Introduction

Samantha--the fashionable wife of a successful businessman and doting mother of one--struggles to negotiate the spheres of intimacy between her husband and her family of origin. Samantha loves her husband, Richard, and she loves her sister, Elizabeth. But the two of them can barely exist in the same room, which has caused the entire family years of emotional distress. Yet it’s not until Samantha’s sister is diagnosed at age forty-three with lung cancer that her family and her marriage are tipped into full-blown crisis.

A story of love, loss, forgiveness, learning to live with grief, and healing, Appearances will resonate with anyone who has ever experienced tension in their familial relationships--even as it serves as a poignant reminder that no amount of privilege can protect us from family conflicts, marital difficulty, or mortality.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Before I receive the phone call that separates my life into before and after, I am out with my husband, Richard A. Freeman, at a fund-raiser in a swank suburb of Boston. It’s for Pine Manor College, where Richard is on the board: a small private school in the affluent suburb of Chestnut Hill, named for a stretch of trees that once ran from Dunster Street to Reservoir Lane. Richard, a Harvard Business School graduate with a career in private equity—which I google whenever I have to explain it—thrives on boards like this. It’s in his blood to give back, especially to those without the financial means that my husband has worked his whole life to achieve.

Richard is six foot one and lean, with a full head of wavy hair the color of smoke. Tonight my husband’s late-summer tan and the jade pocket square accenting his deep-set green eyes make him look ten years younger than fifty-nine. I am thirteen years his junior, five foot eight, with highlighted auburn hair that grazes my shoulders when I use a flatiron. Richard stands with perfect posture. Were we to embrace, his lips would meet the slope of my hairline. From all outside appearances, people say we belong together.

It’s a warm and humid early evening in September, the last month the trees are lush and green before setting off their autumn fireworks. The air is thick, and, even though I’m fresh from the shower, my thighs stick to the mint leather interior of Richard’s Aston Martin. Richard pondered for years whether to buy this car. He considers himself a value guy. Even though he can afford it, for example, Richard would never think to charter a private plane. But he held a torch for this car for five years, driving thirty minutes to the dealership every few months to talk off the salesman’s ear and take the Aston for a test-drive. Finally, our preteen daughter, Alexandra, convinced him to buy it. Using a cliché she must have heard somewhere but, at eleven, couldn’t fully understand, Alexandra said, “Daddy, you’re not getting any younger,” and giggled.

Richard lowers the top, puts the AC on high, and fiddles with the radio until he finds WEEI 850 AM sports talk. We pull out of the garage and drive a few miles on Route 9 to the fund-raiser. Richard has been on Pine Manor’s board for the past four years and has helped this annual event to become a huge success. He likes to invite people he enjoys, who possess a sense of humor, with whom he can have what he calls a “solid conversation” about politics, sports, cigars, and world events. Richard doesn’t waste time on gossip, on whoever is selling their home, filing for bankruptcy, or getting divorced—like some people we know.

During the ride, I’m quiet. I can’t stop thinking about my sister, Elizabeth. She’s been complaining about a pain in her hip from a pulled muscle during our workout weeks ago. When we met for coffee yesterday, she had trouble scaling the few steps into the café. Her pain worries me. But I haven’t expressed my concern to Richard. He and I don’t talk about Elizabeth anymore.

Tonight is Pine Manor’s largest fund-raiser of the year. The students from the culinary school will prepare and serve dinner; silent and live auctions will span the evening. The superstar hired auctioneer is a genius entertainer, jumping on chairs, using comedy to charm and disarm attendees out of their money, and all for a good cause. Last year, in 2002, the fund-raiser grossed half a million dollars. The goal this year is even greater. The proceeds will fund a new Student Success Center, a sorely needed campus hub.

In the Aston we follow an elegant, topiaried, figure-eight drive to park at the college’s VIP entrance, where a valet takes our keys. “Cool car, sir,” the student says, as other eighteen-year-olds clad in red valet jackets swarm.

“Careful, please,” Richard says, and laughs, but I know he is serious.

