The Wedding Sisters (2 page)

This wounded Meryl deeply in ways she couldn't fully pinpoint. True, she didn't cook—but wasn't it about spending time together?

Her cell phone rang. Meg.

“Hi, Mom! Where are you?”

“Home, sweetheart. Where are you?”

“Just got into the city.”

“I thought you couldn't leave D.C. until late this morning?”

A pause. “We didn't. But instead of driving, Stowe's dad brought us in the helicopter.”

“Well. That's one way to beat the GW Bridge traffic!” Meryl laughed, trying to make light of it, but the truth was, she was uncomfortable with the prominence and extraordinary wealth of her soon-to-be in-laws.

Meg's fiancé, Stowe Campion, was the scion of a Philadelphia steel dynasty. And his billionaire father, Reed, was a Republican senator in Pennsylvania. Republican!

“Reed has a last-minute work event tonight,” Meg added sheepishly. “Tippy wants to meet up with him after dinner. Is it okay if we come a little early?”

“Wait—Reed isn't coming tonight?” These people were unbelievable. A work event was more important than meeting the parents of their future daughter-in-law? They had a wedding to discuss, for God's sake. It was bad enough that the Campions had rebuffed every overture Meryl made during the last year. She understood they were busy. But this? Well, it was what her mother would call “insult to injury.” And for once, her mother would be right.

“I'm sorry, Mom! I am. He feels really bad, and we'll definitely see him another time. But for tonight, a little earlier … okay?”

“No problem,” Meryl said, trying to sound nonchalant. Her timeline was now officially screwed up.

And she still had to pick up her mother—never an easy feat.

“What can we bring?”

“Just yourselves,” Meryl said in a singsong voice that sounded foreign even to herself.

Well, at least she would finally meet Tippy.

Before Meryl Googled her, she had imagined Stowe's mother, Tippy, to look like Barbara Bush: no-nonsense, sturdy, all-white hair, and pearls. But while Barbara Bush's whole life was etched on her face, Tippy Campion had the smooth, age-defying complexion of the obscenely rich. A face that, after a certain age, could be achieved only through a regimen of chemical peels and Botox and filler and other things that Meryl probably couldn't imagine. Tippy had buttery blond hair and a lithe frame that was always dressed in Tory Burch (daytime) and St. John (evening). She was beautiful; not a former, faded beauty, but a contender, even now. And her husband, Reed, had movie-star good looks that had translated faithfully to his son. It was no wonder the media was fascinated with them.

Meryl put her phone in her bag and rushed out to East End Avenue to grab a cab across town to her mother's. There wasn't time to wait for the M79 bus. She dialed her mother's landline and was relieved when the home health aide, Oona, answered.

“I'm on my way now, Oona. Can you please have my mother ready? Sorry—it's earlier than I said originally, I know.”

Hiring the home health aides had been an extravagance, but also, as Meryl had rationalized to Hugh, a necessity. When her father died ten years ago, she didn't want her mother living alone, even though she seemed relatively healthy and capable. Unfortunately, moving in with them was entirely out of the question, since her mother and Hugh were oil and water. And Rose would never have agreed to move into an assisted living facility, and truthfully, she didn't need one. The home health aide seemed like the perfect compromise. Regrettably, there had been an almost semiannual rotation of nurses. Her mother fired them all. Oona, eight months on the job, seemed to be the most promising, and Meryl had high hopes they could make it to the twelve-month mark.

“She told me to tell you she don't want to go, Mrs. Becker,” Oona said. Her Caribbean accent was musical. It managed to make even this rather undesirable news sound pleasant to Meryl's ears.

“What? Why not?”

“She says you know why not.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Great
.

Her phone vibrated. She was surprised to see her husband's number appear on the screen.

Hugh, a twelfth grade English teacher, was usually unreachable between the hours of 8:30
A.M
and 3
P.M.
every weekday. Once he disappeared behind the granite walls of Yardley, an Upper East Side private school that was arguably more difficult to get into than Harvard, he was happily in his own little universe.

