These Girls

by Sarah Pekkanen

  Warmly,

  Becca

  Warmly. That was the word that threw Renee. She hadn’t responded to the letter yet because she had no idea how to respond. She didn’t feel warmly toward Becca yet, even though she wished she could. Learning she had a half sister who was just a year older was strange enough. The fact that her father had had a one-night stand right after marrying Renee’s mother? Her sandals-with-socks-wearing, History Channel–loving, henpecked father, engaging in a tawdry fling? It defied the imagination. Which was a fortuitous thing; Renee didn’t want those images renting space in her brain.

  Her parents were such a couple, two halves of a matching pair, which made it even stranger. Their names were Maria and Marvin, and everyone referred to them as M&M. They had dark curls that were rapidly graying, were the same height when her mother wore her one-inch Naturalizer heels, squabbled almost constantly, and finished each other’s sentences. Actually, Renee’s mother finished most of them—her father had a habit of getting distracted by the television or sports page and letting his half-finished sentences dangle in midair, like fishing lures for her mother to snap on to.

  Renee had thought her dad’s idea of high excitement was buying a new wrench at Home Depot; their conversation about his decades-old indiscretion had been searingly uncomfortable. He hadn’t known about his other daughter’s existence until recently, either. Since then, Renee knew, her father had gone out for lunch with Becca. He was figuring out how to navigate this new relationship, too, while trying to repair the damage to his marriage.

  Renee had phoned her mother, who’d informed her that her father was sleeping in the guest room.

  “Are you going to . . .” Renee had let the sentence trail off; she couldn’t bear to hear the words aloud. But her mother had decades of experience of leaping into the conversational breach, and she’d deftly completed Renee’s thought.

  “Leave him? Of course not,” her mother had said. “But I’m angry.”

  “Do you want me to come home?” Renee had asked.

  “Oh, honey, there’s no need for that. Thank you, but what would you do? Watch your father tiptoe around and do things like take out the trash without being reminded to win me back? No, it’s going to take a while, but we’ll work through this. We’ve been through worse.”

  You have? Renee’s mind had shrieked, before she realized she really didn’t want to know.

  “Okay,” Renee had finally said. “But if you change your mind, let me know and I’ll be on the next plane.”

  Renee slowly refolded the letter and tucked it back into her purse as she continued down the street. She was seized by a sudden thought: Did Becca look like her? What would it feel like to look into her own round blue eyes with thick lashes, to see her snip of a nose and the lips she always thought were just a bit too full on another face that was framed by a familiar mass of dirty blond hair?

  She’d have to get past this unsettling feeling. She’d e-mail Becca tonight, she promised herself, just as her cell phone rang.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” It was Bonnie, the beauty editor for Gloss and one of Renee’s closest friends at the office.

  “Just running a bit late. I swear I need a louder alarm clock,” Renee said. “Or maybe one with a built-in cattle prod.”

  “I’ve got news,” Bonnie said.

  “What is it?”

  “Big news, actually.”

  “Really? Oops, hang on a sec. There’s a miniature chain gang heading my way.” Renee dodged left to avoid a gaggle of toddlers who were all holding on to a long rope. Two preschool teachers walked alongside the kids, calling out encouragement to keep them on pace. Renee bent down to pick up a teddy bear one of the kids dropped and was rewarded with a shy smile.

  “I think it might fall into the category of huge news,” Bonnie was saying. “Maybe even gigantic.”

  “Do you want to call me back after you’ve selected a category?” Renee asked. “Or you could just string it out for another half hour. You know I love it when you do that.”

  Bonnie laughed, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m leaving.”

  Renee stopped walking. “New York?”

  “I’m leaving Gloss,” Bonnie said. “I just got an offer from Vogue.”

  Renee’s emotions wrestled with one another, and envy strong-armed its way to the top. First Cate had leapfrogged to the features editor job and now Bonnie. Why them and not me?

  But Renee quickly pushed the petty thought down where it belonged, beneath happiness for her friend. “Congrats! Drinks tonight, okay? On me.”

