Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.” It starts to fall into place. Anna Maria never liked Harry either. I turn away and stare out the window, watching the gray blur of houses speed by.

  “I’m going for some thermo-auricular therapy next week. You should come,” she says.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Thanks but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Fair enough. But if you change your mind . . .” She turns on the car radio. “Spice Girls! Tune!” she shouts. We listen to some obscure station that plays upbeat retro pop for the remainder of the journey. Anna Maria sings along. You can take the girl out of the party, but you can’t take the party out of the girl.

  As soon as I’m through my front door, I run a warm bath overloaded with bubbles and lie under the water, staring through the iridescent shimmer, totally miserable, reflecting on what I’ve done.

  What was I thinking? There is no hope. Face it! No reiki master, no aura cleanser can change my destiny. Anna Maria can believe in what she likes because she has nothing to contest her faith. When things are good, what’s to prove? We only find out how effective anything is when we hit a crisis. But still, I understand her. Because I wanted to believe in Rita too. I wanted to be open-minded. It gave me hope. But it gave me expectations, and they’re the worst possible thing I can have at this juncture in my life because they can only lead to disappointment.

  I grip the sides of the bath. Face facts:

  I am not the master of my fate. Reiki will not cure me.

  Day 64

  Harry is still in Milan on business and very much alive. It is Rita who is dead to me. I’ve heard from him several times. I’ve even called him a few times. His calls go automatically to voice mail, but he always calls me back. There’s a comfort in knowing this is how we operate.

  I’m on my way to dinner at Isabelle’s in a limo booked on Martin’s account. I insisted I get an Uber but she won. She always wins.

  When I arrive, she opens the door before I’ve even rung, like she’s been tracking me in the cab, which possibly she has. She pulls me into her. “Oh, Jennifer,” she says and gives me a big tight hug. I hug her back then she holds me in front of her, inspecting me as though she was expecting someone different to show up. “You don’t look sick. A bit pale maybe but nothing a bit of decent makeup couldn’t help. This isn’t fake news, is it?”

  “I wish.”

  “Yeah. I wish, too.” There’s an air of relief, as we take each other in. It feels safe to be here. With family. Even though I’m not sure how the mood might develop.

  “You look good,” I say even though she doesn’t. She looks puffy, her beauty oddly distorted.

  “No, I don’t,” she replies.

  “Hello, Auntie Jennifer.” Cecily and Sophia sidle across the marble hallway from the kitchen, wearing shy smiles. They each give me a little embarrassed hug then cling to either side of their mother like parentheses. It’s obvious that Isabelle’s already told her daughters my news.

  “Hey, girls!” I say brightly to dispel their unease. “These are for you.” I hand them a bag full of gummy sweets and watch their eyes widen as they pull out the different megapacks. It’s a relief. I wondered if brightly colored snakes and bottles and bears might be an insult to girls of such maturity as thirteen and ten and that I will have proved I completely misunderstand children—as my sister so often reminds me.

  “Wow!” they exclaim, looking at each other excitedly then at their mother. “Awesome!”

  The person I’ve misunderstood is Isabelle. She is not thrilled at all. I hand her a box of Belgian chocolates.

  “Thank you,” she says with a stiff smile. “Not necessary. Off to your rooms now, girls. Homework! I’ll call you when supper is ready. And I’ll take those.” She extracts the bags of sweets from their hands.

  “Ohhhhh,” groans Cecily. “But they’re for us!”

  “Come on, Mummy!” says Sophia. “Please. Can’t we have a few in our rooms?”

  “You know the rules,” says Isabelle.

  “Fine,” says Cecily. “But I’ve done my homework and I want to stay down here and chat with you and Jennifer.”

  I’m so glad she’s dropped the “Auntie.” It makes me feel ancient.

  “Me, too,” says Sophia. “I want to chat.”

  They’re both so adorable it saddens me.

  “You can chat with her over dinner. Now, go upstairs and . . . do something . . . I don’t know. Tidy your rooms. Watch something on your iPads.”

