Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  I offered to share my apartment with Vicki, but she preferred staying at the Four Seasons’ sister hotel in Manhattan.

  I watch my sister talk to a handsome man who’s carrying a boxy purple bag, which I know is hers because we have the same luggage, a well-meaning holiday gift from our aunt. If I don’t rush up to her, I wonder if she’d even recognize me; my strawberry blond hair is newly cropped, my heels add a good three inches, my skin’s cleared up, contacts have replaced my glasses. But my sister walks directly over to where I’m standing.

  “I’m missing underwear,” she announces when she gets close enough for me to hear.

  I look at her blankly, think about hugging her hello.

  “Someone went through my bag at the airport and took out my good panties.”

  “Why would anyone want your underwear?”

  “Forget it, Robin. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  The man clears his throat. For a moment I think she’s going to invite him to dinner—or state that she’s already done so and this guy, David or Mark or John, and Vicki will end up sitting close to each other in a padded booth at an expensive restaurant with me on the other side. He’d pay for her. I’d have to pay for myself. After dinner, if I was lucky, they’d drop me off in a cab and then they’d go back to her hotel so he can get lucky.

  “James, this is my kid sister.”

  James extends his hand. It’s firm and solid, the way I hope my husband’s hand will feel in mine someday.

  “Kid sister? I thought maybe you guys were twins,” he says, flashing a broad, toothy smile.

  That’s original. “Yes, it’s true. I’m only twenty-six. Vicki’s four years older.”

  She eyes me coldly and mouths, “Thanks.”

  James is on my sister’s left side, still carrying her bag as we exit the airport.

  We wait on the cab line with men in trench coats, women wrapped in wool capes or Burberryesque quilted jackets. Small patches of two-day-old snow now turned black from fumes and soot are all that’s left from the storm we had a few days ago.

  She looks older than I remember, tired too, yet she’s still beautiful in that Banana Republic catalog way. Everyone in Washington looks older than they are. Frown lines, crow’s-feet, bags under their eyes, weighted down leather bags on their shoulders filled with briefs, legislation, secret documents, listings of who’s who in the White House.

  “You lost weight,” she jabs as she digs angrily around in her handbag.

  “I thought you gave them up?” I say.

  “I did. I’m looking for the gum.”

  “What about the patch?”

  “What the fuck do you think I’m wearing?”

  I look at James who arches his eyebrows, then shrugs.

  We move up the cab line and when it’s our turn, James hands Vicki back her bag. “So, I’ll give you a call later,” he states as our ride approaches. I watch my sister’s eyes narrow as she mentally tries to send him a signal. Now she can’t claim exhaustion or sudden headache.

  “I’ll call you,” she says, pushing me into the car. I watch her lean forward and kiss him on the cheek, watch her lips move ever so slightly by his ear. I watch him smile and nod, then watch him get smaller as we drive away.

  “You made dinner plans with some guy?” I ask, facing her.

  “No. He was just being friendly. He works at the New Republic. It’s good business.” White Chiclets-shaped gum appears and Vicki pops two pieces into her mouth. She chews feverishly. “I told him I’d try to meet him for drinks or something. It’s just what people say.”

  My sister is a terrific liar. It’s a gift, like knitting or cooking.

  As we pull up to the Fifty-seventh Street entrance of the hotel, a doorman rushes to help us out. Vicki loves hotels. The mini soaps and products in the bathroom, the mini olives at the bar, even the mini bottles of overpriced liquors found in the fridge. She loves the strange men who wear simple, shiny gold bands on their fingers, have condoms in their pockets, and large bills in their wallets. She loves the room service, housekeeping, and the thin credit card key that goes undetected in the pocket of tightly worn jeans.

  In Washington, you can be easily erased. In New York, you can be anyone you want, change your name, create a phony job, or blend effortlessly into the sea of shoppers on Fifth Avenue. I think about all this as I flip through channels in room 1512 while my sister unpacks.

