Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  “I got it.” She looks to the saleswoman. “Just duplicate what you’ve used on me and put it all on my card.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Forget it,” she says, waving away my thank you while signing the slip. “Just blend the makeup in a bit more. You look like…”

  “Aunt Ella,” we both say, our words in perfect sync. We laugh at this and I am so thankful, so very thankful for this moment only she and I can share.

  We clutch our purchases like buried treasure, silent promises to make us prettier. My sister grasps hers so tightly—as if she thinks I’m going to snatch it from her hands—that her knuckles are white, her fingers red. It swings in straight, short movements as we continue our shopping adventure. With a skip to our step, smiles on our faces, we take the elevator to the ninth floor, the dining room and gift shop.

  Once seated, we peruse the menu, pick at the focaccia, sip mango lemonade, and pretend we are on vacation somewhere exotic.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I say, reaching for her hand. “It’s been forever since we’ve spent time together. And I know going to Abby’s thing tonight might be hard for you, but I just wanted to say”—I try to find my breath, find the words I want to utter—“I’m just really glad you’re here.” I can feel my face getting hot. A prickly sensation emerges inside me.

  She pulls her hand away, looks around the restaurant to see if people are staring. “What the fuck Robin? You act like we’re dating.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I sigh and try again. “I know weddings are a touchy subject and that…”

  “I wouldn’t marry the guy Abby’s marrying if his penis shot out gold coins instead of urine. I’m fucking over Toby, anyway.”

  Vicki was once engaged to a man she’d met at work. Fourteen years older than she, he’d already had two divorces, three children, and when he found out my sister was pregnant, called off the wedding and told her the relationship was over. Worried about her, my mother and I took her out for lunch and calmly, softly said it was for the best. That we’d go with her to the hospital or doctor’s office if that’s what she wanted. She sat there, her foot tapping the floor, fingers tapping the table to a rhythmic beat neither my mother nor I could decipher. She was smoking a pack a day back then, and though we’d only been at the outdoor restaurant for fifteen minutes, six butts were already in the ashtray, deep red marks perfectly outlined on the pristine white tops. When the waitress finally came over to take our order, Vicki got up, told us she was no longer hungry, and had already had the “problem” taken care of on her own. We watched her walk away wondering what else we could have done. Though we phoned her, left long, nervously wordy messages, made apologies, she didn’t return one call. It took her over eight months to speak to either one of us and she only did so when my father phoned telling her to get off her high horse, grow up, and apologize to her mother. My parents had been divorced for over a decade by then, and he was still the only one she ever really listened to. She phoned my mother the next day, talking to her as if nothing ever happened.

  Vicki is still staring at me, her fingers tapping the table, the beat somehow sounding like an old camp song, The ants go marching one-by-one hurrah, hurrah. I sing it in my head hoping it will make the room stop spinning, quiet the ringing in my ears, which, sadly, has gotten louder. I’m treading on familiar territory now: the quick rise of anger in her voice that comes out in short, hot puffs; the sharp, jerky body movements; the exasperation that shows in her face all seem to happen at once. I want to pedal back, reclaim the moment. Return to a time when we were friends. Only I’m not sure when that was.

  “What? What did I do? What are you always so fucking mad about?” I reach for the mango lemonade and accidentally knock it over. I watch it crash to the floor, the glass shattering. I see the orangey yellow liquid bleed out onto the marble. See the waiter walk over with a mop. See my sister start to laugh.

  “Are you okay, Miss?” The waiter says, bending down to scoop up the shards.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m fine. I just…” I look at Vicki, who’s smirking, observing me coolly from behind the menu. “I’ll be right back.”

  I shove my chair out from under me, hear it slide on the floor, glass crunching beneath it, hear the sound of my shoes, the winded huff of my breath.

  I push open the bathroom door, which reveals a small, simply decorated room, walls painted a soft cocoa color. Of the three empty stalls I go for the middle. I lock the door, lean my forehead against it, extend my arms out to either side so that they press up against the metal walls of the stall as I will myself not to cry. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, hear the small whimper in my throat escape. I want—am owed—the basic nurturing and consoling that everyone longs for. It’s part of the job. An unwritten, unspoken rule of siblings.