  Cecily is about to protest when Isabelle throws her such a dark, scary look, they both turn on their heels and stomp upstairs. “And don’t stomp,” she says.

  She turns to me and rolls her eyes. One eyelid appears to be stuck but I daren’t mention it. “Kids!” she exclaims. She holds up the chocolates. “You don’t mind if I put these away, do you? I’m on a diet. Martin and I are doing the 5:2. But tonight’s a five. We can eat anything. Not chocolates, though. Or sugar. I mean, you can but they’re so unhealthy.” She nods to the bags of sweets and looks at me, with a non-verbal tut-tut. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Um. I’m not really drinking.”

  “Oh, come on. What harm can it do now?”

  “Well, a very small glass of red then. Literally a drop.”

  Her neck tightens. “Awk-ward!” she sings, turning it into two highly complex words. “I should have said. We don’t have red in the house anymore. It’s sooo bad for your teeth, and Martin and I have just had ours whitened.” She gives me a demonstrative grin.

  “Oh, right! They look good. I guess I don’t have to worry about those things now.” I pause, wondering if everyone is obsessed with teeth. “Not that I ever did.”

  “No, indeed,” she says, matter-of-fact.

  “Then, I’ll have whatever’s open,” I say.

  She swings round toward the kitchen. “Martin,” she shouts. “Pour Jennifer a glass of the organic Chardonnay.” All I hear is “Poor Jennifer” and then the correct word registers. “And one for me of course. We’ll be in the drawing room.”

  I can see Martin’s silhouette moving back and forth, as he’s setting the table. He’s probably trying to avoid me. He’s not the most comfortable human being at the best of times, let alone having to confront his dying sister-in-law.

  Martin turns round, looking toward us, shading his eyes like he’s wondering who’s out there when he knows exactly. With a play of spontaneity, he bounds out the kitchen like an overgrown puppy, a tea towel tucked into the waist of his trousers. “Hi, hi, hi!”

  “Hello, Martin,” I say.

  He’s at sixes and sevens, hugs me at a distance then all but pushes me away. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Very sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  When he first started dating Isabelle, I found his gaucheness quite attractive although I’m not sure that’s what attracted Isabelle. Now it just seems odd. He’s lost most of his once thick dark hair and his blue pinstripe shirt betrays a beer gut, which must account for the 5:2 because Isabelle is slim as anything, so I’m assuming she’s merely showing him support.

  “How are you?” he says, clearly trying to change the subject and failing. His white teeth gleam at me.

  “I’m good, thank you, Martin. And how are you?”

  “A bit of gout but can’t complain.” He raises his eyebrows. “Nothing to quite match what you’ve got.”

  “Martin!” Isabelle groans. “For God’s sake!”

  “What?” he says. “I didn’t mean to offend.” He clasps his hands together. “I think you’re better off with me out of the way. I’ll sort the drinks and leave you to your chat. Are you drinking, Jennifer?”

  “Yes,” Isabelle says, with marked impatience. “I told you. Chardonnay. The organic one recommended by Bert. There’s already a bottle opened in the fridge. We started it yesterday.”<
br />
  “And we didn’t finish it? Were we not well?”

  “We were on a two.”

  “Ugh. The terrible twos,” he groans. “Well it’s a high five tonight, darling!” He holds up his palm which is met by hers.

  “Thank God!” she says, laughing, her snappiness eased by the prospect of a decent meal.

  Martin scampers back into the kitchen, and Isabelle leads the way across the large square marble hall into the drawing room, for our chat. It feels uncomfortably ominous, as though everyone knows what’s in store except me.

  We sit opposite each other on huge gray velvet couches that flank either side of the massive ebony marble fireplace. There’s a tall glass vase of scented lilies on an elegant console table that sits behind Isabelle against the wall overshadowed by an imposing oil painting of the family. They’ve lit a fire and the room smells and feels like a beautiful country hotel. It’s all very cozy, in a grand way, but still welcoming. I appreciate the fact they’ve made an effort. Or maybe it’s always like this. Luxurious. Scented. Ordered. Everything in its place.

