We Could Be Beautiful

by Swan Huntley

  “I love your cards, baby. Even though they’re mostly napkins.”

  “That’s true.”

  They did an air kiss, and when I looked beyond them, Henry and Susan were hugging each other, swaying to the elevator music. I missed William. I felt lonely and alone. And then Dan arrived with a girl. My instinct was to hide behind someone, but none of the people at this party were tall enough to hide behind.

  The girl wasn’t particularly sexy. Or maybe she was. She looked like a scholar. Short hair, glasses. Anyone with short hair and glasses looked smart—unfair advantage, and it didn’t necessarily mean anything. People with long hair had to work so much harder to prove their intelligence. She obviously did all her shopping at J. Crew: black stretchy jeans, a paisley button-down, black Mary Janes with girly pink stitching. She was probably from Greenwich, and she had probably gone to Harvard. Was she the ex?

  They moved toward me. Dan wore a casual outfit of black jeans and a black button-down. The black on black was a poor choice—he looked like a bartender or a barista—but the J. Crew scholar obviously wouldn’t have been able to tell him that.

  “Hi.” He kissed my cheek. He smelled like sour patchouli. “Thanks so much for having us. This is Ellen.”

  Her name would be Ellen.

  “Hi, great to meet you.”

  “You, too. Dan has told me so much.” Ellen was so confident, she didn’t even need to finish her sentences.

  “Are you Dan’s roommate?” I knew his roommate was Florence. I hadn’t forgotten that name, but I could play dumb. Women with long hair could play dumb better than women with short hair. That’s what we had and I was going to use it.

  “No, we’re friends,” Ellen said, a little too quickly, and locked her eyes on Dan. There was obviously a lot going on here. She had to be the ex.

  “Well, help yourselves to drinks and food—there’s so much!” I motioned to the spread.

  “I’ll get us drinks,” Dan said, not asking Ellen what her drink was because he already knew.

  “Thanks.” When Dan walked away, Ellen folded her arms across her chest. She smelled like a discontinued scent from the Gap. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I’m planning my wedding. I don’t know if you’ve ever planned a wedding, but it’s a full-time job.” I sipped my chardonnay, which was now warm.

  “No, I’m too young for marriage. I’m only thirty.”

  “Yeah, I thought that at your age, too.” I said this condescendingly, and gave her a look of understanding that made it even more condescending: you don’t know anything about the world.

  Unflappable Ellen looked at me like she felt sorry for me and said “That’s interesting” in a way that showed no interest at all.

  Continuing the thread of her original question—what was I going to do after this?—I said, “I am also in the middle of renovating my home, so that will take up a lot of time. And my mother has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Sounds like you’ll be busy,” Ellen said. Had she not heard the part about Alzheimer’s? This was when she was supposed to say, “I’m so sorry.”

  My heels were killing me all of a sudden. When I shifted my weight, I lost my balance, and Ellen saved me from falling by grabbing my arm. “Whoa,” she said.

  I stood back up, fixed my hair, and pretended the almost-fall hadn’t happened. “Yes,” I said, “I will be very busy.”

  Dan returned with drinks, and I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I wanted to text William and tell him how much I missed him, but this seemed pathetic, and then he would know I wasn’t enjoying the party.

  When I looked in the mirror, I expected to find a sweaty, cakey, upset-looking face. I even prepared to sigh. But I looked good. Maybe a little tired, a little thin, but overall, good. This may have been why I went to the bathroom. Mirrors reminded me that it was what was on the outside that counted. I wasn’t transparent. I was real, solid, pretty. If I felt like a mess, nobody had to know that but me.

  This was a good time to take pictures, I decided. Caroline had brought a camera, and she’d taken a few, but I thought Dan should be the photographer now. My sister shouldn’t have to be the photographer. It should be Dan. He and Ellen were the most random people there. They didn’t need to be in the photos. It made the most sense.