  As a child, when I couldn’t sleep, I used to fantasize about getting some rare disease just to see if Vicki would be nicer to me. If she’d take care of me. I’d visualize her sitting by my hospital bed, a hand on my forehead, another on my arm as she relays stories about our childhood.

  The ringing in my ears is gone and the few moments I’ve allowed myself have calmed me down a bit. As I exit, I tell myself it won’t matter if I come back to an empty chair, some cash on the table, her place setting cleared while mine contains the burger and fries, a new mango lemonade by its side. To my surprise, she’s still there, waiting for me, a cell phone pressed to her ear, her fingers twirling the straw in her drink.

  Hours later Vicki has bought a navy cashmere V-neck sweater, a pair of jeans, and a Prada satin clutch, which miraculously matches her new black dress. Our last stop is a sex shop on Fifty-third off of Second Avenue. We walk down metal stairs, past the neon lips and winking eye. The smell of incense hits us hard as an overweight woman in her sixties wearing a pushup leather bra and a tight, short leather skirt greets us just as strongly. She sells us gag gifts Vicki insists Abby should have: a pair of handcuffs, a pink vibrator, a red garter belt, and a sparkly tiara.

  “Mom’s going to have a small coronary,” I say, as Vicki surrenders her credit card to the sex-shop lady.

  “Every party needs a little excitement,” she comments, pushing it through the machine.

  Vicki signs the slip, hands the bag off to me, and looks at the receipt. “Mini vibrator, thirty-four dollars. Handcuffs, twenty-three. Embarrassing Mom, priceless.”

  We both laugh, friends once again.

  A DO NOT DISTURB sign hangs on Vicki’s hotel door, and she slides in her key without any effort. The suite is a mess. Clothing is sprawled all over the place. Her birth control disc lies open on the table. Only small green ones are left. My mother’s good jewelry case, which contains the diamonds my mother once wore, is out in the open, almost a dare for a staff member to steal. I wonder why it is I’ve not been handed down any of her good jewelry. Why Vicki gets everything she wants. Her iPod, BlackBerry, and this morning’s Times lie haphazardly on the coffee table. Evian water, two cups of coffee, a bowl of half-eaten fruit, another that contains some yogurt and granola, uneaten toast, and picked-over eggs and hash browns reside on a tray placed on the floor. It’s a lot of food even for my sister.

  I reach for the black jewelry box, feel the worn velvet, the solidness of the case. I push in the tiny gold button and the top flips open revealing a gold chain with diamonds interspersed between the links. Two pearl bracelets are here, too. I’ve not seen them before, but they are lovely. Expensive and ornate.

  “Do you have to look through all my stuff? Can’t you just leave things as they are?”

  “I didn’t know you were getting so dressed up. I mean it’s just a dinner, right? Maybe I’m underdressing for the shower.”

  Vicki is about to answer when her cell rings. She looks at the number and ignores the call. As she struggles out of her jeans I catch something on her lower back. A bruise? A scrape? No, a tattoo. I take a step closer, my hand outstretched hoping to touch it, see if it’s raised, how it
feels. The words are already spilling out of my mouth, “When did you get this?” when she pulls her T-shirt down, causing it to vanish instantly.

  “I’m jumping in the shower,” she says, shutting the bathroom door. “Be out in ten.”

  The box is still in my hand and I set it down, think about cleaning up, taking the tray outside, and calling for housekeeping, but as I reach for the phone, it buzzes.

  “Hello?”

  “Vic?”

  “No, this is her sister.”

  “Oh hey, it’s James.”

  “Hi James…” my mouth forms the words as my mind searches for something recognizable in his voice or his name, and finally remember the man from the airport.

  “I’ve been trying your sister all day. I just wanted to know what time she was meeting me and if she still wanted the car?”

  “I’m not sure. Our cousin is having…”

  “Yeah, the party thing. She’s only staying a few minutes because the wedding’s at the same time.”

  As James talks I eye the day’s purchases, which my sister has left by the couch. The bag from the sex shop is red and raunchy looking, and stands out among the conservative, almost nondescript black and gray bags that have become signatures for Barneys, Calvin, and Prada. And then it hits me. The dress, the good jewelry, the glitzy purse, the birth control pills, the new makeup, the large breakfast. I feel my chest tighten as my breath quickens. What a bitch, I think. She’s got to be fucking kidding.

