Sisterland

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  “I’m supposed to meet with a couple students.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “You got the steaks for tonight, right? I don’t need to stop by Schnucks?”

  “I have everything. The cake’s baking as we speak.” I could feel Jeremy’s attention turning, and I blurted out, “You know how I didn’t want biological children?”

  “Was that you?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “If this had happened to us, I’d have felt really guilty.”

  “They’re not responsible. It’s a matter of genetics.”

  “The chances of Down’s increase the older you are.”

  “Sure, but the great majority of women over thirty-five still have healthy babies.”

  “No, I know.” I paused. “I wonder if they’re considering—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word abortion in front of Owen, though apparently I didn’t mind announcing to him that I once hadn’t wanted biological children.

  “I’m sure they’re in shock right now,” Jeremy said. “But will you do me a favor? Will you take a deep breath?”

  Rosie awakened and started talking nine minutes before the timer for the cake was set to go off—over the monitor, I distinctly heard her say, “The baloney has a pee-pee in she’s diaper”—and my heart was still clenching. Before taking Owen upstairs to get Rosie, I called Vi back. When she answered, I said, “If you’re ready right now, we’ll come over and take you to the mall.”

  The Galleria was crowded pretty much all the time, and on a Friday afternoon it was mobbed; we had to park at the far north entrance beyond Dillard’s. Rosie didn’t want to ride in the double stroller, and I ended up mashing her down into the seat and snapping the buckles around her waist as she writhed up. “Mommy is a bad Mommy,” she howled. “Rosie does not like Mommy.”

  “Tell us what you really think, Rosie,” Vi said. “Don’t hold back.”

  Inside Dillard’s, I let Rosie out and said to Vi, “Feel free to go ahead and we’ll meet you.”

  “But I need your advice.”

  “I thought you had something specific in mind from Brookstone.”

  Quickly, Vi said, “There’s a few possibilities.”

  By the time we’d made it across the mall, up the elevator, and into the store, and Vi had dawdled in the way of the childless as she considered whether our father would prefer a shower radio or velour slippers, it was after four. The double stroller was too wide to push inside the store, so I’d left it near the front, carrying Owen while I chased Rosie around, righting the picture frames and alarm clocks she knocked over, returning the wine openers and noise-canceling headphones she’d grabbed to their rightful shelves.

  The cashier who rang up the slippers Vi decided on was a short, sandy-haired man who took Vi’s credit card then glanced back and forth between us. I was so sure that he was going to say Are you twins? that I was already half-nodding (She is. By eight minutes. Yes, identical), but what he said instead, looking only at Vi, was “You’re the psychic, aren’t you? I saw you on Channel 5.”

  “Oh,” Vi said, and the energy of the encounter shifted; she became the most important of the three adults present. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “You predicted a big earthquake?”

  Vi’s brow furrowed; the excitement of being recognized was suddenly imbued with the seriousness of what she’d predicted. “I hope I’m wrong,” she said. “I really do.” This was such a perfect response that I silently begged her to say nothing else; when she plucked a business card from her wallet and passed it to the cashier, it was impossible to know whether she’d chosen to ignore my plea or been unaware of it. “If you’d like to talk about your own path, this is how to reach me,” she said to the man. “Issues with loved ones, romantic and career guidance, what your true purpose is—really, anything you’re confused about, I’d be happy to help.” I wasn’t hearing her spiel for the first time, but still, the irony was so rich, and she was so oblivious to it. She added, “I do private consultations for seventy-five dollars and group sessions for thirty per person.”

  The man set the card on top of a clipboard next to the cash register—he wasn’t obviously disgusted—and I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t see the card’s background, which featured a peach-tinted sunset and, on the left side, a mountain; next to the mountain it said VIOLET SHRAMM, PROFESSIONAL PSYCHIC MEDIUM and had not just her phone number and email but her home address, which was where she conducted her sessions.

  Outside the store, as I wrangled Owen and Rosie back into the stroller, Vi said, “I just want to get a Diet Coke in the food court and then I’m done.”

  “I need to make the icing for Dad’s cake.”

  “Homemade icing, huh? Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart.” But Vi was already walking away, and she called over her shoulder, “I’ll hurry.”

  “Meet us at the car!” I yelled. Three teenage girls passing by looked at me.

  A solid twenty minutes later, beaming and entirely unapologetic, Vi opened the front passenger-side door. Owen and Rosie were both in their car seats and the stroller was put away; I was in the driver’s seat with my own seat belt fastened and the car’s motor on. As Vi climbed in, a twenty-ounce cup in her hand, she said, “You’ll never believe who just called me.”

  I said nothing as I backed out of the parking space, and Vi said, “You can’t give me the silent treatment right now. This is way too exciting.”

  “I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I’m trying to get us out of the parking lot.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell you if you don’t want to know.”

  The truth was that I wasn’t that curious, and certainly not enough to beg her. I suspected her allegedly juicy tidbit would be along the lines of the cousin or mother-in-law of some Rams player requesting a reading.

  From behind me, Rosie said, “Rosie wants a straw.”

  “You can use your cup with the straw at home.”

  “Rosie wants that straw.”

