“You don’t even want to try it?”
As Amelia shook her head, Courtney exchanged a look with Hank. “I don’t like brown pepperoni,” Amelia said again.
Courtney picked off the pieces, and when she was finished, Amelia lifted her slice and bit the tip. With her mouth full, she said, “This is yummy!”
Maybe Amelia’s change of heart about trying meat would be enough of a victory for Courtney, I thought; maybe she wouldn’t need to be victorious over me, too. And we did, tentatively, begin talking about other things—another pizza place in the Loop we wanted to try, a new restaurant downtown by Citygarden—but when we finished and were standing and gathering our jackets and bags, Courtney approached me as I was buckling Owen back into his car seat. She said, “Your sister is really for real going to be on Today? You weren’t just saying that to depress me?”
Surprisingly, I felt less cowed by Courtney one-on-one than I had with our husbands listening, even if they’d been on my side. I said, “Courtney, whether or not you believe it, and whether or not I believe it, Vi believes what she’s saying. She’s not just pretending she thinks there’ll be an earthquake.”
“Have you considered having Jeremy explain basic geology to her?”
We were standing only a foot apart, and the restaurant around us was loud. I could see Courtney’s pores, the tiniest clump of mascara on her lower right eyelashes, and I felt, beneath her toughness, her essential vulnerability; hers was no different from anyone else’s. I said, “What do you want me to say?”
She was looking at me appraisingly but also dispassionately. She said, “There’s always been something so evasive about you.”
In the car, I said, “I know Courtney’s really stressed out, but I was kind of shocked by how aggressive she was.”
Mildly, Jeremy said, “Yeah, we probably should have rescheduled dinner. I don’t think it was personal—you just happened to be caught in her crosshairs.”
“It’s not that I don’t feel bad for her.”
“I know it’s not. There’s a lot going on in both your lives.” As Jeremy turned onto Forsyth Boulevard, he said, “I won’t defend her behavior tonight, but I’d cut her a lot of slack if I were you.”
“Do you think I’m being too hard on her?”
Jeremy wasn’t looking at me as he said, “I think no matter what, she’s already grieving.”
After I put Rosie down for bed, my phone dinged with a text from Hank: Don’t give up on us yet. Still friends?
Of course, I texted back.
In studio not painting, Hank texted.
Have a beer, I wrote.
I fell asleep after Owen’s two A.M. nursing but awakened well before the next one. I thought it was almost morning, but when I pressed the little glow button on my watch, it wasn’t yet four. I closed my eyes, and as soon as I did, I opened them again. October 16, I thought. That would be the day of Vi’s earthquake.
I waited until ten A.M. on Sunday to call my sister and tell her. “You think that sounds right?” I asked.
She was quiet before saying, “It doesn’t sound wrong.”
“But it doesn’t sound right?”
“I haven’t gotten anything that specific, but sure. It could be the sixteenth. Why not? Speaking of you not being wrong, it pains me to admit this, but I have nothing to wear on the Today show. I should have bought something at the Galleria when we were there for Dad’s birthday present.”
Subtle, I thought.
“If you could take me, I promise I’m not just using you as a taxi service,” she said. “I need your fashion advice.”
“Then you must really be desperate.”
“Oh, come on—you’re stylish.”
In fact, I had spent so much of the last three years in a forest green fleece vest that first Jeremy had started calling the vest Greenie, then he’d started calling me Greenie, then, at Christmas a month before Rosie’s first birthday, he’d given me two more, both in the same shade of green, so that I wouldn’t have to either be apart from the vest during the time it took to wash or, as was more often the case, continue wearing it after it was covered with a crust of spit-up and food.
“Well, you’re stylish compared to me,” Vi was saying, and I could sense then her impulse to say, In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, which was an expression she hadn’t used around me ever since we’d gotten in a fight about it a few years before.
“Just say it,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m over it,” I said.
“How about if I put it like this? In this scenario, you’re royalty. That’s flattering, right?”
