Twelve

Jill was already at the restaurant when I arrived, sitting at a corner table looking elegant and put-together. When Jill was little she was like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip, clouds of dust always seeming to waft around her. She never wanted to play paper dolls with me (my favorite thing to do when I was a kid, already the little fashionista), but she did it to please me. Jill didn’t care about clothes or what she looked like and she certainly didn’t care what other people thought about her. Not as long as she had me.

And then, sometime around ninth grade, she did a complete 180. It was amazing, really. She met Mark, now her husband, and the next thing I knew, she was experimenting with makeup and asking my advice on fashion, even borrowing my clothes, which annoyed me no end. She had become a whole new person and, I had to admit, I had a hard time relating to her. Jealousy was part of it. I felt as if Mark had slid right into my place of importance.

Jill and Mark went steady all through high school and college and then got married and started a family. She never went out with anyone else. And after they got together we were never as close as we’d been before. She didn’t need me anymore.

I could still see the messy little tomboy she used to be, but it was almost as if that were another sister. Now there was no remnant of that person. Now she wore black trousers with a gold chain-link belt, white silk blouse and gold hoop earrings. Her chin-length hair was perfectly highlighted and she brushed her shiny thick bangs off her forehead with a manicured forefinger. I was fashionable—after all, it was my business—but much more casual in jeans tucked into knee-high boots and a rather low-cut red top, my frizzy hair pulled back with a ribbon and little corkscrew curls popping out all over the place.

“You look terrific,” I told Jill. “Going somewhere this afternoon?”

“Your belated birthday lunch,” she said. “And then my bridge club.” Or Junior League or the PTA or the volunteer work she did at the library. Jill always had a million things going on.

The waiter came by, a twenty-something with gelled and spiked hair, blue eyes and tattoos starting at both wrists and disappearing under the sleeves of his T-shirt.

“My name is Jarrod and I’ll be your server. You ladies are looking lovely today,” he said, which could have sounded sleazy but seemed immensely sincere, probably because of his youth and his bright white smile. Obsequiousness and flirtation, an excellent combination for someone hoping to score a big tip from two older ladies.

“How’s the Caesar salad?” I asked.

“Fab. We use white anchovies and shaved fresh Parmesan. But if you want the best thing on the menu, this is it,” he said, and bent close to point to the portobello mushroom sandwich. He smelled faintly of herbal shampoo. “It’s marinated and grilled, and has goat cheese, caramelized onions and fire-roasted red pepper on a ciabatta roll. And I recommend the sweet potato fries, although you can get the hand-cut French fries if you want.”

Under his spell I ordered exactly as he suggested. Jill ordered an omelet and we both ordered a glass of wine, the Côtes du Rhône because he said it was crisp and elegant. Was he even old enough to drink it?

“So,” Jill said when he’d gone, “why didn’t you tell me Michael proposed?”

“I didn’t have time. He sprung that ring on me and then he sprung the news on everyone at that stupid surprise party. It was crazy.”

“He was pretty excited about that party. He had us all believing you’d be thrilled by it.”

“I’m not sure I like this new Michael,” I said. “I thought we were on the same page about things like marriage and living together. And even surprise parties. I mean, he blindsided me with that ring.” I told her how he’d proposed at the restaurant and then about our fight. “I haven’t talked to him in days, and we usually talk at least once a day. He’s pouting, I think.”

“Why don’t you call him?” she said.

Jarrod the waiter brought our wine. “Everything okay here?” he asked.

It would be, I thought, if I wasn’t fifty and pseudo-engaged. “Perfect,” I said and he rewarded me with a big, toothy smile.

“Your lunch will be ready in a few minutes.”

“He likes you,” Jill said as he walked away.

“I could be his mother,” I said, secretly pleased.

“Do you think you’re having a midlife crisis?” Jill asked.

“Oh, fuck you,” I said and she laughed.

“Being fifty sucks, doesn’t it?” she said.

“More than you know. Just wait. You’ll see.”

“Seriously, though, I think you should call Michael. Don’t let this fester.”

“He can call me, too, you know.”

“Lib, don’t stand on ceremony here. This is the rest of your life you’re talking about. Michael’s the best guy you’ve ever been with. Don’t let that go.”

