Gillian sat in silence as a perfect neighborhood scrolled past her car window. Model houses. Manicured gardens. Flower beds and blades of grass sculpted into place. A picture of her own garden, weeds and all, skulked around the edges of her memory.
Becky had to have a new car to go along with the new house. “Well, it just made sense to upgrade the old rust bucket we were driving. It was the oldest one at the tennis club there for a while.” A “rust bucket” ten years newer than Gillian’s.
The expensive leather of the car seat squeaked as a blast of icy air from the Audi’s brand-new air-conditioning system caressed Gillian’s cheek. She stared out the window as a better life than hers flashed past in the shimmering heat.
Becky tapped her leather driving gloves on the steering wheel. “You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”
“Just tired, I guess.”
Gillian’s evasion fired a starting pistol for Becky’s next breathless self-pronouncement. “My new relaxation regime is what you need. It’s all the benefits of yoga and tai chi with some kickboxing thrown in. I haven’t had this much energy in years. Mind you, I’ve needed it considering we’ve just moved into the house and I’ve had to organize all the interior decorating and gardens and you’re never quite sure if you’re going to be able to keep up with all the maintenance . . .”
Becky’s voice bounced around the inside of Gillian’s head until her mind could catch up with all the updates crammed into one rapid-fire verbal attack.
“If your house is anything like these, I’m sure it’s amazing.”
Becky brushed off the compliment. “It’s not much, but you do what you can with the money you have, don’t you?”
No statement was ever more true.
“Anyway, is Rick okay? The boys okay? They’re still joining us for the wedding, aren’t they?”
Gillian was relieved when her sister opened a door for her to share about her life. “Yes, they’re coming. Rick is driving up with the boys on Friday. He can’t get any more time off work with the way his business is going.” She reeled in the rest of her answer to leave an opening for her sister to take an interest in her, to ask a question giving her the chance to offload the pressure of Rick’s job and the strain on the family.
“Good. It wouldn’t be a full family picture for the wedding album if they weren’t here.” Becky slammed the opening shut. “Anyway, your being here alone gives us girls the chance to catch up.”
“Of course.” I thought we were. “You seem run off your feet with all these arrangements. How is Brent doing?”
Becky pursed her lips as she pulled out of an answer. “We’re here.”
Tires squealed on the flagstones as she swung her Audi into the horseshoe driveway, which led to a three-story house, shining with new paint. It could have been the centerfold for a home-decorating magazine. Perfect white shutters, fringed with a hint of white lace, stood against a dark-gray backdrop. Gables framed in cream and white pointed to the sky while set against a slated roof, weathered to perfection. At the top of slate steps, two white columns seated on pebble-stone plinths flanked a front door in rich oak.
“So this is home for the next few days.” Becky charged up the steps and into the house, pulling Gillian’s suitcase. A connection between sisters evaporated in an instant.
Gillian stood next to the car and, open-mouthed, took in the majesty of her sister’s home. That gnawing feeling skulking in the shadows leaped forward and mugged her. Rick often joked that Gillian would compare herself with anyone who walked past, but this was sensory overload to her self-esteem. She hadn’t even ventured inside yet. And it belonged to her sister.
With a deep breath to steel herself, she ascended the slate steps and entered her sister’s perfect life.
The foyer took her breath away. Polished floorboards ran from under her feet through to a living room, which was a decor lesson in sharp edges and contrast. Rich leather furniture settled into comfort alongside glass-and-steel coffee tables. Beyond the furniture, a double staircase wound its way to the upper floor and even more living space. To one side, an oversized coach light hanging from the high ceiling presided over the dining room. A long, majestic dark-oak table split the space, attended by twelve leather dining chairs.
Gillian’s head swam as she scrambled for a suitable response, but it was hard to take it all in. “Wow.”
Becky buzzed past her, phone in hand, headed for the staircase. “Sorry about the mess, but, you know, I have spent all my time arranging the wedding, and life is just frantic!”
The mess? Accent pillows were strategically placed and yet thrown with a casual indifference onto the sofas. It was so far from Gillian’s own living room, where items weren’t placed; they just stayed where they landed.
