The Standout (13 page)

When my baby sister Robin arrived, Dad got creative. He found a first run print by her favorite artist, Mats Gustafson. It’s a watercolor of a woman, her face in shadow while she walks toward light. She’s slouched yet graceful, dynamic yet still, perfect in her ignorance of all those admiring eyes.

Sometimes my love for that picture and my love for my mother became intermixed, like the blurred lines that formed the beautiful lady’s silhouette, like the fading memories I still cling to, like the sense of possibility I know I have lost.

When Robin was a toddler she loved playing peek-a-boo with Mom and me, and she was convinced that when she closed her eyes, she actually disappeared. “Where did Robin go?” Mom would cry, and Robin would giggle, her smile huge as her sticky hands covered her face. I’d join in the search, always being loud and outlandish, because that tickled Robin even more. “I can’t find her anywhere! Is she behind the couch? Under the pillows?” And because I knew Robin was peeking between the cracks of her fingers, I would make a show of looking underneath our worn, brown couch cushions.

Mom thought my charade was almost as funny as Robin did, and her goofy laugh still echoes in my ears.

I was a lonely kid at thirteen-years-old; even then something was missing for me. I never had the “fun” gene that my younger siblings seemed to inherit. For me, life has always been serious, but when I played with Mom and Robin, the weight of my heavy personality lessened a bit. Suddenly Robin would drop her hands from her face, and squeal, “Here I am!” only it sounded like “Hey A MMM!” and we’d all laugh and I’d hug her, telling her how happy I was that she wasn’t lost forever.

I have photographs of my mother and one of the last ones comes from the early 80s. She’s wearing a down parka vest over a lavender ski sweater and corduroy pants; her hair is up and pale lipstick is her only makeup. She squints at the sun and smiles at the camera, unaware that this will be one of the last moments that’s ever captured of her.

She’s beautiful and I try to feel her when I stare at that fading Polaroid, conscious that every day, the chemicals in the photo paper break down a little more, distorting her truth. Maybe photographs aren’t the most accurate representations of who we are, or were. They change even as we cling to the memories they represent.

I’m a businessman, but if you ask me, that’s the purpose of art. It captures truth, and even through a million different interpretations, the truth doesn’t change.

Last night I woke from a dream where I was being smothered and it took me a moment to find my breath. I stared at the darkness, listening to Tina breathe steadily as she slept next to me, and I remembered that in a few hours I have a meeting, where if one thing goes wrong, I will be destroyed. But there’s no pressure.

I have one of those jobs that nobody really understands. I rarely try to explain it because people aren’t interested, unless that person is a client, and then they’re only interested because it’s their money I’m messing with. But in a nutshell, I give financial advice to major corporations and the decisions I make can cost millions of dollars.

My meeting is with a client from Singapore, and we’ll be discussing his assets. Now I take the elevator up a skyscraper in downtown Philadelphia, to my client’s office, and when the door opens I am greeted by a huge picture window that gives view to the city below. I take a moment to enjoy it, appreciating the cityscape: all the angles and shadows that the buildings create. There was a time, before Harvard business school, that I thought about becoming an architect, about building and creating. But I’m no Howard Roark.

I work within people’s expectations but I never defy them.

I make my way towards the reception desk, where I announce myself to the young woman sitting there. “Ted Bricker to see Mr. Chew Choon.”

The receptionist, whom I’ve encountered before, smiles and waves her finger at me. “I know who you are,” she tells me in a lilting voice. “Your sister is Robin, from
The Holdout
! Am I right?”

I feel heat gather behind my cheeks and under my arms. “That’s right.” I try to smile.

“She was incredible! I just watched the whole season on Hulu, and I was totally rooting for her. You must be so proud that she’s such a survivor.”

“More proud than you’ll ever know.” I mumble. “Now can you announce me to Mr. Chew Choon? He’s expecting me.”

She picks up her phone, speaks into it, and places it back in the receiver. “You can go on in,” she tells me, then lowers her voice. “Good luck,” she whispers. “He’s sort of in a mood today.”