I said, “I can’t go now, but I might be able to take you to the mall this afternoon.”
“Are you going to bring Owen?” By which, of course, she meant, Don’t bring him. “You have the kids all week,” she added. “Make Jeremy pull his weight.”
“Let’s talk again in a few hours,” I said.
At Macy’s, Vi tried on an orange peasant smock (her choice), a tan scoop-neck jersey (my choice), and a lavender V-neck, also picked out by me, though as soon as she was wearing it, I saw that the neckline didn’t do her any favors. Standing in front of the three-way mirror in the dressing room, she said, “When did my tits get so saggy?”
“You just need a better bra,” I said. “Don’t be offended, but what if we go look for clothes in Lane Bryant?”
“The big-girl store?”
“I think they’ll have a wider selection.”
Vi grinned. “No pun intended?”
I’d left Owen home, which did make it easier to get around. Inside Lane Bryant, I pulled a bunch of tops off various racks and passed the hangers to Vi. “Start with these, and I’ll meet you in the dressing room.”
I ended up finding five more possible shirts—none that were white or patterned because my brief online research had advised against those for TV—and on my way to join Vi, I saw a pale pink blouse I liked for myself. I took it in the smallest size.
When I opened Vi’s door, she was wearing a black tunic, her underwear, and nothing else, even though I hadn’t given her any pants to try on.
“You know that’s not a dress, right?” I said.
“I’m not retarded.” She said it good-naturedly, and I tried not to wince. “My pants were making it bunch up.”
“Will they be filming you from the waist up or full-body?”
She shrugged.
“Then we should assume full-body. Do you have black dress pants?” She furrowed her brow. “Possibly.”
“Let’s get a pair just in case. They’re useful in general.”
“Today’s woman can never have too many pairs of black dress pants.” She was using her pseudo-British accent. “They’re so posh and versatile.” I’d hung the new batch of shirts on a hook, and she pointed to the pink one in front. “I don’t like that.”
“It’s for me.” I took off my vest, then crossed my arms, pulling my T-shirt over my head and tossing it in the corner of the bench. When I removed the pink blouse from its hanger, I saw that it had easily two dozen tiny buttons up the back, and as I stood there in my nursing bra—a beige, pilly item from Rosie’s infancy that was just as unsupportive as the bra Vi had on—I knew already that the quantity of buttons meant I wouldn’t buy the shirt. “Keep trying stuff,” I said to Vi. I gave her a navy short-sleeved sweater. “This is my new favorite.”
I was still unfastening buttons by the time she had it on. Our eyes met in the mirror, and I said, “I like that.”
She shook her head. “This is so not me.”
“You actually look very elegant.”
“I look like a lesbian running for president.”
“At least one of those things is true, huh?”
She smirked. “You think I have any chance of getting elected?”
I passed her a maroon top with three-quarter-length sleeves. “This could work.” Then I looked down at
the half-unbuttoned shirt in my own hands and decided just to try it on; at the rate I was going, Vi would be ready to leave before I was.
“By the way,” Vi said when my head was inside the shirt, “I might start driving again.”
I was glad that my face was hidden so my surprise didn’t show; I made an effort to sound low-key as I said, “Oh, yeah?”
“The woman I’m seeing—Stephanie—I haven’t told her about not driving, and I don’t know if she’d understand. I think she might be one of those really normal people. Like Jeremy.”
“Did you guys go out again?”
“We went to a movie last night.”
If Stephanie were a man, surely I’d have asked if they kissed. And certainly I was in favor of Vi finding her Jeremy, even if her Jeremy was female. But the idea of Vi making out with another woman—it was just weird. After a beat, still from inside the shirt, I said, “And you had fun?”
“It was okay. I mean, it wasn’t the greatest night of my life or anything.”
“Well, it was a second date. You might want to keep your expectations in check.” I added, “If you want to drive back to your house from here, you’re welcome to.”