  For the past ten minutes I’ve been waiting for her to notice the blue shopping bag sitting on the desk I dropped off earlier, and she only becomes aware of the present because I point to it.

  “That’s for you.” I raise my hand in the direction of the gift.

  “Oh, look what Abby sent. That was sweet.”

  “Actually, it’s from me.”

  She doesn’t bother with the card that’s written in my penmanship rather than some random assistant or hotel worker. Instead she rips it off the bag, places it on the table and, taking a handle in each fist, pulls the stapled bag open. Fingers dart in and reemerge grasping a book.

  “I already read this,” she tells me, dropping the novel on the desk with a thud. “And I have an iPod,” she informs me, holding up the cases that contain the books on CD.

  “I thought you could listen to them in the car.” A rerun of Friends is on and I wonder what makes Monica and Ross have such a good relationship. Why the sisters in Charmed always seem to get along. Even Mary and Laura Ingalls had each other’s back.

  “Who would listen to books in a car?”

  “Lots of people. Kevin says they sell really well. You could burn them and then load them onto your iPod. That’s what I do.”

  “I don’t take long trips.” She sighs. “Why don’t you give them to Mom, or Dad. He’s always taking what’s-her-name away somewhere.”

  “Sharon.”

  “Whatever.”

  When the T-shirt makes an appearance, I don’t even bother asking if she likes it.

  “This looks too small.” She holds it out in front of her, the words “Killer Instincts” are printed on the back.

  “I thought you could keep it at the gym. You know, as an extra.” I flip through the channels, flip through the magazines on the table, try to appear nonchalant.

  “It’s really not my thing.” She tosses the unfolded shirt into the bag.

  “So you don’t want them?”

  “Not really.”

  I walk over to the table and collect the discarded belongings, my head shaking from side to side in frustration.

  “Don’t be like that, Robin.” She’s facing me, her hands running through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail, then releasing it.

  “Would it have killed you to have just said thanks?” I match her glare, a showdown.

  “You want me to be honest, don’t you? It’s not like you paid for them, right?”

  “No, but I went to Kevin’s office and picked them out myself and…I just thought it would be nice to have something to do on the train ride back.”

  “So you’re still seeing him?”

  “I am.” I continue staring at her, wonder what she’s really thinking.

  “Why?” She sneers, breaking eye contact. She reaches for the menu on the table and looks through it.

  “And you’re dating whom?” I ask.

  She laughs, a snicker, sharp and quick. “Don’t take everything so personally. It’s not like I asked you to get me something.” Her cell rings and in one fell swoop she scoops it up and walks into the bedroom leaving me standing by the unwanted gift bag.

  “No, I thought it might be nice,” I call to her, my words heard only by me.

  Within seconds a deep, rich laugh comes pouring out of the bedroom, spilling onto me like a fresh spray of perfume. It’s infectious, contagious. I hate hearing it because I don’t possess this quality. I hate hearing it because I can’t make her do it for me no matter how witty or sassy I am.

  “I can’t believe he said that.” Her voice is now edgy a
nd harsh. “His dick is the size of my pinky and that’s being generous.” There’s a long pause, and a ringing in my ears. “Hey, it’s a boy’s game, got to play like one.”

  The hotel phone rings next and Vicki emerges, snaps her fingers at me, then points, indicating I’m to answer the call.

  “Hello. Seidelman’s room.”

  Vicki mouths, “Who is it?” To which I respond silently, “Mom.” She rolls her eyes, then motions to me that she doesn’t want the phone, snaps her cell closed, and goes back to her open travel bag and continues to unpack.

  “I’m not sure. I can ask.” I look at Vicki. “Mom wants to know if you want to have dinner tonight. She was hoping to see you.”

  Sighing, she removes the phone from my hand. “Hi,” she says, sounding suddenly cheery. “I guess mine’s not getting reception in the room.” She eyes me and winks. “I think Robin and I are going to do a girl’s thing. She said she had something she wanted to talk to me about.” There’s a pause. “Okay, I will. You too. See you tomorrow night at the shower.” She hangs up.