  “Actually, I’m glad I got you on the phone. I wanted to know if you had any suggestions for your sister’s birthday. You’d think after a year I’d be able to pick something out myself, but she’s so hard to shop for, you know?”

  Anger is swimming through me, filling the cavity in my chest like a tub whose bathwater is ready to spill over onto the floor. She was never coming here for my cousin, or my mother, or even me. Like everything else, this weekend, this time with my sister has been a lie.

  “Yeah, she’s a tough one.”

  “You’re telling me. Anyway, have her call okay? I really don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure will,” I muster, chipper like Vicki would. I’m in mid–hang up as she emerges from the shower, dressed in a plush terrycloth hotel robe, looking fresh and clean. She eyes me funny.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” Disgust escapes from my voice.

  “Forget it.”

  I walk over to the unmade bed, unsure of whether to make it, sit down, or what.

  “Was that the phone?”

  “Yeah. Mom wanted to know what time we were getting to the restaurant.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  I shrug. “I told her we would be late.”

  Vicki looks like she’s about to say something, but disappears into the living room instead. When she comes back a moment later, gum is in her mouth, the handcuffs are swinging around one finger. “Let’s see if these actually work,” she announces. I see the gray blur, hear a light swishing.

  “Not a chance.” I reach for them but she snaps them away, hides them behind her back. “I’ll put them on you.”

  “Hold out your wrists,” she commands.

  “No.” I take a step away but my sister grabs hold of me and pushes me. Losing my balance, I fall backward, my neck snapping slightly as I hit the mattress.

  “Come on, Vicki. I don’t want to.” But before I can get up, she leaps onto the bed, bringing her legs up, straddles me, like she did as a kid.

  When I was little she would wrestle me to the ground, sit on my stomach, pin my arms down, and spit on me, sometimes forcing my mouth open, dropping her wad into it.

  There has always been more of her than me. As far back as I can remember, she has always reveled in being born before me. She used to say she saw the womb first. She lived there, made it hers. Like an apartment you inherit, the faint smell of the perfume or cooking from the past tenant hangs in the air so that you never really feel it’s yours. For years she told me the reason our parents got divorced was because they had only wanted two children, and that neither could put up with me. She’d even gotten Michael to play along and when I sobbed this information to my parents, they seemed unsure of how to deal with her and asked me to be more tolerant.

  I try to squirm away but she’s too powerful. I’m laughing, but it’s fake. I know it and she does, too. I can’t get James’s voice out of my head. All I can think about is how long they’ve been dating, how much my sister has kept from me, and how stupid she thinks I am.

  Vicki takes hold of my wrists and squeezes hard. Then harder.

  “Come on. I’m serious.”

  “This is the best you can do? You’re pathetic.” There’s anger in her voice, a frustrated disappointment. She takes her thumb and index finger and flicks me in the forehead. Not hard at first, but by the fifth time, it starts to hurt. I watch her smile as I struggle, her eyes gleaming as she squints. I look into her face searching for something familiar. Something that proves she’s related to me.

  My sister is beautiful. Even in this state—her rich brown hair is long and soft and silky. Her makeup, even though she’s showered, is somehow still perfectly preserved from earlier. Her eyes are a wild blue and if I were a man I’d want to kiss her. Take my palms, move them up to her face, cup her chin in my hand, and bring her toward me. I’d push her hair behind her ears. Let her dangling earrings that shimmer and shine move freely. Instead I lift the top of my head and smack it right into her nose. We both hear the tiny crack, both see the blood as it drops from her nostrils onto my face. For a moment she’s surprised. She smiles for a second before it morphs into anger and slaps me across the face. My cheek stings and is damp from my sister’s blood. I close my eyes, will myself not to cry, but there’s a wetness on my face and I know it’s too late and I’m ashamed to be sobbing in front of her. I feel tears run down the sides of my cheeks and as I open my eyes, realize they aren’t mine.