  “It’s Aunt Vi’s.”

  “Does she want a sip?” Vi asked, and I gave her a look and shook my head; Rosie had never had soda. We were driving east on Clayton Road, passing Hanley, when Vi said, “You really don’t want to know who called me? It’s major.”

  “Tell me if you want to.”

  “Not if you’re not interested.”

  I ignored the bait. “When we get home, will you set the table on the patio while I frost the cake?”

  “Rosie wants a sip!” Rosie yelled, and she kicked my seat as I made a left off Clayton Road, onto DeMun. When we turned onto San Bonita, Jeremy’s car was parked on the street in front of our house, and he and my father were walking across the yard toward the door.

  After Jeremy set the steaks on the grill, he closed the lid and said, “Kate, we’re probably T minus fifteen minutes if you want to take Owen up.” We were all outside on the patio. My father sat in a chair, drinking beer from a clear glass mug, and accepting Rosie’s offerings of twigs and leaves. Vi was also drinking a beer except out of the bottle and sitting in the recliner with her legs extended, and I was standing next to the table, holding Owen on my hip.

  The temperature had been in the mid-seventies during the day and was now in the high sixties, the light softening, and the loveliness of the evening made me wish I hadn’t let things turn even slightly ugly in the car with Vi. Then I thought, But hadn’t the whole outing, squabbling included, served its purpose? It had distracted me from Courtney and Hank’s test results.

  Owen’s little face was right next to mine, and when I turned my head toward his, we touched noses, which delighted him. “Are you ready for night-night?” I said.

  My father held up one finger. “Might I get a picture of the whole family first?”

  “Of course,” I said. My father still used a standard camera he’d acquired when Vi and I were in high school, and I had no idea where in the year 2009 he went to buy film or have it developed.

  I called to Rosie, who was lying on
her stomach in the grass, and she looked up at me brightly and said, “Rosie’s swimming.”

  “Grandpa’s about to take our picture. Can you come over here?” Because Jeremy had gone inside to wash his hands, I said to Vi, “Will you watch Owen?” Without waiting for an answer, I set him on Vi’s lap and walked toward Rosie.

  When I scooped her into my arms, she patted my cheek and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mama.”

  “It’s nice to see you. We already know each other.”

  Vi and Owen were still nestled on the recliner, and—I hadn’t planned this—I said, “That’s a cute shot right there. Dad, want to get Auntie Vi with her nephew?” This was, I was fairly sure, my apology to Vi. Or perhaps, if what I was apologizing for was driving her to the mall and waiting in the parking lot while she bought a Diet Coke, it was my affirmation that I was a doormat.

  I set Rosie down on the bricks and stood next to Jeremy, who had come back outside. “You doing okay?” he murmured.

  “I keep thinking of Courtney and Hank,” I murmured back, at which point I became aware that my father had taken our picture. “I don’t think I was smiling,” I said.

  “It’s a candid,” my father said. “Now, the umbrella casts a bit of a shadow, so for the group shot, if you all want to stand to the right of it—”

  I took Owen from Vi, and as we arranged ourselves, Vi somehow ended up between Jeremy and me; Rosie formed the front row by herself. “Jeremy, I feel like your sister wife,” Vi said, and Jeremy said, “I should be so lucky,” and I loved him a little bit extra. Then my father clicked the camera several times, until without warning Rosie shrugged off the hand I’d set on her shoulder and raced back across the yard. “I hope you got one with all our eyes open,” I said.

  Upstairs, Owen fell asleep while nursing, and he sighed a little as I set him down in the crib, what sounded like a sigh of contentment. His eyes remained closed, and I watched him, feeling that sprawling, bottomless love.

  When I returned outside, Rosie was sitting in a booster seat on top of a patio chair, eating macaroni with her fingers, while everyone else cut their steaks.

  “This is delish, Jeremy,” Vi said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “You can thank Kate for picking the meat,” Jeremy said.

  I set Owen’s monitor on the recliner and took a seat in the vacant chair at the table, but I hadn’t even unfolded my napkin when Vi tapped her fork against the neck of her beer bottle. “So I have an announcement,” she said. “Not to steal your birthday thunder, Dad.” She wasn’t going to tell our father about the woman she was dating, was she? Over dinner, in our backyard, with Rosie sitting next to her? But no, Vi looked too pleased, too unambivalent, to be coming out of the closet. And then she said, “Guess who got invited to be a guest on the Today show next week?” She grinned and pointed both her thumbs up toward her own face.

  “Seriously?” I could hear how my voice sounded accusatory rather than excited. “Because of the earthquake stuff?”

  Vi nodded. “One of their producers heard I was on the news here, and now they want to interview me, too. Not in New York, they’ll do it by satellite, but still—not too shabby, huh?” She looked directly at me and said, “And you didn’t even want to know who’d called me at the mall.”

  “My word, Vi,” said my father.

  “What day?” said Jeremy.

  “They think Wednesday.” Vi made a fake-nervous expression, setting her top teeth against her bottom teeth and inhaling while raising her eyebrows, and I understood that she was beyond thrilled; this was very likely the greatest thing that had ever happened to her, her reward for persisting on her authentic life journey while the assholes we knew from high school had all paired off and become accountants. She added, “And they’re doing it at my house, so I guess I better vacuum!”

