But I didn’t go see her when I was in New Orleans in August. Seeing Libby means seeing the rest of my family.
“I’m giving you an ultimatum,” Chloe says. “We expect to see you at Thanksgiving. My house, I’m cooking. All you have to do is show up. Do you think you could manage that much?” After a moment of silence, she adds, “No need to return this call. Come home for Thanksgiving, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Don’t, and as far as I’m concerned, my daughter doesn’t have an aunt any longer. Because I’m not making excuses for you to Libby, not even one more time. If she asks where you are, I’ll have to come up with something else to tell her. Not the truth, of course. That would be too hurtful. Just something that makes it clear Aunt Vivienne’s not going to be around any longer. I’ll see you in November.”
She would have been so happy when the call went directly to voice mail. Instead of having an honest discussion, she got to issue a command: Thanksgiving or else. Chloe prefers to be confrontational in monologue. Face to face, or even voice to voice? Forget it. Everyone in my family is a master of the veiled threat, the cruel hint, the passive-aggressive twist of the knife that’s deadlier than any stab.
I’ve spent the last five years or so learning how to deal with people in a more direct way. A healthier way. I’m getting better at it. But when it comes to my parents or my sister, it’s like all that progress instantly collapses. Whenever I’m with them, within minutes, I sink into the sullen dysfunction that defines the Charles family.
Libby deserves better than that. Better than our dishonesty, better than my neglect.
Worst of all—beneath Chloe’s anger, beyond the chill in her voice, I hear genuine hurt. Chloe and I got along well, growing up. She was five years older than me, and I thought she was the most sophisticated, glamorous person in the world. We sat on the bathroom vanity while she taught me how to apply mascara. She would hold my hand while we stood in line for sno-balls on hot summer days. Chloe didn’t tease or bully me. I knew I had a good big sister.
We were never really confidantes; our ages were too far apart for that. And I doubt Chloe ever adored me the way I worshipped her. Still, we were sisters. Playmates. Friends. She doesn’t understand what changed.
But I do.
Anthony changed everything.
? ? ?
That March I was fourteen. Just got my braces off. My breasts were finally making their belated appearance. Right before Christmas, I had finally been kissed for the first time (by Javier, an exchange student from Barcelona, which as first kisses go was pretty awesome). When I looked in the mirror, I no longer saw a gawky kid. I could glimpse the woman I would become.
Not that I was anything compared to Chloe. To this day she outshines me as brightly as the sun outshines the moon. She’s a couple of inches taller, so she looks more svelte. Her hair is one shade lighter, but it’s the shade that takes it from brown to blond. While my eyes are an uncertain hazel, hers are pure, piercing green. No doubt about it: Chloe’s the beauty of the family.
But I’d finally realized that didn’t make me ugly. Not by a long shot. I began playing with my hair more in the mirror and reviewing Chloe’s makeup lessons more carefully. I thought of my prettiness as a tool I could use to get what I wanted.
(That’s screwed up, right? Welcome to the world as seen by my mother.)
Then, that March, for spring break, Chloe brought home her first serious boyfriend. She was so proud of him, and I didn’t blame her. Anthony Whedon wasn’t especially tall—average height, no more and no less—but he was built. Turned out he was on the Sewanee lacrosse team. He wore the uniform of the Southern male—khakis and polo shirts—but they hung on his frame as though they’d been tailored for him. Sandy hair, a dimple in his chin, lips almost indecently full on a man: Anthony could get any girl he wanted. Clearly he wanted Chloe.
His arm was always around her waist. Her eyes were always on his face. To me, no celebrity couple had ever looked half as glamorous.
Anthony didn’t treat me like the annoying brat kid sister, either. “Come on, Mrs. C.,” he said to my mother. “It’s just Frankie and Johnny’s for some bell pepper rings. Not like we’re dragging Vivienne out to Tipitina’s with a fake ID.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mom said, but she was smiling. If Anthony had won me over, he’d conquered my mother. Though honestly, I think she was sold the minute she found out the Whedons were one of the wealthiest families in Tennessee. “You two don’t want some time alone?”
“Aw, we don’t mind taking her along,” Anthony said. “It’ll be fun. And Vivienne can tell me all her big sister’s secrets.”
“Stop.” Chloe shoved at him, but she was laughing.