“Hugh? Aren't you at school?”

“Yes—it's lunch.”

Of course it was. She was distracted. “Everything all right?”

“It's Janell,” he said. “She is really starting to push back when I try to help. It's like she's afraid to fail, and so she's purposely sabotaging herself.”

Janell South was Hugh's most promising student so far that year.

Meryl sighed. She hated to be impatient, but she really didn't have time for one of Hugh's student dramas right now, not today.

Hugh prided himself on being a champion for his students, and she had always loved that about him; after all, she had been one herself once. Usually Meryl liked to hear his stories and act as his trusted sounding board. But she didn't have the mental space for Hugh and the Yardley students today. The Campions were coming for dinner. Finally!

“Hugh, I have to call you back,” she said. “Or call me back. Or I'll just see you at home later, honey, and I promise we'll talk all about it. Everyone is coming earlier than I thought, and I still have to get my mother.”

*   *   *

Meryl asked the cabdriver to let her off at Seventy-second and Broadway. She'd walk the rest of the way to her mother's West End apartment. Even though she was pressed for time, it was already October, and she couldn't ignore the orange-gold leaves on the ground or the changing light. Fact was, the truly beautiful days were numbered. And she never could resist walking down the block where she had grown up, the spot where her favorite bookstore used to be. Growing up on the Upper West Side—before it was the least bit fashionable or even particularly desirable—Meryl's favorite refuge had been Eeyore's bookstore on Broadway near West Seventy-ninth Street. There, her lifelong love of books had taken root.

The first book she remembered ever so subtly planting facedown by the cash register was
Fifteen
by Beverly Cleary. Meryl had been ten. It was the most romantic book she had ever read, and by the time she was in middle school and walking to the bookstore by herself, she was snatching up Barbara Cartland and Victoria Holt novels by the excited armful.

In college, the bodice rippers were replaced by the classics and, of course, the mandatory
Feminine Mystique
and Mary McCarthy's
The Group.
But by that time, her obsession with romance novels had been supplanted by her first real-life romance—a romance sparked by the worst English class Meryl had ever suffered through.

It had taken Meryl three semesters to get into the coveted American Literature II: 1865 to the Present class with Professor Dunham. Students who loved reading—who lived and breathed it—wanted Dunham. They knew he was the toughest, but he was also charismatic and brilliant. For true lovers of literature, he was the only one to trust as their guide from Whitman to Roth.

Unfortunately, Meryl got more than she'd bargained for. She struggled with Faulkner and stumbled with Thomas Pynchon. The optional “office hours,” run by Dunham's TA, became essential to her academic survival.

At first, the soft-spoken TA, Hugh Becker, barely registered with her. He was a means to an end, her lifeline in a class that she had wanted so badly but was now her personal
Titanic.
Becker was tall and thin, blond and blue-eyed—not at all her type. But he had the artistic hands of a pianist or painter, and when he spoke about “The Beast in the Jungle,” he was as passionate as Neil Young with a guitar. And she noticed—she wasn't
completely
blind after all—that when he spoke of Henry James's heroine May Bartram, he looked right at her. Every time.

Disappointingly, Meryl got a B+ in Dunham's class. She'd never earned anything less than an A in any English class, ever. She was angry at herself, annoyed with Dunham, and eager to wipe the slate clean with a new semester. She didn't think about American Literature II, Dunham, or his fair-haired boy Hugh Becker again, until she got an invitation in the mail three weeks before spring semester ended. It was the final days of her sophomore year, and Hugh Becker had invited her to a party—his book party.

He had published a book! Nonfiction.
Abby May Alcott: An American Mother.
It was incredibly impressive to Meryl, an almost unthinkable accomplishment. She toyed with writing a book someday—a novel. Or maybe short stories like Susan Sontag. But Hugh Becker had done it—he was a published author.