  “Well, hey, Vi,” Jeremy said. “The Today show is the big time.”

  Who was most horrified, I wondered? My father, in his distant way, or me with my dread of exposure and my complete lack of confidence in Vi’s ability to act in her own best interest? Or maybe it was Jeremy, who had to know that ultimately he’d be the one to bear the brunt of my agitation.

  “I hope Ann Curry interviews me, because I know she’ll keep it classy,” Vi was saying.

  “Is that the black lady?” my father asked.

  “Is she black?” I said. “I thought she was something else.” My steak, which I hadn’t yet touched, had become inedible. The Today show was viewed by how many millions of people with whom Vi would share her insane-sounding, panic-inducing, wholly sincere vision? What I wanted to tell her was that being on the news in St. Louis was bad enough, but surely there would be consequences of a different order if she repeated her prediction on national television. And yet—it had to do with our father’s presence—I couldn’t say this at all. The bargain my father and I had struck at some point in the last five years was that we would withstand our discomfort at Vi’s having become a professional psychic, and preserve our relationship with her, by simply not talking about her job except in terms of logistics. I know Vi has to work this Thursday night—that was an acceptable thing to say. However, if I said, But you’ll become a national laughingstock, it would be a violation of our agreement; I’d be explicitly acknowledging who Vi was, who in some ways I was, too. Plus, given Vi’s palpable excitement, I’d be acting like a killjoy. And yet, because I couldn’t bring myself to say This is wonderful! what I finally said, in a tone that I strove to keep free of judgment, was “What do you think you’ll wear?”

  Vi laughed. “Of course that’s what you want to know.”

  Chapter 7

  I can’t recall any of the speeches at my high school graduation, but what I do remember from the ceremony is that our robes were red, that Vi won a prize for a poem she had written about the expedition of Lewis and Clark from the point of view of Sacagawea (senior year, Vi had taken creative writing with our beloved junior-year English teacher Mr. Caldwell), and that the name of the girl who tripped walking across the stage to receive her diploma—I’m pretty sure there’s always a girl who trips—was Gabrielle Rhoads. I felt bad for Gabrielle, but I also was glad that it hadn’t been me or Vi.

  Following the ceremony, which was in Queeny Park, a bunch of parents were hosting a casino-themed party at the Town and Country Racquet Club. After the party, around three A.M., the seniors would drive back to campus for a big breakfast set up outside. Before we left Queeny Park, in the fading evening light, our father took pictures of Vi and me in our caps and gowns, and our mother, in what was her version of a compliment, said to Vi, “I didn’t know they gave prizes for writing a poem.” The prize itself was a small square glass box with KIRKWOOD HIGH SCHOOL engraved on the lid.

  My father was still taking pictures when we were joined by Vi’s friend Patrick, a scrawny but good-looking blond guy whom my parents seemed to assume Vi was romantically involved with—they’d gone to prom together, at least until they skipped out after the first hour—although I felt pretty sure Patrick didn’t like girls. If I was right, then despite her precociously slutty leanings in middle school, Vi had had no real boyfriend during high school. I wasn’t even sure she’d had sex. In any case, for the last four years, Vi and Patrick had both been on the tech crew of school plays; dressed in black, they emerged between acts in Guys and Dolls and The Pajama Game and moved sofas.

  My own boyfriend, Tom, briefly came over to greet my parents, but when I said he should bring his mother and father over, too, he hesitated. I had thought our agreed-upon plan was that we’d introduce our parents at graduation; they’d never met, though Tom had spent the last twenty-six months at our house on Gilbert Street, having sex with me on an old single cot in our basement before my father got home from work on weekdays and on weekends after my parents had gone to bed. Tom was a big, genial, not intensely smart basketball player whose father was a pulmonologist and whose mother—the first person I ever met who’d had a facelift—ran Kirkwood Hig
h School’s Mothers’ Club and didn’t like me.

  A few weeks after Tom and I had gotten together, on an evening on which we’d stopped at his house to do shots of his dad’s bourbon before going to a party hosted by a kid who lived in Glendale, I emerged from the downstairs bathroom and found Mrs. Mueller standing right outside it; I hadn’t realized she was home. “I hope you know you’re just a fling, Daisy,” she said. “Tom would never be serious about a girl who doesn’t go to church.”

  I had believed that when Mrs. Mueller finally met my parents, she’d understand that I wasn’t a Satan worshipper or whatever it was she’d heard but that I came from a respectable middle-class family. However, after the graduation ceremony, when I pressed Tom to get his parents, he said, “My mom’s really busy with stuff for the party. She might have left already for the Racquet Club.”

  “I see her right there.” I gestured ten yards away, toward where Dr. and Mrs. Mueller and Tom’s brother Laird were all talking warmly to our principal.

  “Well, she’s about to leave,” Tom said.

  I scowled at him, and he said, “What?” and then he said, “Don’t get mad, but she doesn’t want to meet your parents. I’m sorry. I swear I tried.”