  “Yes, but I’m leaving,” Bonnie repeated. “My job is opening up. You need to apply for it.”

  “Oh,” Renee breathed. “God, Bonnie, do you think . . . ?”

  “Why not you?” Bonnie asked.

  “I love you,” Renee blurted, feeling a flush of shame.

  “That’s what you say, but you never call in the morning.”

  “Hey, I leave a good tip on the nightstand,” Renee said, hearing Bonnie’s laugh as she hung up. Renee surveyed her outfit with new eyes. She had to look spectacular today. Winning the beauty editor job would mean a nice boost in salary but, better yet, the perks! She’d go on junkets to spas, be flooded with packages of all the latest cosmetics and skin care lines, and nab invitations galore—which meant she’d get to eat out at cocktail parties whenever she wanted. She’d save loads of money.

  She turned and ran back to the apartment, huffing as she climbed the four flights of stairs. She burst into her bedroom and stood in front of her closet, scanning the contents. She needed something chic and, above all, slimming, she thought, already regretting the spoonful of sugar in her coffee. If only she could be more like Naomi, who seemed to live on protein bars and air—or even Cate, who was a naturally lean size 4. Cate treated food the way some guys treated women—she took exactly what she needed and never gave it a lingering thought afterward. She was the type of woman who could eat a single potato chip (type? There was no type; Cate was the lone woman in that bizarre demographic). It would be intolerable, except that Cate wasn’t the slightest bit smug about it.

  Twenty minutes later, her closet was more of a shambles than usual, and Renee was no closer to finding the perfect outfit. All of her cheap lunches consisting of a slice or two of pizza from Ray’s, the half-priced happy hour drinks, and the illicit handfuls of chocolate meant her size 12 clothes were getting tight. Now she was sweating and late for work.

  She reluctantly shrugged back into her original outfit, despising the roll of flesh that protruded over her waistband. Anyone working for Gloss needed to look good, but the beauty editor was held to an elite standard. Back in Kansas—heck, in most of the world—Renee would be considered a healthy size. Here in the epicenter of New York’s magazine world? She was the fat girl.

  Starting today, though, that was going to change. She was going to give careful consideration to every crumb that passed through her lips. She’d be more selective than an Ivy League admissions officer. And in two months—voilà!—she’d be fifteen pounds slimmer.

  It would take weeks for the Gloss editors to settle on Bonnie’s replacement. By the time they were ready, they’d look up and see Renee, slim and chic, standing in front of them. They’d recognize her years of hard work at the magazine, and she’d land the job. She had to. But first she had to get to the office and ask for it.

  Two

  IT WAS CATE’S FAVORITE time of the week. A late September breeze swept across her face, her sneakers pounded a satisfying rhythm against the Central Park path, and her body felt clean and light, as if she were on the cusp of flying. Her breath came in quick gasps; her lungs burned. Fifty more yards. She turned on a final burst of speed, giving it everything she had, until she almost collapsed over an imaginary finish line. She walked in slow circles, hands on her hips, gulping oxygen. Every ounce of tension in her body, all of the knots and little kinks that built up during the long week, had evaporated in the sweet release of
the past three miles.

  She moved to the left to let a smiling, white-haired couple walking a golden retriever on a bright red leash pass by, then she exhaled and tilted her face toward the sun. Rich green leaves capped the nearby hackberry and saucer magnolia trees, and the paths had been scrubbed clean by an early-morning rain. A bald guy on a unicycle rode by, calling out a cheery “Hello!” and Cate grinned. Times like these were the reason she’d fallen in love with New York.

  Her Saturday morning routine never varied: After her run, she’d stop by the Korean deli for cut-up fruit and a container of mixed salads—food for the weekend—then pick up a Vitamin-water and fried-egg-and-cheese on a bagel to nibble on the way home. She’d lounge around in her sticky clothes, reading the paper and sipping coffee, feeling gloriously grubby.

  An hour later, she’d just brewed a two-cup pot of Colombian roast and snapped open the Times when her cell phone rang. She glanced down and swallowed a sigh before answering. It was 9:01 A.M.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Catherine, are you okay? You sound down.”