  “You’re useless,” she says, rolling off of me, trying to hide her face. “I fucking hate you.” She puts a hand under her nose to see how much she’s bleeding and as she shifts her weight, twisting away, I reach out to pull myself up and feel the coolness of metal on the pads of my fingers. I grasp for the handcuffs that are lying next to me and without thinking, clamp one side to her wrist, the other to the bedpost. She shoots an arm out to grab me, her hand stained with blood, but I’m too fast and leap off the bed.

  “Stop fucking around, Robin. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get ready.”

  “Oh, it’s okay for you to fuck around with me. To pin me down…”

  “Shut up and get the key, will you?”

  I do what I’m told, walk into the living room, reach into the bag, extract the key, walk back over to her, take hold of her wrist, feel the smoothness of her skin, like expensive leather, and as I bend forward, she spits in my face. It feels thick and wet. Warm and cold at the same time.

  My heart is beating too fast, my hands are shaking, and my face is still burning from where she slapped me. My palm wipes away her saliva and I slip the key into my pocket and calmly back away and go into the bathroom. She wants a fight? Fuck it, a fight she’ll get.

  “I’m sorry, Robin. Come on.” He voice fades as I close the door, locking it though I’m not sure why. For the moment, she isn’t going anywhere.

  I stare into the mirror. My face is red and sweaty, my eyes glassy. Lipstick is smeared, mascara is smudged. I see the red mark on my cheek, see the remains of blood, of spit, or her tears. I turn on the faucet, reach for a perfectly white wash-cloth, reach for the free egg-shaped Bvlgari soap and submerge both under the warm water. The smell from the soap is fragrant and soothing. I wash my face, wash my sister’s remains away.

  As I search for a hand towel, my eye catches another robe on the floor. It lays limp and lifeless. I grasp it, pulling the belt out of the loops. I open the bathroom door and find Vicki knocking the metal up against the
wooden pole.

  “Look, I’m sorry, just undo me and we’ll forget about it.”

  The belt is in my hand, hidden behind my back. I sit on the side of the bed closest to the bathroom, close to her free hand. As I guessed, Vicki reaches for my shirt, up by my neck and tries to pull me close. But this time I’m ready for her. I grab her wrist and with my other hand take the belt and tie it tightly against the second bedpost. I watch the skin bunch up as the photo of us dressed as Indian chiefs materializes in front of me. I look at my wrist, see the red mark from years ago almost glow.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, looking like the character from The Exorcist, each arm attached to the bed, my sister flat on her back, a position I’m sure she’s been in a number of times. Her legs are flaring and her foot keeps kicking me. I look at her waist, am tempted to remove the belt from the robe she’s wearing, but undo my own instead and strap her ankle to another post. Not taking any chances, I want another accessory to restrain the last limb. I remember the sash from the new dress—the wedding dress, the I’ve-lied-about-why-I’m-here-this-weekend dress—trot back into the living room, and remove the black satin strap. When I return, I take her other leg and tie that too, rendering her completely incapacitated.

  “Robbi, come on.” It’s the honest voice. “I’ve been a total bitch. I’m really, really sorry.”

  I remain frozen. Then like a seductive lover who whispers warmly, softly into your ear how much they adore you, she says, “I swear to God, I’m sorry. This whole weekend was for you and I to bond. I don’t care about seeing Abby. Or even Mom. I just wanted to see you. I miss you. I miss the time we could have had together if I wasn’t such an ass.”

  Vicki is the ever-alluring sun, the perfectly baked chocolate chip cookie too hot to eat.

  I enter the bathroom again, find her cigarette patches, and return. I slap a patch onto her forehead. Another on her chest. I’m about to put a third and forth on her right leg but think better of it. Instead, I reach under her nose, collect some remaining blood and with my index finger smear two lines across her cheek. I then retrieve the tiara we bought for Abby. It’s so lovely, heavy in my hand, childlike and playful. The knife on the food tray catches my eye and I think of the weird pregnant woman at Barneys, the one with the lovely hair, which according to her will all be cut off. I think how much my sister loves her hair. How hard it will be to go to a wedding bald. I return to Vicki, put the knife on the night table, the tiara on her head, a modern-day replacement for the feathered headband from years ago. “How do you feel about a new Indian name,” I say. “Maybe Selfish-Bitch-With-No-Feelings?”