  I look across at my sister, fascinated by her face. Her forehead appears stretched and shiny. Her cheeks seem bumpy. Her right eyelid has this mild droop.

  “In case you’re wondering,” she says. “I’ve had a bit of intervention.”

  “Oh really. You can’t tell.”

  She stretches out her long neck. “Don’t humor me. I don’t tell everyone. In fact, I don’t tell anyone. I mean, normally it’s so natural.” She sighs, pressing her fingertips over her cheekbones. “I had it topped up last week. It went horribly wrong. Dr. Miller says it will settle down in a few more days. You should have seen me before. Thank God you canceled. I looked like a freak. I haven’t dared venture out. I’ve been a prisoner in my own home. It’s been awful.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine.”

  Martin brings in the wine. He exchanges glances with Isabelle, as if he’s giving her encouragement, which only adds to my concern. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” he says, standing there hovering as though he might be invited to stay after all, until Isabelle shoos him out, like she’s dismissing the maid.

  We hold up our glasses to each other as the door clicks shut.

  “Thanks for inviting me over,” I say. “Your house looks lovely.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Not overrun with kids like the last time you were here.” She takes a sip of wine and puts down her glass on a maroon-and-gold-patterned china coaster sitting on the oversized zebra skin ottoman that serves as a massive coffee table. Huge art books are neatly positioned in the center. They look untouchable, but I don’t think they’re there to be touched. There’s a small pile of china coasters, all in different colors, and she pushes a turquoise-and-gold one across to my side.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says.

  “No problem.” I guess if I had beautiful things, I’d do the same.

  She clasps her arms across her middle. “Now,” she pronounces. “I want to discuss your letter.”

  I wasn’t intending to drink my wine, but I hadn’t expected our chat to be quite so immediate. I take a large gulp, instantly regretting it. “Sure,” I say.

  She looks past me, over my shoulder, as if she’s staring at someone else in the room. “First, I’m devastated by your news. You have no idea. I still can’t take it in. And you being here now, looking pretty normal, makes it even harder. And then there’s the rest of your letter.”

  I’m holding my breath.

  “It makes me so sad, Jennifer,” she says. “That we’ve wasted all this time not talking to each other. I mean, I know we talk but we don’t talk, do we? Not really.”

  “No,” I say, letting the breath go. “It wasn’t a family trait, was it? Let’s be honest.”

  “I think you’ve misunderstood me and I’ve obviously misunderstood you.” She faces me head-on, and my skin prickles. “You’re right. Mum and Dad made me the pretty one and you the clever one. It was how it was. I would never do that to my kids. It’s so divisive. But I realize now they were only doing their best. That’s all we can do as parents. The funny thing is, as much as you hated being the clever one, I hated being the pretty one. It made me feel shallow and pointless. I wanted to be clever. But that was your department.”

  I can feel my jaw dropping. I’ve never thought of it that way.

  “I was always envious of how bright you were. How Mum and Dad would put you on a pedestal because you got such great exam results. How they encouraged you with your studies, which only belittled mine. I didn’t need exam results was the message they gave me; I would always succeed on my looks. Have you any idea how bad that feels?”

  I shrug. I really don’t. I might have liked to.

  “But they made us play to type, didn’t they?”

  I nod, yes, still passively listening.

  “And we played the roles we were given because we didn’t know any better. But it set us against each other.”

  I sit up. “It never set me against you,” I say. “I adore you, Isabelle. I’ve always adored you.” I feel a rush of the old feelings pulsing through me. For the first time ever, she seems vulnerable.

  “I know,” she says. “And I took advantage of that. I’m so sorry. I took your love for granted.”

  This is overwhelming. She’s never uttered “sorry” to me in her life.

