Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Besides Bridget and Henry, Bill had a third sibling, Misty.
She was the youngest by thirteen years and, as such, had been raised essentially as an only child.
Misty was the only Lauder sibling not to follow the rules for holiday gatherings: she appeared when she wanted and almost always without warning.
She never hosted and did not bring presents for the host. In nearly all respects, she was not like the other Lauders.
Joan’s first encounter with Misty had been two years earlier, at Henry’s house in Connecticut.
Misty had appeared on Christmas Day, citing a mix-up at the airport (no one could figure out what that meant), and brought with her a young Mexican man with gleaming teeth who refused to set down his guitar.
They ate very little and left right after dinner; there was relief when they departed, and plus the rest of the siblings would now have something to talk about: conjecture about what Misty was doing exactly, at the current moment, to fuck up her life.
Joan had not expected Misty that year for Thanksgiving.
Misty and Bill had the largest age gap and the least contact—they spoke at most once a year.
And yet on Thanksgiving morning, when Joan woke and went outside, she found Misty already by the pool, spreading lotion on her legs as she sat on a deck chair.
“The gate was open, so I let myself in,” Misty said. She had changed her hair from the last time Joan saw her—it was light blond now and parted in the middle. She extended a hand toward the water, as if inviting Joan to use her own pool.
It was strange for Joan to swim with someone watching.
She was paranoid about Jamie being attracted to the water and thus swam in the early morning before he woke.
Joan’s favorite moment was piercing the surface, the cold shaking her awake.
After a second’s hesitation, Joan waded in.
She swam thirty laps and then got out and wrapped the towel around her.
“Is the water cold?” Misty asked.
“Oh no. Quite nice, once you get used to it.”
“Great.” Misty yanked off her shirt. She wore a bikini underneath, and immediately Joan could see Misty’s breasts were larger than last time, significantly so.
Previously Misty’s body had been thin, hipless, flat—she moved with gazelle-like grace, and favored necklines that dipped provocatively low.
Now each of Misty’s breasts was the size of a smallish cantaloupe.
Joan struggled to look away, as the image was both perfect and confusing.
“Nice, right?” Misty asked. Her hair shimmered against the sun, and as she lifted her arm, Joan could make out thin pink scar lines below her elbow. Misty winked and leaped into the pool.
Misty’s breasts caused a commotion among the Lauders.
It was an unspoken family rule that one did not acquire (obvious) plastic surgery before fifty; it was on the long list of Lauder taboos, along with split ends, tattoos, tube tops for women, and cravats for men.
If the breasts had been a bright light to Joan, they were like a nuclear waste site to the other Lauders—they couldn’t even look at them without seeming to incur personal damage.
“I don’t know why she got them,” remarked Bridget the next morning to no one in particular.
Behind her was Henry, who was noisily making coffee.
“Have you ever seen breasts like that?” Bridget asked Joan.
“I wouldn’t think they’re common in China, are they?
Isn’t it the opposite, that they used to be bound? Or was that feet?”
“I’m not sure,” Joan said. She didn’t want to say that it was both breasts and feet, as that would invite more commentary.
“I think it’s fine,” said Henry. Henry liked to disagree with Bridget; Bill said this was just their relationship, as Henry was younger. “She’s got herself some big ol’ knockers.”
“Don’t be immature,” Bridget said. She glanced at Gillian, Henry’s wife. “Is he always this crude?”
“Yes,” Gillian said happily. She was forever concerned that Bridget didn’t like her; here was her chance to build a bridge with Bridget.
“Who paid for them?” Bridget asked.
“She did.” Henry poured himself coffee. “Or maybe her boyfriend, what’s-his-face.”
“She’s not still living with him.”
“I don’t know. She asked if she could bring him to Maine next year.”
“And you said no.”
“I said we’d think about it.” Henry stirred sugar into his coffee. “It’s always a pain to manage Misty’s dramas.”
“You don’t do anything to manage them. Was it you who had to send thousands in traveler’s checks to Madrid? Or what about when she bought that motorcycle?”
“Well, I do listen ,” Henry said. From outside, Misty waved.
Only Misty stayed past Saturday. She didn’t say how long she’d be around, though Joan wasn’t concerned, as Misty on her own was more manageable than the rest of the collective Lauders.
So far in her cleanup, Joan had discovered wine stains (carpet, marble), as well as a missing Christofle vase (Theo, taken as a Christmas gift for Charlotte).
“Still, it’d be good for her to inform us of her planned departure,” Bill grumbled. He was often grouchy after holidays; he needed time, he said, to recover from his family.
“I think she’ll leave soon.” Joan looked out the window toward the pool. Misty liked to swim in the late morning, marveling at the warm weather in November. Afterward she would lie with her back to the sun on a lounger, where she often fell asleep until Joan called her for lunch.