“Oh, God, no,” she said. “It’s been so long, I need to practice first, like in an empty parking lot.”
“We could go out to the country next weekend.” The shirt was still over my face, my right arm raised straight above my head because the right sleeve was caught around my elbow; when I used my left hand to try to pull down the neck, I heard the delicate splitting of seams. I froze. “Vi,” I said, “I think I’m stuck.”
“For real?” Her voice was already thick with amusement.
“Can you help me?”
“How can you be stuck in a Lane Bryant shirt? You’re not that fat.”
“Will you undo the buttons?”
“I wish my phone had a camera. Wait, yours does, doesn’t it?” She was laughing, and though I was starting to feel overheated, and though I had an increasingly urgent wish not to be trapped inside this prison of pink satin, I began laughing, too.
“If you take a picture of me,” I said, “I’ll kill you. Just unbutton the buttons.”
She was behind me then, fiddling, and I could tell she was shaking with silent mirth.
“I hate you,” I said.
“Hold still.” I tried to, and she said, “Your hair—” but she couldn’t get the sentence out. She gave it a second try. “Your hair is tangled in the buttons. I think we need the Jaws of Life.”
In equal measures, I found the situation funny and unendurable; I moved my right arm, and there was another sound of ripping fabric.
“Oh my God,” Vi said. “What a cheap piece of crap. Okay, it’s all unbuttoned.”
I raised my left arm so it was parallel to my still-raised right one. “Pull it off,” I said. “But be careful.”
When the shirt was finally above my head, I felt as if I were emerging from a cave; in the mirror, I saw that my cheeks were flushed. As we looked at our semi-matching reflections, Vi snorted with laughter. “Sorry.” She set the back of her hand against her nose. “But you should have seen yourself.”
“Thanks for saying I’m not that fat.”
“Well, you’re not the thinnest you’ve ever been.” She was holding the pink blouse, which was inside out, and she reversed it. “But you’re a baby-making machine. It’s not your fault.”
I pulled on my T-shirt, which was roomy and forgiving and cotton, then my green fleece vest, and then I held out my hand so Vi could give me the pink blouse. “I’m not a baby-making machine anymore,” I said. “We’re done.”
“So you say now.” Vi was still in the maroon top, which had ruffly cuffs that were, I thought, reminiscent of a clown at a child’s birthday party.
“I totally just realized what you should wear,” I said. “I have a silver shirt from a wedding a few years ago.”
“Nothing of yours will fit me.”
“No, it will. It’s a maternity shirt.”
“And you give me shit for saying you’re not thin.”
“I was only about five months pregnant when I wore it. It’s sheer and you wear a camisole under, which I also have. Are they sending someone to do your hair and makeup?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Then I’ll come do it. What time are the camera people coming over?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Jesus.”
“I know, but that’s six-thirty in New York, and they think my interview will air in the seven o’clock hour.”
“Live?” I asked.
“Live on the East Coast and delayed an hour here.”
“I’ll come at five.” We hadn’t previously discussed whether I’d be present for the taping, and I’d have imagined that I couldn’t stand to be, whether Vi wanted me there or not, but now I felt relief; I’d be able to help create a positive outcome. Later, I wondered when I’d decided not to try dissuading Vi from appearing on the show at all. When had I decided it was too late? It wasn’t too late until the cameras started rolling.
I said, “Take a shower before I get there. And if they do send a makeup person, they’ll just improve what I’ve done.”
“Don’t make me look like a hooker.” She was changing out of the maroon shirt, and I was returning the others, including the pink one, to their hangers; I briefly wondered if I ought to confess the damage I’d wrought to a saleswoman, but the pink shirt wasn’t visibly altered.
“Vi,” I said, and she looked at me. “I know it’s a big thing to go on TV, but you definitely still think there’s going to be an earthquake, right?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said. “I definitely do.”
It was dark and cool when I stepped outside and pulled the front door shut behind me at four forty-five on Wednesday morning. From the car, I texted Vi—You’re up?—and she texted back: Haven’t gone to bed yet. Great, I thought.
