My big sister would be a fossil in South Beach, I realize as I resist the urge to speed while driving east to Royal Poinciana Plaza. When I pull up to Sant Ambroeus, Elodie is sitting on the small iron bench outside the restaurant, beside a gelato cart. In her Milou shift and Hermès flat sandals, she has her blond/brown hair in that half ponytail she’s taken to lately.
“What?” I glance at the courtyard filled with pozzetti. Elodie leaps up and we kiss hello. She scans the gold-leaf signage over the double glass doors.
“Look inside. Is it crowded?”
I peer through the glass and see women seated on angular ice-blue-and-toffee leather stools at the bar.
“Sort of. There are people right up front. I can’t see past that to the tables.”
“We can’t go in. I’ve run into two ladies from the Literary Society and two wives of James’s clients, plus Allison Rochester and Betina Gilles.”
“Are we avoiding people? I thought you chose a place to be seen. And to shop a bit.” I twirl my finger toward the storefronts. Zadig & Voltaire for me, 100% Capri for her, Kirna Zabête if our mother joins us.
“We need to talk, Aubrey.” Her voice is rushed.
We take off our sunglasses at the same time and look at each other’s eyes and eyebrows. We look very much the same today, except my sister is frightened, jumpy. Is that it?
“Want to go to your house? Mom’s?”
“Let’s get in my car. Or yours.”
Elodie points past the collection of bright white or silver Mercedes convertibles. “Over there.”
She leads us around the corner and presses the key fob that she’s holding in her right hand. Her own silver sedan beeps back. We get in and she blasts the AC. I tug my leopard-print miniskirt down and start checking for a text from Tyler. Got band Furrow into St. Pete. Want 2 more West Coast clubs.
I can do it, I text back swiftly. How is …
“Aubrey?” Squaring up in her seat, Elodie turns to me.
I hit Send without completing my thought. “What is going on?”
“Well, there’s privacy here. Unless the car is bugged.” She gives a dry laugh that makes her sound old or tired. “Most people are in the stores.”
“I mean, why come to shop at Hermès, then stay in the car?” I say. “I haven’t done this since that time in college when Daniel practically locked me in his Audi to announce he was dumping me. I was so upset that when I came home for Christmas break a day later, Mom and I sat in her car in the garage while I cried. Then she took me to the Avenue and we shopped at Eye of the Needle. Retail therapy.”
“Mom’s good at that.” Elodie sighs, blows the oxygen around our shared space. Two women walk by and tap at her door. She does a phony official wave, like she’s a minor politician and they are her constituency. For once she doesn’t explain, doesn’t say to me, “They’re on my board” or “They’re members of the Literary Society.”
“I have to ask you something.” Elodie holds out her left hand as if she’s about to touch my shoulder, then doesn’t.
“Sure, what’s up?” I’m still curious as to why we’re in the car, why her voice is this quiet.
“So we were wondering—I mean James was, mostly—if you could, you know, help us have our baby?” Elodie looks out the window, away from me.
Help us have our baby? For a second, I think she must be making a very bad joke. A joke so strange and perverse that I’m not sure I comprehend the meaning. Could it be that my sister, based on how demanding her life is in this kind of spoiled way, is on hallucinogenic drugs?
“What?” I say.
“I know it’s raving mad to ask you. I told James, but he came up with the idea.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Like I said, James, well, we want to know if you could assist us.”
“James? Wait, how? You don’t mean I’d have sex with … or a test-tube-type thing? Then they put the egg back into you? Or…”
Elodie turns toward me. “You know what? Never mind. I should never have asked you.”
“Well, you did. So try to explain.” I don’t know why I’m pushing her, yet I am.
“In a doctor’s office. James’s sperm, your egg.”
I almost say, I still don’t fucking get it. I don’t because Elodie looks like she’s a broken bird that has smashed up against a roof after flying in high winds. She survived but is no longer herself. The result is her request, which is unimaginable. How could this possibly be? Does she understand who I am? During the day I book the bands, I’m at the clubs at night, plenty of gigs go until four A.M. What about Tyler, who only this morning held me tight while showing me the partnership agreement. We floated around, swaying while “This Love,” by Maroon 5, blasted from the speakers. My any day/everyday life with Tyler.
Tyler and I talk about how lucky we are to be unencumbered. After a trip to the ASPCA two months ago, we realized we can’t care for a rescue dog. If we find out on a Tuesday morning that it’s Las Vegas by noon on Wednesday, we’re there. Tyler doesn’t seem remotely interested in having kids. Except his nephew, six-year-old Stefan, is the screen saver photo for his laptop. In the photograph, Stefan and Tyler are at an ice-skating rink in Portland. When they FaceTime, Tyler plays “Puff the Magic Dragon” and tells Stefan he loves him. That’s thousands of miles away and at best a yearly excursion.
Then there’s Elodie, my older sister, who tied my shoes until I was in third grade, gave me her dog-eared copy of Little Women for my tenth birthday, and took me bra shopping before it was necessary. Every adult move she made was impressive, light-years ahead. Today she can’t be pregnant, can’t have her own baby. Her desperate request proves how much she needs help.
“I know, it’s so much to ask,” Elodie says. “For you to fork over your body for my benefit.”
I sigh. “Elodie, I want to help. I wish I could. I’m not sure I’m the answer, a candidate. I’ve had lots of lovers. I’m a vegetarian, so who knows if I get enough protein. I’ve had two abortions, exposure to secondhand smoke, people smoking weed, music so loud at some venues that it could break the sound barrier.”
“You would be tested, vetted,” she says. “That’s not a problem.”
Vetted? What about Tyler? How does he fit into this? I doubt I could have sex; even if it’s allowed, it would flip me out utterly. I couldn’t sneak an occasional smoke, any booze whatsoever, or pop a pill, lug equipment onto the check-in line, take long flights. Who would live this life while pregnant? Who would want to? Aren’t I one of those people who says she isn’t sure she ever wants children, that the world is a toxic place? There is the greenhouse effect, world leaders scare me, violence is too frequent, and gun control an issue. She would not want to hear any of my reasons.
A valet who works for the shopping plaza comes toward us; he’s young and obviously lifts weights. Checking that we are alive, since we’re sitting where few would. I flick my hand to discourage him from coming closer, kind of like our mother would do it. Both of us watch him back off, shrugging as he walks toward the other stores.