  I took the camera off the table in the back where Caroline had left it and walked straight to Dan. “Dan? Would you mind taking a few photos of everyone? Maybe some candid shots, and then we can get everyone together for a group shot.”

  “That’s a big camera,” Ellen said.

  “Do you know how to use a camera like this?”

  “Sure,” Dan said. He tried to make eye contact. I looked at the plate of chips and hummus in his hand. I waited for him to put it down. When he did, I put the camera strap over his head. “Please keep the strap on—this is expensive.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  I went to get a cold chardonnay. Ellen and Dan stood with their heads close together, pushing buttons on the camera and talking. Maybe about what an asshole I was, but I didn’t care. No, I didn’t care at all.

  Everyone in the room looked happy except for Vera, who’d been slumped like a dead animal in that blue canvas chair for way too long, and Caroline, who was checking her phone again. I would go console my sister because despite what Ellen and Dan might be saying about me, I was a very good person.

  My sister looked so thin. Her collarbones protruded like handlebars. I didn’t know if I was disgusted or jealous. “Have you heard from Bob?”

  She looked up from her phone. “We’re having a fight over text.”

  “Oh, Caroline, I’m so sorry.”

  She flopped her arms over my shoulders. Was she going to cry? I couldn’t deal with that right now. I pulled away.

  “He’s saying he has to stay in Chicago longer.”

  “For the conference?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that seems normal, right?”

  “I don’t know what normal is.” She looked exhausted.

  Dan snapped a picture of us from across the room. Good, a picture of me being a good sister. Nice job, Dan.

  “William is traveling for work right now, too. It’s okay.”

  Caroline put her hand on her cheek. “I don’t like it,” she whined.

  “I don’t like it either, but they’ll be back soon.” I put my hand on her bony shoulder. I was aware of Ellen watching us. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Caroline said.

  “Let’s enjoy the rest of this party. Do you want to go sit in one of those camping chairs?”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry about those.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine. I think it’s kind of funny.”

  We sat by the wall with Vera, who was now roughly massaging her neck. I made sure Caroline sat next to Vera, not me. I felt too guilty to be near that woman.

  I half participated in a conversation about MTA renovations with Vera and Caroline and kept my eyes on Dan. He was doing a great job as photographer. Ellen stood alone, eating cheese, not looking uncomfortable at all. She was so confident, she didn’t even check her phone. Eventually she started speaking Spanish with Maya and Lucia. They were close enough so I could hear. She didn’t know how to say insurance in Spanish so she said that in English. She was asking Lucia if she had health insurance. Lucia said, “Yes, yes, Miss Catherine gives it to me.” Ha bitch, take that.

  “Everyone please get together for a group shot!” Dan said. He was taking his little job so seriously. It annoyed me, how good he was.

  We all gathered by the front. Maya, Vera, and I stood in the center, with Caroline next to me. I tried to ignore Ellen, who stood behind Dan.

  Dan said, “Okay, now let’s do a silly one.” Caroline immediately broke out into a crazy shape and stuck out her tongue. Vera, her face sullen, flicked the camera off. Maya pouted and looked over her glasses. I made a mean face. I meant it to be funny, but w
hen I would look at this picture later, the funny part wasn’t apparent. I just looked mean.

  After that I was done taking pictures. I asked Caroline to go get the camera from Dan, which she did. I had another drink and waited for this party to be over. At ten the caterers had to go. I was glad about that. Vera said she would gladly take the leftover bottles of wine home with her. Susan said, “Call me tomorrow, bitch.” Ellen, with vacant, unappreciative eyes, said, “Thank you for having me.” I was not impressed. Dan said, “Yes, thanks, and I’ll see you very soon.” He didn’t mention his unanswered e-mail about the Counting Crows.