  Cate forced more enthusiasm into her voice. “Just distracted. How are you?”

  “Oh, fine. What are you up to?”

  At 9:01 A.M.? Kicking both of my lovers out of bed, Cate wanted to reply. Her passive-aggressiveness wasn’t due to the question; it was because she’d prohibited her mother from calling before 9:00 on weekends, saying it would wake her roommates. The fact that her mother was clearly watching the clock, waiting for the magic moment to dial, conjured equal parts pity and frustration in Cate.

  “Just relaxing,” Cate said. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d do a little grocery shopping today. Maybe go to the bookstore.”

  “Sounds nice,” Cate said, injecting even more enthusiasm into her voice.

  “I guess.”

  Now guilt washed over Cate. Her mother had devoted herself to raising Cate and her older brother, Christopher, to afternoons spent sitting at the kitchen table and going over multiplication tables while a stew bubbled away on the stove, to hand-sewing Halloween costumes and packing hampers full of peanut butter sandwiches and lemonade for summer afternoons at the beach. Now Christopher was living in Hong Kong with his wife of two years, her parents had split up, and her mother was alone in the brick colonial in Philadelphia that had once overflowed with soccer balls and ballet slippers and backpacks and happy chatter.

  After a pause, her mother said, “I was thinking, I could come up next weekend for a visit? We could have some girl time.”

  Cate swallowed hard. The last time her mother had come up, they’d wandered through MoMA and gotten manicures and feasted on chicken Caesar salads and a carafe of Chardonnay. Her mother had refused Cate’s offers to take her bedroom and insisted on spending the night on the love seat, claiming it was perfectly comfortable, though at brunch the next morning she kept rubbing the side of her neck. It had been lovely, but it had also been a month ago. No, less than a month. Three weeks ago.

  Cate stood up, knocking the newspaper off her lap and onto the floor. Agitation crept into her body as she began to pace. “I’m not sure yet what my plans are,” she lied. “I might need to go out of town for a story.”

  She could feel her mother’s disappointment, thick and heavy as a gray fog creeping over the phone line. She’d always reveled in the way her mom had waited to greet her after school, or was available to drive her to an activity at a moment’s notice, knowing that not every mother was like this, that she was lucky. What Cate hadn’t foreseen was that, in living for her family, her mother had failed to create a life of her own. Now that everyone was gone, it was as if her mother was trying to cling to Cate to keep herself from falling into the gaping hole created by their absences.

  “Maybe in another couple weeks?” Cate suggested. “I’ll call you when I get to the office and double-check my calendar.”

  “Of course,” her mother said.

  “What book are you thinking about getting?” Cate asked as she walked over to the kitchen counter. A sheet of paper was propped up against the toaster. Cate picked it up and began to read.

  “The club chose To Kill a Mockingbird. We’re rereading classics for the next few months,” her mom was saying, but her voice faded into a buzz in Cate’s ear.

  The note was from Naomi. She was moving out, heading to Europe for a year to model. She was leaving in two weeks.

  “Shit!” the word escaped from Cate’s mouth.

  “What’s wrong? Honey, are you hurt?”

  She never stopped being a mother; it was equal parts comforting and annoying.

  “No, no, just a note from Naomi. She’s—” Cate cut herself off, as abruptly as if she’d snatched up a knife from the butcher block and sliced away the end of her own sentence. A terrible thought flashed through her mind: What if her mother offered to take Naomi’s place? She could almost hear the conversation unfolding. Her mother had gotten plenty of money in the divorce settlement, and her house was already paid off. The rent wouldn’t pose any problem for her; then she could pop up to New York all the time, split her time between the city and Philly—she wouldn’t be imposing on Cate’s roommates, and she’d love the chance to see more museums, to stroll through the busy streets. To cook dinner, and wait for Cate to come home.

  It was worse than the air being forced from her lungs during the final sprint of her run; Cate was suffocating. Her mother wouldn’t really suggest something like that, would she?