  “Why did you tell her that?”

  “What does it matter? You didn’t want to eat with her either.”

  I stop flipping channels when I get to CNN. I let the anchors’ voices take up the dead space, filling the room with heavy banter so we don’t have to.

  At home I slide one of the discarded CDs into the stereo and wear the T-shirt Vicki didn’t want. I think about phoning Kevin when I remember he’s in Frankfurt for a publisher’s convention. He’s not met Vicki, but he’s heard enough about her. He’s heard the demanding messages she’s left on my answering machine when she wants me to look into renting her an apartment, or when she can’t get in touch with our father and wants to know where he is, or is having a fight with Mom and wants someone to spew at. I wish he were here now. He’d take me out to a movie, we’d sit in the back, bucket of buttery popcorn, bag of Peanut M&M’s and a large Diet Coke to keep us company.

  I rummage through my old camp trunk, which doubles as a coffee table and locate my childhood photo album, which resides next to yearbooks from high school, Valentine’s Day cards, and love notes from ex-boyfriends. The album cover is weathered and has Wacky Pack stickers all over it. The pages are brown and have lost most of their stickiness. The pictures, however, are in decent shape. There’s one of Michael, Vicki, and I dressed up for his Bar Mitzvah. Another showcasing the three of us playing in the sand. Gangly arms are wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Comrades in battle, we are skinny and tan and our faces beam with brightness, with optimism for the future. In another Vicki and I are in flowered bathing suits, lying on towels with cartoon characters on them. Last is a picture of us dressed like Indian chiefs. We have patches of rouge on our cheeks, feathered headpieces on our foreheads. I’m six. Vicki is ten. It was a snow day. Bored and antsy, Vicki snuck into our mother’s room, retrieved her makeup bag, and applied round circles of blush to my cheeks. Then she smeared thick streaks of eye shadow on my nose, and chin. When it was my turn to do her face, I was so nervous my hands shook with a desperate desire to perform this task perfectly. We gave each other Indian names. She called me Little-One-With-Big-Mouth. She was Older-One-Who-Runs-Fast. We took the belts from our robes and tied our dolls to our backs hoping they would look like papooses. What doesn’t show in this photo is the rope burn I got when Vicki ripped the belt from my hands. I’d wrapped it around my wrist, and four years stronger not to mention taller than me, she tugged so hard I fell forward, banging my knees and head on the floor. As I gasped for air, she tore the belt from my hand, burning the skin on my wrist. I looked up at her, caught her laughing, caught something dark in her eyes, and in that instant knew she didn’t love me. That something was missing. My mother put ice on the grape-size welt on my forehead, while Neosporin promised the scar on my wrist would fade. It didn’t. It was raw and blistered and every winter the scar becomes brighter. When all was calm, my mother took this picture.

  Vicki and I saunter up Madison Avenue the following morning peering into store windows. When we hit the corner of Fifty-eighth Street, she pulls on my arm and we enter Calvin Klein—or a bad Robert Palmer video. Four painfully thin and pale girls are standing in a straight line, moving their boyish bodies left to right, nodding to us as we pass them. The store is gray and elongated and I run my hand over the racks of expensive clothing, satin brown this, sheer black that, something gauzy, something see-through, that all look alike.

  The only dress Vicki wants to try on is being worn by the mannequin, and after finding out that’s the last one, we wait for a saleswoman to dismantle the outfit. Once Vicki has possession, I follow her into the dressing room.

  “What are you doing?” she sneers, pushing me out the door so that I hit my elbow on the frame.

  “I was…” I shrug, ignoring the momentary throb of my funny bone. “I thought you might want me in here for an opinion or something.”

  “God, you’re so weird. Can’t you just sit on the couch like a normal person?”

  I take a seat, and after a minute Vicki materializes in the black satin dress looking like a model ready to hit the runway. The garment clings to her body as if the designer stitched the fabric on her.

  She lets the salesperson adjust it as we all look in the mirror.