The waiter brought our food, so I didn’t have to answer, but I resented Jill for siding with Michael. She was my sister; wasn’t she supposed to be on my side?

I took a bite of my portobello sandwich, which was delicious, but now I wasn’t hungry. Jill took one of my sweet potato fries. “You’ve had some bad luck with men in the past, but Michael’s someone you can grow old with,” she said.

I could see Michael and me sitting in matching easy chairs in a nursing home somewhere, wiping drool off each other’s chins. But I couldn’t see what led up to it. I couldn’t see us married and living together. “Maybe to you he’s the best guy I’ve ever been with, but you don’t live with us and I’m not so sure. Our relationship is fine. It’s nice,” I said. “It’s easy. It’s comfortable. But is that reason enough to marry him? Shouldn’t it be more … thrilling, more passionate?”

“People get married for different reasons,” Jill said. “And I think at our age we have different priorities.” She took a cheesy bite of her omelet. “I always thought Michael was your Mr. Right. You seem happy with him.”

“I am happy with him, the way things are. I’m not so sure we would work as a married couple. Sometimes I feel like I’m a different person when I’m with Michael.”

“Maybe you are, but is that bad?” Jill asked. “You’re more settled. That’s a good thing.”

“Settled. God, that’s so boring.”

“Lib, that’s what marriage is all about, at least the good ones. It’s about being settled and comfortable with someone, having someone to count on.”

I took another bite of my sandwich and wiped my mouth, realizing I’d inhaled three-quarters of it without even tasting it.

“I’ve got Rufus.”

“Rufus has his limitations.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But cats are so much more reliable than men. He loves me no matter what. He never makes me feel bad about myself, he approves of everything I do, he doesn’t leave toast crumbs on the table.”

Jill said, “He doesn’t blow his nose in the shower, he doesn’t leave the coffeepot on the edge of the counter after he makes coffee.”

“He doesn’t fold my collar down when I intentionally, and stylishly, leave it up. He doesn’t throw away the newspaper before I’ve finished it.”

We both laughed even though I was half serious. Fact was, I wanted to be finished with this conversation. I didn’t want any more advice from my little sister, who lived in storybook land, who’d lucked out at fifteen and met her Prince Charming and lived happily ever after.

But Jill wasn’t finished. She put down her fork and leaned toward me, putting her hand on mine. “All that cleverness aside, you’ve had the passionate, tumultuous relationships, and how did those work for you?”

I bristled, and pulled my hand away. “Shit happens, Jill. Not everyone’s as lucky in love as you. Just because other relationships haven’t worked out doesn’t mean this one’s right. It’s been right for a couple of years at this time in my life, but that doesn’t make it right for eternity.”

Jill kept her mouth shut then. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes she knew when to quit. We ate in silence for a bit as I tried to think of a neutral subject. I thought about telling her about Patrick but ruled that out. I could just hear her: “Don’t throw away your life with Michael for some fantasy,” she’d say, I was sure.

“Maybe you should try putting out a different vibe into the universe,” Jill said. “A vibe of being grateful and happy with what you’ve got.”

“Yeah, Jill, I’ll put out a vibe into the universe.” Jesus. “You know what? I am grateful for my life; I have a wonderful life that I’m very happy with. That has nothing to do with anything. I don’t need to send out a fucking vibe. In fact, don’t you think that proves my point? I’m happy with my life and I don’t need a man to make me feel that way. And getting married isn’t going to make me any happier or more grateful than I already am, is it?”

The whole conversation made me feel like I had as a kid when my mother told me that beets and Brussels sprouts had important nutrients and fiber that would make me stronger and give me more energy for the track team. They both grossed me out, so I’d move them around on my plate or spit them into a napkin when she wasn’t looking. When I made the team it was all I could do not to say, “See, I did it without those stupid vegetables.”

Jill drank the last of her wine and sat back, silent. Okay, let her pout, I thought.

But she’s my little sister. “So who’s in your bridge club?” I asked, knowing she’d be unable to resist talking about her perfect life and her perfect friends.

I felt wistful for the messy little girl she once was, the one who looked up to me and envied my life, who thought I was great and who wanted to be just like me.

As Jill talked I finished my wine and signaled my boyfriend Jarrod for another glass.