I feel my breath catch the way it did last night, in my dream. I wish I was back at that window, staring at those buildings, looking down but protected by glass. And as I walk in to face Mr. Chew Choon, I think that next to me, Robin knows nothing about survival, but the world will never know, never understand.

Mr. Chew Choon rattles on about investments and I nod my head like I care. I assure him that everything is under control, that he should trust me, that I would never let him down. But I am actually thinking about the video I found online the other day. Some guy was singing, playing the piano, and proposing to my sister. It happened a while ago but I only just found out, like I’m some fan of hers and not the guy who taught her to drive.

Mr. Chew Choon finishes his spiel and makes me promise that he won’t be disappointed. “Of course you won’t be,” I tell him. But even I don’t believe what I’m saying, so why should he?

When I get home from work, Tina is upstairs in our bedroom, trying on outfits. I loosen my tie as I walk in, looking forward to changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, even as she’s draped in a cocktail dress.

“What’s going on?” I ask, gesturing with my eyes towards the strapless, red sequined gown she’s adjusting over her breasts. It keeps slipping down.

“I need to figure out what I’m wearing to the auto show gala.” Tina keeps her eyes on her reflection. Her light brown hair falls loosely at her shoulders so she scoops it up, but that action makes her dress fall down even more.

“You probably need to get that taken in. It’s falling off you.” I grin and stand by her, placing my hands on her warm, bare shoulders. “You and your dieting. . . I know I give you a hard time about not eating more, but God, you’re in great shape.” I kiss her neck and she steps away from me.

“Not now, Ted.”

Stung, I walk towards my closet, where I remove my work clothes and put on something more comfortable. “What’s for dinner?” I ask, thinking I was wrong to compliment her, to encourage her at all. If she’s cooked anything, she won’t eat it.

“There’s salad and some chicken breasts you can sauté for the boys. I’m not very hungry.”

“Okay.” I turn back towards her. She’s taken off the red dress and has put on a midnight blue, strappy thing with beaded flowers. It’s also way too loose on her. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound warm, “why don’t you get a new dress for the gala? Wouldn’t you rather have something from this season?”

Tina rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you the one who said we should be cutting back? Miles and Mason’s tuition has just gone up, and we’re renovating the patio, and I’d really like to get these done.” She grabs her breasts and squeezes. “They’ve gotten so droopy.”

“That’s because you’ve lost so much weight.”

She spins toward me like she’s that girl in
The Exorcist
. “So you agree that my boobs are sagging? What about my face? Or my neck? Are they okay, Ted? Or should I just have work done everywhere?”

Tina is practically spitting out fire and I back away. “You know I think you’re beautiful,” I tell her. “I just want you to feel good, happy about yourself. . .”

“Whatever!” she huffs.

I try to apologize, to say something that won’t get me in more trouble, but my cell phone rings. I pull it out, thinking it’s work and my stomach contracts at the mere idea. Today’s meeting didn’t go well.

But it’s not work; it’s Robin. My finger is poised, ready to swipe “ignore,” but Tina slams a door, locking herself in the bathroom. There’s nothing productive I can say to Tina right now so I go ahead and take the call.

“What?” I realize I sound like a dick, but at the moment I don’t care.

There’s a moment’s pause as my sister finds her voice. “Ted?”

“Yeah, it’s Ted. Who else would be answering my phone?”

“Sorry. . . you just sound stressed. Is this a bad time?”

Well, I just got home from a hellish day of work, I need to make dinner, and my wife hates me almost as much as she hates herself, but other than that, sure, it’s a great time. What’s up, Sis?

“It’s fine,” I gripe. “But I need to get dinner going. Did you need something?” I move downstairs, grasping the heavy maple railing, my feet shuffling down the thick carpeted steps. Every one of our decorating choices was carefully researched by Tina, from the skylights to the molding along the floorboards.

And it’s never felt like home.

“I, um, well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m getting married.”

I grunt-laugh. “Good luck!”

At first she doesn’t respond and I busy myself, looking for the chicken breasts in our stainless steel refrigerator, and then for a frying pan to cook them in. “Okay, thanks, I guess,” Robin mumbles. “Don’t you want to know the details?”