  Caroline, Lucia, and I were the last people there. I needed help getting these candles home, and I had asked them to spend the night. I didn’t want to be alone. Lucia was going to come back in the morning anyway, so it was no problem. Caroline was indecisive. She wanted to spend the night, too, but she felt bad for leaving the kids, but she really wanted to stay. “If Bob gets a vacation from parenting, I should get a vacation from parenting.” She texted her “team” to let them know. She had 24/7 service anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

  Lucia and Catherine waited on the sidewalk while I said good-bye to the shop. I walked into my office for the last time. All the hours I had poured into this. All the days spent working at this desk. What had been the point? What had I learned from this? Why was Susan a better businessperson than I was?

  I closed the office door and stood in the near-dark of the space I had come to know so well. Jeff had executed the shelves for the cards flawlessly. I hoped whoever bought the shop would leave them up. I noted the small, familiar imperfection on the floor. For some reason, it had always reminded me of a seashell. I hoped the next person would leave that, too. I reminded myself of what William had said. To lose any more money on this venture would not be optimal. Over three years—that was a long time. That’s what I would say when I talked about it later. Three years in this economic climate—wow.

  I walked around the perimeter, trailing my fingertips on the walls. I stopped, put my cheek against the wall. I must have been deliriously tired—what was I doing? Then I kissed the wall. The imprint of my pink lipstick was so faint, I doubted that anyone would notice it later.

  •

  Lucia slept in the guest room and Caroline slept in my bed. I gave them each some pajamas. Lucia wanted to wear the ones she’d gotten me last Christmas. Caroline, in bed, said, “I love the skylight—I can see the moon.” I felt like we were kids again. Maybe we had always been kids. We just had credit cards now, and homes, and men, and cellulite.

  “If Bob is cheating on you,” I said, “you should go to therapy.”

  “We’re already in therapy.”

  “You never told me that.”

  I could see the outline of her profile. She opened her mouth. She waited for a second before she said, “I thought you would judge me.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Mom would judge me.”

  “That’s true.”

  I wanted to tell her about the journal, but I couldn’t do that—she’d want to read it. I couldn’t let anyone read it, not yet. I had to figure out what it all meant first. Why had Mom written the Stocktons were “set to go back as it is”? And what the hell did “Guilt is cancer” mean? And did any of this mean anything? I imagined that when I found out, I would say, Oh, this was all a big misunderstanding. I was trying to connect dots that had no connection. Making something out of nothing as usual, Catherine. You are so paranoid and you have always been so paranoid and you think the world is out to get you when really the world doesn’t give a shit about your silly little life.

  “Bob was different when I first met him,” Caroline said, her voice thinning. “I think he was nicer. His job has gone to his head.”

  “Really? He’s a pediatrician. And he seems pretty nice to me.”

  “He’s always nice in public.”

  “What’s he like at home?”

  “I just feel like everything I do annoys him.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Am I supposed to change now that he’s different? I don’t even know how to act.”

  “Just be yourself.”

  “Are you yourself all the time?”

  “Oh God, Caroline, you know I hate philosophy.”

  “It’s not—I’m just asking a question.”

  “Am I myself all the time? Yeah, I am,” I said without thinking, because it was the right thing to say, and I was the older sister, so I would act like the older sister.

  “I don’t even know who I am right now. I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”

  “You’re only thirty-seven. It’s kind of early.”

  “Maybe I’ll die early and this is the middle of my life.”

  “So you’ll be dead at…seventy-something.”

  “What? You’re supposed to tell me I’ll live forever! Or at least long enough to see my kids grow up.” Caroline laughed and hit me with a pillow.

  I hit her back. “How am I supposed to know how long you’ll live?”

  She was going to hit me back but then didn’t. We were silent for a while. There was just the sound of Herman snoring in the corner. When I looked up at the skylight, the same stars were there, and the moon.

  “Catherine, what am I going to do if Bob leaves me?”

  “He’s not going to leave you, and even if he does, you’ll find a way to be okay.”