Gillian had taken in only half of the house on this floor. To her right was a massive home theater, an entire wall plastered with a black screen, itself backlit with cinematic lighting. Recliner chairs were arranged in a basic worship pattern around it, and a popcorn machine offered its services from a stand next to the wall. A popcorn machine?
Becky bounced down the stairs and flashed past her again, a sheath of papers in hand, firing conversation topics like a ninja wielding death stars. “As you can see, we simply had to buy all new furniture. There was no way our old furniture would fit. I was planning to hold the wedding out back, but I decided the garden wasn’t ready. I’ll hold all our pre-wedding events there instead. If you want to grab some water, the kitchen’s just past the dining nook.”
The kitchen was a spotless tribute to reflection and polish. Even the cat’s litter box was immaculate, raked like a Japanese garden. Gillian put her carryall on the large marble island bench and was drawn to a sweeping wall display—a showcase of photographs, cradled in gold frames, the chronology of a happy life. Proud Becky with her newborn. Becky and Jessica smiling in the snow. Becky and Jessica both dressed as ballerinas. Becky with Jessica in graduation gown and cap. Brent and Jessica holding a gleaming softball trophy. Perfect smiles beamed at her from every frame.
Gillian’s photographs were stuck at random angles to her fridge, the constant gathering point for the four ravenous men in her life. They were family moments captured in time, complete with blinks, frowns, and more often than not, rabbit ears lurking behind an unsuspecting victim’s head.
Becky sprinted past Gillian toward the front door, throwing her last words over her shoulder. “I’ve put your suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long, so be ready, because we need to be at Marcellinas for lunch in twenty minutes.” And with that, she slammed the door behind her, the echo finding its way into the kitchen.
Gillian was now alone in this monolith of a house, home to just three people. Her mind swirled out of control, and her self-loathing rose up in her like floodwater. She needed to touch base with something tangible, so she texted Rick. Made it to Becky’s. This place is incredible. We’re heading off to lunch next. I hope you have a good day at work.
She wandered the second floor, looking for the right guest bedroom. Each room she peeked into was a window into perfection. The billiard room, with the half-moon walnut minibar presiding over it. Her brother-in-law Brent’s study, his sports trophies lining one wall, his guitars framed on another. Another five minutes of searching and she found her suitcase on a king-sized bed in a guest bedroom bigger than her own. Through the windows, she could see a team of workmen assembling a white marquee on the back lawn.
Her phone beeped again. Rick. Glad to hear you’ve made it. Look forward to seeing the house. I know it will be hard for you, but we love you. Will check in tonight when the boys are home and after I’ve fixed the starter on the car. That darn car. A mechanic’s retirement plan on wheels.
An almost primal need struck Gillian—to improve herself, to dress up to the standard of this colossal house. She was so out of place in this perfect life. The whisper started again. She was used to its constant hints of her inadequacy, but the whisper grew into a roar.
Gillian unzipped the bag, and a flash of gold set off a subconscious warning that made her furrow her brow. Instead of her blue dress—the one Rick had insisted she wear to the wedding reception—the suitcase was full of men’s clothes, along with what looked like school certificates and a sports trophy. She checked the baggage tags on the handle, her brain already answering the next unasked question. While the baggage tags were red, they weren’t from her travel agent.
I wish I’d picked up my own suitcase.
The front door slammed. “Let’s go, Gilly!”
Gillian stood on the horns of a dilemma. I have to get back to the airport. She looked down at her creased blouse and dress pants, damp from sweat. She sighed as she lowered the lid on someone else’s baggage. She’d need to go back to the airport and sort out the mess her sister had created. She padded down the stairs. “Becky, I’ve got the wrong suitcase.”
Becky raced past her, her head down. “Mmm?”
Gillian sighed again as she reached the foot of the staircase. She tried one more time. “When you grabbed my baggage at the airport, did you check the baggage tags?”
“What was that?” Becky called from the kitchen.
“You picked up the wrong suitcase. I need to go back to the airport.”
Becky marched back to Gillian with a theatrical sigh. “Can’t we get your suitcase later? You can’t just go to lunch like that?”
Gillian looked down at her creased blouse and slacks. She would be comfortable, but her fragile self-esteem would be no match for the highbrow standards and tutting sideways glances of Marcellinas. “I can’t go like this.”
Becky looked her up and down and huffed. “You’re right. Call the airline. We have to go back to the airport.”