Between Big Bend and Manchester, there were few cars on the road. When Rihanna’s “Umbrella” came on the radio, I turned it up in a way I never did when Rosie and Owen were in the car, even with kids’ music. As early as it was, and as squeamish as I felt about the reason Vi would be appearing on national television, the morning contained an undeniable charge of excitement. Because, hell, Vi would be appearing on national television!
Was my mood driving in the dark what Jeremy experienced on the days he flew to a conference in another city or to give a talk at a different university? He could have us—a family—and he could have another life, too, whereas I had figured out only how to have us.
All the lights were on in Vi’s house, and all the curtains were open, and she was standing on the front stoop smoking a cigarette. I hadn’t yet set foot on the walkway when she called, “I haven’t had one for three months, but this is just way too stressful. I’m canceling.”
There was a shift in my chest—my ambivalence, stretching like a cat. I’d be thrilled for her to back out of the interview, because she’d be sparing both of us humiliation, but if she backed out, our glamorous morning would cease to exist. The momentum of my drive through the dark would sputter; I’d have gotten up at four-fifteen and pumped a bottle for Owen for no reason. “Do you want to cancel?” I said.
“Nah.” With unnecessary vigor, Vi smashed out the cigarette in a red porcelain bowl that contained at least twenty other butts. “Honestly, business hasn’t been great lately, and if nothing else, this ought to get me some new clients. People just don’t value their spiritual life. When it’s time to start cutting back, they still spend five bucks on a latte but not a penny nourishing their own energy.”
I hated this kind of talk, which Vi knew, which had to mean, since she didn’t seem to be trying to irritate me, that she was already practicing for television—that when she’d suggested she might not go through with the interview, she was bluffing. Or this was what I subsequently told myself when I didn’t want to believe I could have stopped her. But I
am almost sure that I could have. The more vehemence I’d shown, the likelier she’d have been to defy me; of this I am certain. But couldn’t I have gently swayed her, letting her reach her own conclusion? My sister was the kind of person who’d enjoy giving the finger to the Today show. I didn’t nudge her toward this outcome, though, because what if her prediction was right?
I did her makeup in the living room while she held a round two-sided mirror that had once been mine. Vi smelled like an ashtray, but at least no one watching her on TV would have any idea. Through the large living room window, as I was applying eyeliner, we could see the van with its satellite pole pull up on the dark street, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. This was actually going to happen. She went to change into the silver shirt, which she’d tried on previously and which did look good, while I opened the front door.
“Violet Shramm?” said a guy in a baseball cap. “Bill Sichko, producer.” He stuck out his hand and gave mine a forceful shake.
“I’m Violet’s sister,” I said. “But she’ll be right out.”
“You got a name, Violet’s sister?”
“Kate,” I said.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward two other men holding equipment. “This is Tim with the camera, and Sully’s our sound guy. We gonna do this thing?”
“I guess so,” I said, and I’m pretty sure that it was because I sounded so hesitant that he laughed.
By the time Vi emerged from her bedroom, Bill Sichko had walked around the house, decided to film the interview in the living room, and was conferring with the cameraman.
“You look great,” I said to Vi. “Really.”
She smirked. “Maternity clothes suit me.”
They wanted her to sit not in the lounger where she held court during her sessions but in one of the cheap folding chairs her clients sat on. “No one will notice,” Bill said.
“Do you guys work full-time for Today?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We’re based up in St. Charles.”
The sound guy wanted the fountain in the corner of the living room moved, and Vi, who was by then perched on the folding chair, having the cord of a microphone snaked inside her—my—shirt, said to me, “Put it in the tub.” While I was in the bathroom, the doorbell rang, and when I answered it, a woman wearing a black pantsuit was standing there, holding a cardboard tray containing three coffees. “You must be Kate,” she said. “I’m Stephanie. I’d shake your hand, but I’d probably spill on you.”
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