Die For You

“Who knows?” she said. “I didn’t talk to her. I just took her picture.”

For Linda, it wasn’t about the story behind the woman. It was about the beauty of that one moment, about capturing it and making it her own. It was about the universe that existed in a single frame. But that wasn’t enough for Isabel. She needed to know about the significant events that led the woman to sit at the bus stop at that precise moment, what she was thinking that put the expression on her face. And if she didn’t know, she’d have to make something up to satisfy herself.

They’d laughed about it, how different they were, how unalike were their individual arts and processes. In the end, Isabel wrote: “My face is what I give to the world. Look closely and you’ll see what the world has given to me.” Of course, it was perfect. Isabel was always pitch perfect whenever she put word to paper.

In Linda’s memory, they seemed very young that afternoon, so excited by Linda’s upcoming show, the publication of Izzy’s first novel right around the corner. They thought, as they always had really, that the world belonged to them. They’d never been called upon to think of themselves any other way. Even the grim tragedy that marked their late childhood hadn’t changed that idea very much.

Linda walked away from the window and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Wretched. She’d never been happy with her body (too small at the chest, too wide at the hips) but she’d always liked her face. She’d always been satisfied with her easy prettiness, good skin, well-formed features, shining blue eyes. Recently, though, deeper lines had started to make their debut around her eyes and mouth. Lack of sleep and too much stress were causing her to look haggard and worn out. Even her silky blond hair seemed drier, was losing some of that estrogenic glow. She put her hands to either side of her face and pulled the skin taut to simulate a bad face-lift and made herself laugh.

She’d never thought of herself as vain, but she supposed there were things she’d taken for granted about her looks. And now that those things were fading, she realized that she was very vain indeed. She noticed things about Izzy-her slim middle, the youthful fullness of her face, the smooth skin around her eyes-and it seemed to Linda that there was suddenly a big difference in the way they looked. They’d always been opposites in their coloring, Linda favoring their mother, Isabel their father. But they’d been equal in the timbre and volume of their beauty. Their father’s favorite proud refrain: “The Connelly sisters are lovely and smart.” There wasn’t a brighter one or a prettier one. Linda and Isabel had never felt the urge to compete with each other in those arenas.

Linda would not have believed that two kids and five years could make such a difference in her appearance. But then again, she’d never even thought about her age until recently. Lately, she’d realized that the softness at her belly would not be dissolved by exercise or no-carb torture. There was a sinking to her face that would not be improved without surgery or injections. But she’d always imagined herself as having too much character to succumb to surgical beauty treatments. She couldn’t see herself as one of those vain, awful women who cared more about the lines on their foreheads than about their children, who thought that looking young (not that they looked younger, exactly, just altered) meant a reprieve from the disappointment gnawing at the edges of their lives. How much energy that must take, to fight that losing battle. She was an artist; she’d age with character and grace.

Not that any of it mattered, not really. It was just one in a legion of dark little thoughts, mental gremlins, that could nip and gnaw at her sense of well-being if they were allowed.

Of course, there were bigger problems than her fading youth. How selfish was she to be thinking about such stupid things when Isabel’s life was falling apart? Linda broke away from her reflection, slipped back into bed, and pulled the heavy mass of blankets and comforter around her. She wanted to avoid the day for just a few more minutes, avoid her missing brother-in-law and the fact that her injured sister had just raced into the fray. Normally, she’d be frantic. But for some reason, she just felt drained by the whole matter, as though she’d awakened covered by a blanket of snow. A kind of emotional hypothermia had set in, stiffened her joints, robbed her of energy.

When she received the call yesterday and raced to the hospital, saw her sister pale and unmoving on the stretcher-that awful gash on her head-it felt as though she was living a terrible memory, as if it had all happened before. As afraid and shocked as she’d been before Izzy opened her eyes and started to speak, it was as though she’d been expecting some awful event relating to her sister’s husband all along.

There was something wrong with Marcus Raine; she’d known it from the day she’d first lain eyes upon him. He was worse through the lens, all hard angles and an odd shadow to his eyes. As a photographer, she knew to wait for that millisecond when the face revealed itself, a flicker of the eyes, an involuntary shifting of the muscles in the jaw or forehead. This was the second when pretty people were beautiful, or beautiful people ugly, or cheerful people suddenly haunted. A face is an organic entity; it can’t hold a protective posture forever. It must surface for air. She saw him clearly and early.

She’d tried to talk to Isabel but her sister wasn’t hearing it. Linda realized that she’d have to accept Marcus and hope she was wrong about him, or lose her sister. That’s what happened when the biological family rejects a spouse; a continental drift. If the marriage is successful, the incompatible units slowly move away from one another. Visits become less frequent until there is only the occasional phone call, the obligatory Sunday afternoon get-together, the infrequent, awkward dinner where so much goes unsaid. Linda could see how it would happen, had seen it before with her friends. Isabel was that in love with him. And so Linda, with an almost superhuman effort, bit her tongue and they all moved forward together. The irony was that, five years later, Linda was just starting to let her guard down about Marcus. Erik had always liked him, was beginning to convince her that she’d been mistaken. She was moving beyond just tolerance, even starting to like him a little. She should have known. The lens doesn’t lie.

She heard the high, light tone of her son’s voice and the low rumble of her husband’s. Then she heard the television go on. A minute later she smelled toaster waffles. The day was beginning without her. She felt a wave of gratitude that she had most of her Christmas shopping done. She’d wrapped all the gifts and driven them up to her mother’s in Riverdale last week. That’s where they’d spend Christmas Eve and open gifts on Christmas morning. Soon Brown was barking to go out and, through the wall, she heard Emily yelling at him to be quiet.

She’d gone into the guest room to check on her sister last night and found Emily and Brown piled around Izzy She marveled at the two of them, her daughter and her sister, how alike they were, how much she loved them, how the same fierce urge to protect them was a fire in her center. Tough talk, bad attitudes, strong opinions, steely expressions-all of it just hard armor to protect fatally delicate centers.

She heard her phone vibrate in the drawer by her bed and she quickly reached for it. The screen read: 1 Text Message. She flipped the phone open.

Can I see you today? I’m desperate. She felt a powerful wash of excitement and fear.

She answered: Family emergency. I don’t know. I’ll try.

At a light knock on the door, she slid the phone under the covers, closed her eyes.

“Mom?” said Emily, poking her face in. “I can’t find my black leggings.”

“Okay,” she said, fake groggy. “Coming.”

“Izzy’s gone,” said Emily. Her face was still but her eyes were bright with worry.

“Izzy will be okay,” Linda said, sitting up and opening her arms. Emily came to her quickly and let herself be embraced. “We’ll take care of her and she’ll be fine.”

“But what about Marcus?”

She released a sigh and considered lying, offering some platitude. But Emily was too old and too smart for that. Lies would just make her more afraid. She took her daughter’s face in her hands. Emily looked so much like Izzy that Linda felt as though she were speaking to both of them.

“The truth is, Em, we just don’t know what’s happening right now. The police are helping us and we’re going to figure everything out. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. That’s what a family does.”

Emily leaned against her, wrapped her arms around Linda’s middle.

“I think you and your brother should go to school today,” Linda said, rising. They moved together toward the door. “We’ll come get you if anything happens.”

Emily nodded uncertainly but seemed okay with it. Sending them to school would make things seem normal, which they needed. Trevor was going to bitch a blue streak; she knew he was already banking on a sick day. People generally considered her son to be the sweeter of the two children. But he was less malleable, less cooperative than his sister, more prone to defiance and tantrum.

“Your pants are folded on top of the dryer,” Linda said, patting Emily on her bottom. “Go get ready.”