“I already know. It’s all online. You’re marrying that one guy, right? Rick?”

“His name is Nick, actually, but yeah. And we’re getting married in a few weeks. The wedding is at Monty’s house, so hopefully you can come.”

I drop the frying pan onto an unlit burner. “Wait. A few weeks from
now
, at
Monty’s
house?” Suddenly I care about this conversation. If the wedding is so soon, that means she’s been planning it for a while. And if my cousin Monty, who I’ve always resented, is once again stepping in to be the family’s savior, and for
my
little sister, well –

Well, what?

“You could have told me sooner!” I snap. “As it is, Robin, I have a life. There’s no way I can come if the wedding is so soon.”

“Never mind then,” she replies, voice terse.

“I’m sure you’ll have a good time without me there.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I press end and drop my phone onto the kitchen counter like it’s burning metal. But the real heat is gathering behind my eyes as tears form. “God dammit,” I mumble, and I swipe my face with the sleeve of my ratty Harvard sweatshirt. I sniff, chastising myself for being such a crybaby.

Robin is the dynamic one. My brother, Ian, is funny. And I’m the douche-bag-crybaby who barely gets invited to his own sister’s wedding, whose wife won’t let him touch her, who doesn’t feel like he belongs in his own house.

How did I get here?

It was my junior year of college.

I was on a spring break trip to Miami when I was tossed together with the most alluring creature I’d ever seen: a blond goddess in sandals and a swimsuit. She was playing beach volleyball and when she used her strong, sinewy arms to spike that serve, I was speechless, in love. Anyone could see me gaping, already drowning in a quicksand of emotion. As the tide came in and the waves tickled at her toes, she turned, saw me, and smiled.

I was so happy and so panicked that I wished to fade into nothing, to become a white light underneath the shining sun.

Instead I summoned the nerve to talk to Tina, and ever since I’ve been desperate not to let go.

Except lately, it’s become more and more difficult to maintain a grasp on my marriage. Every day, Tina slips further and further away from me, and I slip closer towards disappearing into that white light. Only this time it wouldn’t be pleasant, it would just be a ceasing to exist. Nobody would care, few would remember, and life would go on like it always does for everybody, except me.

Mr. Chew Choon calls, wondering why one of his international stock funds has been cashed in at a loss. I tell him it’s a temporary measure, meant to guard against a decline in market value. He’s also worried that others stock shares, ones I sold for profit, will be too severely taxed, but I urge him to be happy with a gain.

He’s not convinced, and eventually he hangs up on me. I’m sure he’ll complain to my superiors, I’ll hear about it, and there will be repercussions.

I take a swig from the bottle of Pepto-Bismol I keep hidden in my desk, and stare out my window, at the Philadelphia skyline. Everything will be okay, I tell myself, but I don’t believe it. So I call Tina.

“Don’t tell me you can’t pick up the boys tonight,” she barks into the phone the moment she picks up: no prelude, no warm hello.

“Umm. . .” I hesitate, trying to remember what it is I’m supposed to be picking them up from.

“Ted?” Her tone is demanding, a contrast to my stuttering silence. “You know I have a board meeting for the Banard Foundation tonight. This is important to me. If I’m not there, I’ll never get elected to the senior council.”

“Right, no, of course.” Tina is on a dozen different boards of a dozen different charity or non-profit groups. Most of them have to do with the arts, horticulture, or curing childhood cancer. I’m pretty sure the Banard Foundation focuses on all three. “You won’t have to miss your meeting. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh.” The annoyance in her tone outweighs the relief. “Then, what?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temple. There was a time, long ago, when just hearing Tina’s voice could be an antidote for whatever was ailing me. But what would she say now, if I told her how scared I am? That I could lose my job; that our way of life, our house, and our sons’ educations are all at risk? I doubt she would console me in soothing tones.

“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I was flipping through the contacts on my phone, and I accidentally called you.” I force out a staccato laugh. “How’s your day, though?”

“Um, it’s fine. I went to the gym and Nancy Adams was there. I guess she was in the hospital! Turns out she caught hepatitis. She thinks she got it from an apple that she didn’t wash.”