“You never know,” Bill said. “She always does the least desirable thing in any situation.”
“Not always,” Joan said.
After lunch, Misty asked Joan if she wanted to go shopping in San Francisco. “Retail therapy,” Misty said.
“Sure.” Joan liked shopping.
In Union Square, Misty strolled the streets with familiarity, exclaiming when a boutique had moved or closed. At Saks, Misty went first to the fur department, where she tried on a coat of silver fox.
“Do you like it?” she asked, looking at herself in the mirror.
Joan petted the arm. “It’s soft.”
Misty examined herself from the back. “Maybe I don’t need it. Vegas is scorching.” Joan hadn’t realized Misty was living in Las Vegas. Had she said so? Or was she moving there?
“But people do still wear fur.” Misty adjusted the collar. “You think Bill would be mad if I charged it to your card?”
“He would notice,” Joan said. “I don’t usually buy fur coats.”
“Well, you should,” Misty said frankly.
On the next floor, Joan went to the sales rack, where she found a floral cardigan on deep discount with red lace along the collar.
It was pretty, but when she tried it on she could only picture Helen Wu, the imperious wife of the owner of Lotus Garden, who had tight permed hair and barked at the staff if she thought they gave away too many napkins.
How did some people dress so well? Misty, for example, wore a chunky gold necklace, a long navy coat, and a black dress with brown leather sandals.
The outfit didn’t necessarily convey elegance but did show she had money, which had its own effect and power.
Perhaps sensing the same, a saleswoman named Penny had latched on to Misty on the second floor; Penny now followed them up the escalator.
“This is our European level,” Penny said. “Here we’ve got all the French, the British, the Italians.”
Misty went straight to the new arrivals. She asked if they had a brand, a blur of syllables Joan couldn’t discern.
“Oh, yes .” It was clear Penny considered the question proof of exceptional taste.
Misty chose some pieces and entered a dressing room. She took so long that Penny drifted to the other side of the floor, where she stood chatting with the cashier.
Finally Misty emerged in a light blue dress. “It’s so hard to find clothes. I hate how everything looks on my body.” She waited expectantly.
“You look very good,” Joan said.
The dress was fitted, and Misty twisted and pulled at the jersey. She adjusted her breasts so gratuitously that Joan felt it would be impolite to look elsewhere—it was like when Jamie brought over his finger paintings, using both hands to point at the colors.
Misty smiled at Joan in the mirror. “I had them done in the spring. Recovery was a bitch. Did they talk about it?”
“Not much.”
“I’m sure Bridget said something.”
“Maybe a little. My English, I don’t always understand.”
“Oh, I think you do understand.” Misty sat in the chair opposite Joan. “I think you understand quite a lot. And I understand you. I didn’t feel that way about Bill’s other wives. You know about all of them, right?”
“Yes. I am aware.”
“You shouldn’t let Bridget or the rest make you feel bad, you know, that you’re his fourth. They’re just like that—their whole thing is figuring out what makes them better than everyone else and then talking about it. They can’t handle not feeling like they’re on top. Hey, can I see that ring?”
Startled by the abrupt change in subject, Joan lifted her right hand, on which a small gold panther leaped over her index finger. Misty ran her thumb over the metal. “From Bill?”
“Yes,” Joan said uncomfortably. “My birthday.”
“Nice. I’d love to see your collection.”
“Oh, it’s very small.”
Misty released her arm. “You know what’s creepy? Just now I got a feeling I was going to die.” She made a throat-slitting motion. “I get it all the time. I guess I’m scared. At night, sometimes I remember I’m going to die one day, and then I can’t sleep anymore.”
“You’re very young.” Joan didn’t believe in telling people they would never die. It was what everyone wanted to hear, but it just wasn’t true.
“It’s why I did my boobs. I said: Misty, you’ve always wanted to look a certain way, so why don’t you? It’s the same with these clothes. Why not feel good, is the question. And I do feel good. I’m feeling incredible, actually. The death feeling is gone.”
“Why don’t you buy something and then we can go.
” Joan was beginning to tire of shopping.
She guessed at how much the blue number Misty was wearing might be, if it was worth buying it for her and potentially annoying Bill in exchange for getting to leave the store.
“Do you like that dress? I saw they also have it in red.”
Misty didn’t respond. Instead she hopped from her chair and came near, so close that her head almost touched Joan’s.
Joan could make out the individual glitter of Misty’s eye shadow; she smelled Misty’s perfume, which was something like a spring day, orange and lilies of the valley. “I have a secret,” Misty said slowly.
“Oh?” Joan wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. She liked gossip but suspected Misty might drop something awful. And what if Misty asked for something? Money or a favor from Bill. What if Bill was right, that they’d been too welcoming, and now Misty was going to ask to live with them indefinitely?
“I’m having a baby,” Misty said.