The party was in a town house just off lower Fifth Avenue. Meryl dragged her roommate along, and they were the youngest people there. With feigned sophistication, they drank white wine and ate cheese and crackers. Meryl felt out of place and slightly bored and decided she would eat just enough that she wouldn't have to buy food for dinner. And then she spotted Hugh Becker across the living room at the same time he saw her, and if there was such a thing in real life as “electricity” between two people, she felt it in that moment—an exhilarating spark.

Hugh Becker was not nearly so uptight as he had seemed in class; he knew his way around the town house (his agent's), and he confidently ushered Meryl into a small bedroom left vacant by the agent's college-aged son. There, he proclaimed his overwhelming attraction to her, his desire for her—confessing that he had barely been able to contain it the entire semester and had never been more relieved for a class to finish. Meryl, astonished, asked, “Why?”

“Well,” he said, giving this serious thought, as though answering a question posed in a lecture hall. “You're beautiful. And temperamental. And you're not overly impressed by work it's taken me a lot longer not to be overly impressed by.”

He asked if he could kiss her, and she was thrilled by the shocking turn of events. She had never even fantasized about Hugh Becker, and now she found herself wanting nothing more than to feel his hands on her body. She'd had sex with only two men in her life, and as soon as Hugh Becker's mouth pressed down on hers, she knew that very night he would be her third. And, quite possibly, her last.

*   *   *

For the past decade, Meryl's mother had lived alone in a six-story building that had a tiny lobby. Meryl did not know any of the other tenants; her mother had moved into the place the month she became a widow, and never bothered getting to know anyone. Not surprising: While Meryl was growing up, Rose had kept to herself even as the other mothers formed friendships and alliances at school drop-offs and pickups and on the PTA boards. But Rose kept a low profile. That's how she put it, “low profile.” “I like it that way,” she'd said.

Growing up, Meryl had taken these things as a matter of course, not recognizing the behavior as odd. Her mother was different from the mothers of her friends, but that was because Eastern Europeans were different. There was a wariness that ran bone deep.

Her mother had stomach problems. And insomnia. All just a part of her mother, like her blue eyes and ash blond hair and Polish accent.

The elevator was small, with a sliding door that had a round, gated window. Something about it made Meryl feel like any ride could be the one that ended in a free fall to the basement, so she opted for the stairs.

On the third floor, out of breath and vowing to make it to the gym sometime that week (month?), she rang her mother's bell.

“I feel bad you wasted a trip over here, Mrs. Becker,” said Oona, opening the door and shaking her head.

“I'm not leaving here without her, Oona. Now, where is she?”

Oona led Meryl to the bedroom and briskly knocked once before opening the door.

Meryl's mother was fully dressed in a white blouse, gray tweed skirt, full makeup, her signature eyeglasses with the oversized round black frames, sturdy shoes, and her nails manicured with clear polish. She was watching
The Bold and the Beautiful,
a show she watched only begrudgingly now that they had recast the leading male character, Ridge Forrester. As a teenager, Meryl had watched soaps like
The Young and the Restless
and
As the World Turns
along with her mother. The common vocabulary of soaps was one of the few things they shared. Her mother had never been one for deep conversation. In her world, everything was black-and-white. There was very little to discuss.

“Hi, Mom. Meg is coming early, so we have to get going.”

Her mother shook her head and tsk-tsked. At first Meryl thought it was her irritation at being rushed, but then she realized the disapproval was directed at the television screen.

“Her own sister's husband,” her mother muttered.

“Mom, did you hear what I said? We have to get going.”

Her mother turned to her. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“What? Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Not this again. Meryl inhaled deeply and took a brief reprieve from her mother's stubbornness, instead appreciating the rare opportunity to look at Rose's paintings, which hung on every wall. Her mother had only ever displayed her art in the bedroom while Meryl was growing up. It was as if her mother didn't want anyone else to know that she was an artist, even now. At times, Meryl had encouraged her mother to try to sell some of her work. But Rose had huffed and said, “It's just a hobby. Your generation only wants to turn play into work instead of finding an honest profession.” Meryl found it sad that her mother couldn't even fully embrace the joy she got from painting. Her mother never seemed to find joy in much of anything—ever. And Meryl never quite understood why.