  She just might.

  “Naomi’s just complaining about the mess we left in the kitchen. No big deal,” Cate lied, crumpling up the note in her hand. “Typical roommate stuff.”

  “I see.”

  Was it her imagination, or did her mother know she wasn’t telling the truth?

  “Mom? Can I call you back later? I need to hop in the shower.”

  “Of course, honey.” The musical voice brought back a million memories: a cool washcloth on her forehead whenever she’d had a fever; the way her mother changed out of jeans and into a nice dress for her school conferences; homemade yellow cakes with chocolate icing served for breakfast on birthdays.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear the Johnsons sold their house and are going to assisted living?” her mother said. “They got a really nice unit. Two bedrooms.”

  This is an old-person conversation and you’re not old! Cate wanted to shout. At sixty-one, you should take salsa classes! Travel to Portugal with a girlfriend! Learn to play poker!

  Guilt and frustration and love: Those were the steady bass notes in her dance with her mother.

  Cate wound down the conversation and stripped off her T-shirt as she headed for the shower. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to get clean, to wash away her sweat and grime. Reading the paper no longer held appeal; she’d head into the office and try to make a dent in her workload.

  Cate forced herself to stop thinking about the lonely day stretching ahead of her mother and concentrate on work. The polygamy piece, for example. Cate had envisioned one woman’s story about what it was like to be in such an unorthodox relationship, but Sam, the writer, had bloated it with statistics and facts. It was informative, which was good. But it wasn’t compelling, which would be its death knell.

  The problem was, Sam was a senior staff member. He’d penned many cover stories for the magazine. Critiquing his work would be delicate. Maybe Cate should leave in some statistics. After all, he had far more experience than she did.

  Did other editors question themselves this way?

  Cate turned on the cold water tap and shivered as she forced herself to endure the icy spray, hoping it would wash away her turbulent feelings.

  Who knew apple martinis had so many calories? Renee thought as she rolled over in bed and burrowed deeper under the covers.

  Renee had been about to order her favorite drink at the bar they’d gone to the previous night to celebrate Bonnie’s new job—but then she noticed the menus had been changed; they now, so
mewhat sadistically, listed calorie contents. Which meant her usual Friday night fare—a few appletinis, a handful of chips and guac, maybe a fried wonton or a nibble of whatever appetizer was being passed around the table—added up to thirteen hundred calories. Ignorance wasn’t just bliss; it also had a second job as cellulite’s partner in crime.

  What she’d regularly consumed, without even really tasting, between 7:00 P.M. and midnight was now her calorie allotment for the entire day. Renee pulled herself out of bed with a sigh, slipped on Lycra pants and a T-shirt, and laced up her old Nikes. Renee hated exercise, but she was going for a walk. She’d put in two miles a day, and by next month, she’d be up to three.

  She lifted her head at the sound of a soft tap on her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “Hey there.” It was Cate, looking bright-eyed and together as if she’d been up for hours—which, come to think of it, she probably had. Her straight, shiny hair was down around her shoulders, her high cheekbones were defined by a rose-colored blush, and she wore a mint green top with dark Seven jeans.

  “I’m heading into the office,” Cate said.

  On a Saturday? Renee thought. The forecast was calling for an unseasonably warm, sunny day—possibly the last one before fall clamped its chilly grip on Manhattan. But maybe that was why Cate had won the promotion. Renee worked long hours—everyone at the magazine did—but she’d have to stretch them out even further now that she was vying for the beauty editor job.

  “There’s fresh coffee in case you want some,” Cate continued.

  “Ooh, I want,” Renee said. “Thanks.”

  Cate hovered in the doorway. “And there’s some bad news. Naomi’s moving out.”

  Renee rubbed a hand across her forehead and flopped backward onto her bed. “Oh, no. I mean, she’s obnoxious, but at least we never see her.”

  Cate nodded. “I know. We’ll figure something out, okay? Sorry to start your morning like this.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Cate turned to leave, and Renee called, “Cate? Don’t forget about Trey’s party tonight. Do you want to come with me?”