  I had the briefest recollection of my old psych professor in college who used to say, “The advice people give is usually the advice they need to take themselves.” Then I remembered that professor had taken a semester off to take care of her own mental health (she thought it was important to be honest about this, given her field) and so everything she had ever said was easy to discount. She was crazy. But it bothered me that this line had stuck with me for so long. And I knew I should be taking my own advice. If William left me, I would probably find a way to be okay. And if I never had a baby, maybe that would somehow be okay. And if the money ran out—well, that didn’t seem okay at all, and there had to be a way around it.

  “You’re such a good person, Catherine. I’m glad you met William. He’s a good person, too.”

  “Yeah, he really is.”

  Herman stirred, let out a little bark. Maybe a bad dream.

  “Even though I don’t love that dog. He’s kind of high-strung.”

  “I know, thank you. There is something wrong with that dog.”

  “Maybe he was beaten as a puppy.”

  “Don’t say that, then I’ll feel bad for him.”

  “Oh. Well, if you feel bad, go buy him a new jacket or something.”

  •

  The next afternoon I met Susan at Bloomingdale’s for frozen yogurt and shopping. She wore a hairy pink cardigan and said, “You look great,” before she’d even really looked at me.

  “I’m worried—”

  “Order, you’re up.” We had reached the front of the line.

  We ordered small, sugar-free, fat-free vanillas. We sat in the corner. I was cold, too cold. Why were all frozen yogurt places freezing inside? The place was packed, full of people and their Big and Little Brown Bags.

  Susan set her cup down on the counter. The yellow spoon she had stabbed into her yogurt fell to the side in slow motion. She checked her phone. “Sorry,” she said. “E-mails.”

  I stirred my yogurt. I didn’t feel like eating. Food was such a waste of money most of the time.

  “So how are you? I would be freaking out if I were you.” She stirred in a noncommittal way. The pearly buttons on her pink cardigan shone like little moons.

  “I’m worried.” And I whispered the next part: “About money.”

  “Don’t you have the money from the shop now?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s not going to last.”

  “Exactly. And if I can’t get pregnant?”

  “Shit. But William has money, doesn’t he? How much is that ring
worth?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How much do you have saved?”

  “I don’t know. Not a lot.” I was clenched, cold again. The more yogurt I ate, the colder I got. Why weren’t we having hot chocolate or tea? Maybe I didn’t want to be in this conversation. Maybe I didn’t want to be telling Susan these things. But didn’t I have to? Didn’t you have to tell your best friend everything? “I have the house.”

  “Yeah, but Catherine, come on, that only matters if you plan on selling it.”

  I was positive about what would happen next: Susan would ask me how much I needed and offer me at least a million dollars, maybe two. She was richer than me anyway, very rich. Her trust was five times the size that mine had been. But she didn’t offer me money. She said, “Have you thought about suing your mother?”

  “What? I don’t even know how that would work.”

  Susan stuck a pensive finger in the air. Her nails were a nude color. Not the best choice—it washed her out. “It would probably be easier since she has Alzheimer’s, right? She’s incapacitated.”

  “I think this year has been eventful enough. Also, suing my mother?”

  “Sorry. I’m just looking out for you.” Susan took the only bite of the frozen yogurt she would take. It was mostly melted, and dripped from her spoon. “At least when she dies you’ll get something.”

  When I looked at Susan then, I thought, Who are you? And who does that make me? I had never questioned my friendship with Susan, ever. She was a pillar in my constantly-falling-down life. Not knowing how to address this in the moment, I did the mature thing and changed the subject.

  “How’s Henry?”

  “He’s a doll.” Susan checked her phone. “An absolute doll.”

  “You’re going to stay with him for a while?”

  “We’ll see,” she said. “You know I would never say yes to that question. Anything could happen.” She laughed. “Clearly, as your situation has taught us.”

  I forced a smile. “You know,” I said, “I’m feeling nauseous all of a sudden. I think I should go home.” I didn’t bother to say this in a believable way.