside into the edge of the sink, one sneaker foot lifted onto its toe. “To be honest, a part of me is kind of enjoying this in some sick way.”

“You
are?
” said Olympia, startled by the admission and furrowing her brow.

“I don’t know”—Mike shrugged—“maybe everyone wants what they don’t have.”

“Maybe,” she said, unsure what he was getting at.

A few more moments of silence passed between them. Then he glanced sideways at her, visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple shooting up and down his neck like a pinball that couldn’t break through to the next corridor. “What about you?” he said in a strange voice. “What do you want, Pia?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, sensing a new intention.

Suddenly he was right next to her, kneeling before her, as if he were about to pray to Mecca. But he wasn’t. He was looking right at her, looking at her longingly and clutching her upper arms with his caveman hands. He was so close that Olympia could see the little lines that ran up and down his lips. She could smell him, too. And he smelled like pepperoni and aftershave and beer. And he was warm. She could tell that from his hands alone, tell that he was an ideal furnace to be wrapped around on cold nights in January. “Pia,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful. I never felt I could tell you that before now.” And his chest was going in and out. And his words felt like the prick of a pin. Olympia winced in pain or pleasure—she could no longer tell the difference. All she knew was that this wasn’t supposed to be happening.

Except it was. And in that moment, she wanted so badly to reciprocate, to fall into Mike Sims’s chest and let him have her. It had been so long since she’d felt desired. And she felt so comfortable with him. As if they’d known each other their whole lives. (In a way, she supposed, they had.) She trusted him, too; however ironically, he felt like a safe bet. Plus, there was no denying the comfort of his words, familiar words that she still needed to hear, that still made her feel special, even as she acknowledged the hollowness of an accolade that was slipping further and further out of reach.

But she couldn’t do it, couldn’t do that to her sister. Even if Perri didn’t want him anymore, that didn’t mean she wanted Olympia to have him. Olympia couldn’t bear the thought of incurring Perri’s eternal wrath. She had pride, too. And she hated the idea of Perri imagining that Olympia had spent the previous thirty-eight years coveting what her older sister had
already achieved, trying to be
just like her.
Also, she didn’t want to prove Gus right again; she could still hear her younger sister the night of Carol’s accident, saying she’d “always been into married guys.” “Mike—stop!” she squeaked in a puny voice, standing up to escape his clutches.