  “Thank you, Isabelle,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”

  She swooshes the wine around her glass then sips it and draws in a deep breath, her lumpy cheekbones sharpening. She hesitates, glances up at the ceiling, then looks back at me. “I’m sorry about that idiot, Jennifer. When I read his name in your letter, I had to think really hard about who the hell Neil was and I can tell you, he wasn’t worth it. But I could have made it easier by not seducing him. I was always looking to prove my worth but that’s no excuse. I could have apologized instead of dismissing you. I was crap at saying sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And . . . and . . .” Oh my God, her eyes are welling up. “And I am just the most sorry about the babies. How did it get to the point where you couldn’t even tell me about something so major? That’s awful! I mean, I know we lead different lives, I know we’re different, but I would have been there for you, Jennifer. I promise you. I would have.”

  “Isabelle?” I say, voice trembling. “Do we have to sit opposite each other? Can I come and sit next to you?”

  She nods. Choked up. I walk around the ottoman and sit next to her.

  She looks directly at me, tenses her shoulders. “I’m going to miss you,” she says, her eyes fluttering. “You’re all that’s left. No mum, no dad. Just you and now this. You should not be the one to go first. When I got your letter, it was like a dagger plunging through my heart. I’m gutted by your news.”

  I make a disheartened sigh. “I’m sorry I wrote rather than telling you face-to-face, but I needed to say that stuff. I thought reading it in a letter would give you time to think about everything. And I was scared. It was such a difficult, emotional thing to do. I’m glad you were able to take everything the way it was meant. I’m glad to hear your side. I’m just so sorry to be the bearer of such lousy news.” I stare at her, holding my gaze in an attempt not to cry.

  “Does my face look that terrible?”

  “No! No! Not at all. Was I staring?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m such an idiot, Jennifer. All this stuff I do: hanging on to my beauty for dear life. And now look at me.” She groans. “It will sort itself out, though. The doctor said it will settle down. Oh, listen to me harping on. As if any of it matters.”

  “It does matter,” I say. “Everything still matters.”

  She studies me for a moment and nods her head. “Oh God, Jen. You’re so kind and thoughtful. You got given the gentle genes as well as the smart ones. Anyhow, y
ou do know you’re beautiful, don’t you? You scrub up really nicely. Look at you. You’re sick but you look amazing.”

  I scoff at the backhanded compliment. “But I could still do with a bit of decent makeup, right?”

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t hurt.” She laughs at herself then lets out a sigh. “What a waste, Jennifer. Of a life. Your life. Of our sisterhood. We wasted so much over trivia.”

  “Hubris,” I say, her unforeseen warmth playing havoc with my emotions.

  “There you go with your big intellectual words.” She smiles.

  I laugh awkwardly, aware of the tears just beneath the surface.

  “Don’t cry,” she says, which is always my cue.

  She gets up and fetches me a Kleenex. “I really didn’t want to make you cry. I only wanted to apologize.”

  “And you didn’t think that would make me cry?”

  “Oh, don’t get me going.” She flings her arms around me, breaking down into big, ravaging sobs. And there we are. Sobbing in each other’s arms. Letting go together. Aware of love and regret. This feels like what we should have had. What we could have had. It feels like the release of years of pent-up disappointment. The recognition that two lifetimes that should have been running together in parallel somehow forked at the crossroads and lost their way.

  Martin pops his head around the door. He seems perplexed at the sight of us. We’re slumped back in the couch, me lying against Isabelle, hugging her waist, her arm draped around my shoulder. It’s how I always dreamed we’d be.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he says, uncomfortably. “When you are, of course.”

  “We’ll be out in a second,” says Isabelle, still managing to bark at him through her sobs.

  “Okay,” he says, quickly backing out the door.

  “Oh dear,” she says with a grimace. “Listen. I know in your letter you said that I should be nicer, but sometimes he needs to be told.” She laughs. “But he means well. And he’s a great dad and a great lawyer. You can’t have everything.”