  “You can wear it like so,” the salesperson says, fussing over her. “Or if you want it hanging off one shoulder, just adjust the back here. This belt is optional. You can wear it low so it accentuates your hips, or not at all.”

  I reach for the price tag, see the perfectly printed number $1,500, and raise an eyebrow.

  “Do you know how many formals I need to go to for work?” she says, ripping the tag from my hand.

  Only after Vicki is rung up, the bag meticulously packed, do we soldier onward.

  Two blocks later, Vicki drags me into Barneys and we head down a flight of stairs onto the cosmetic floor where an overzealous makeup artist paints her already attractive face with perfectly packaged products from Nars and Dior. She dusts browns and tans over Vicki’s lids, smears creamy blush on her cheeks, applies a glossy rose to her full lips. With no one to assist me, I reach for one of the eye brushes and attempt to do myself.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” the saleswoman informs me without losing concentration on Vicki’s face. “These colors are so neutral”—she sweeps her hand over the shadows, like Vanna White showing off an uncompleted puzzle—“that anyone can wear them. Besides, you both have similar coloring so why don’t you just copy the colors I’m using.”

  As I dust my face with powder, a lost-looking woman comes up behind us and stands silently still waiting to be noticed.

  I clear my throat and the makeup artist turns around.

  “I was wondering if you had cream to combat or prevent stretch marks,” she says. “My sister-in-law said you carry a line of baby creams and such?”

  The saleswoman takes an annoyed breath. “Yes, I can assist you but I’m with a client. If you can give me a few moments, I’ll be happy to help, or if you want, the line you’re speaking about is right over there.” She points with the blush brush off to the right and my eyes follow the silver wand and black mink.

  “Oh, thank you, I’m sorry to have interrupted,” the woman says. “Just one last thing…”

  My sister shifts in her seat.

  “I hear some women can have acne breakouts when they’re pregnant. Do you have something that prevents that?”

  Another irritated sigh escapes from the makeup artist. “Yes, Kiehl’s has one as does Bobbi Brown. “It’s right over there if you want to look at it.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to have interrupted.”

  She smiles at me. Her curly chestnut hair is covering one eye slightly, and she takes her fingers and pushes it behind her ears, while blowing a few strands off of her face.

  “After today, this is all getting chopped off,” she says. “If I have to do the hatchet job myself.” She runs her hands through
her locks once more, then takes the pink band from her wrist and twists her hair into a ponytail. “Who knew being pregnant would make your hair grow so fast. Plus it’s so hot. I sweat all the time.”

  I look to Vicki, who rolls her eyes.

  Absentmindedly, I run my hand through my own hair, remembering when mine was her length. I look at Vicki’s long layers and momentarily regret getting it cut.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a suggestion where to go?” the woman asks. “I’m not from Manhattan.”

  “Neither are we,” Vicki is quick to say. I look at my sister and arch my eyebrows.

  “Oh. Well, thanks anyway.”

  And then she’s gone.

  “What a freak,” Vicki says, once the woman is out of ear-shot.

  The makeup artist is at my sister’s eyes, applying mascara, and I watch the two snicker.

  “That’s nothing, they’re all freaks,” the saleswoman says.

  I attempt to duplicate the dramatic strokes, highlighting my cheekbones as she’s doing to Vicki, using the gooseneck mirror on the glass counter to see what I’m doing. But when I’m done I emerge all wrong. The colors too heavy, the mirror too small. Before I have a chance to wipe my face with a tissue, Vicki looks at me and starts to laugh.

  “If you rub it in a bit Rob, it will look really pretty. You should get them.” There’s a softness, an authenticity in her voice I haven’t heard in years. It’s one she uses with friends and occasionally with our parents when she wants something.

  The salesperson hands her a mirror and waits for a response.

  “Nice. I’ll take whatever you used.” She slides off the chair and reaches into her bag, fishing out both the nicotine gum and her wallet. The gum is popped into her mouth and a gold card removed from the LV case. I reach into my jeans to remove my credit card but my sister beats me to it.