Richard opens my door. With a gentleman’s flair, he takes my hand. I gracefully step out in my Manolo heels and a black cocktail dress. Richard is wearing a charcoal Brioni suit with a crisp white shirt. We lock eyes before my husband kisses me on the lips and says, “Still beautiful.” This is Richard with his most contagious confidence: about to perform his ideal self and our ideal marriage in public.

Our friends—Jeffrey and Jordana, Bob and Carol—arrive after us. Richard and I await them at the curb.

“Hey, Rich!” Jeffrey says, walking toward us with his model-thin, thirtysomething wife, Jordana, on his arm, as the valet drives away in their Porsche. She’s very sweet.

“Richie, baby!” Bob says from a couple of paces behind Jeff, waving frantically.

“Hi, Samantha,” Carol says when they reach us, bathing me in the scent of her apricot perfume. Carol slopes her shoulders to give my arm a squeeze, towering above me in her four-inch platform stilettos embossed with rhinestones, like disco balls.

“Thanks so much for coming,” Richard says, “I really appreciate it.” He shakes the men’s hands, hoping his friends will bid high once they go inside. Richard kisses each of the women chastely on the cheek, before saying, “This way” and leading us to the cocktails. With a smile fixed on my face, I follow the others, my heart sinking like the sun on the horizon. Years ago, I would have invited my sister and her husband, Jake, to join us at the event, but now the hostility between them and Richard makes it impossible. I brace myself for a night of trophy wives and garish perfume.

“Tasteful decorations,” I say inside, to no one in particular. The gala committee has dimmed the lights and set elegant tables, transforming the drab college auditorium with floor-length tablecloths, fuchsia napkins, and dense centerpieces of French roses. As at any respectable fund-raiser, there must be at least five hundred people here.

Hors d’oeuvres are passed. Servers squeeze invisibly between us with silver trays of mouthwatering crab cakes, spicy shrimp on skewers, and adorable mini–lamb chops. Everything smells yummy, but I’m going to save my calories for dinner. My sister canceled our workout this morning so she could rest her sore hip. I decided it wouldn’t kill me to miss a day. But no cardio this morning means I have to watch what I eat even more carefully tonight.

Richard and I stroll to the bar, where he orders two glasses of pinot grigio. Thank God they have pinot grigio, because I don’t drink oaky Chardonnay, and I take pleasure in a couple of glasses of wine at these events. Richard stands tall, relaxing his shoulders down his back to swell his chest. Since we met, he’s had a presence, a confidence like a force field that I imagine extends to me. My husband is powerful and smart, one of my definitions of sexy. While Richard and I stand coupled at the bar, a different sort of man approaches, short and wearing a red bow tie.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Freeman and your lovely wife.” The college president bows to me, then addresses my husband. “Pine Manor certainly appreciates—relies—on your generosity. Let’s hope we gross the most money yet.”

“Our friends will bid high,” Richard says. “I’ll lean on them. This is the best fund-raiser in town,” he says excitedly, adjusting his tie knot. “I only invited people who want to support the school.”

“Mr. President,” I say, “we look forward to this every year. Last year we won the ski trip to Aspen.” The Pine Manor president smiles and shakes our hands before moving on to greet more patrons. He’s perfect for this job, affable and not overbearing.

Richard and I mingle, finding the rest of our guests at the silent-auction tables before a bay window overlooking the soccer field. Carol and I make small talk about our kids, dance classes, and gymnastics. Jordana, who has a nine-month-old, gushes about being a new mom. They are superficial friends whose company I enjoy, but I would never think of confiding my real troubles in them.

“Richard, what’s new in the empire?” I overhear Bob, a real estate developer, ask.

“I closed on Boylston. Going to move my offices. Just have to file with the BRA now for the build-out.”

“Location, location,” Bob says, slapping Richard on the back. “You really know how to catch the market.”

“I know my business,” Richard replies. “And a bit of yours.” They both laugh, and my husband beams, completely in his element.

Dinner is served. In the perfect performance, Richard takes my hand; we glide to our table, and he pulls out my chair. I observe where our guests are seated. Even though I like them well enough, I consider them all acquaintances, Richard’s friends. I have actually begun to like it better this way. Because if the company we keep is not my own family or friends, at least I don’t have to worry about what anyone says or how they treat each other.

“Who wants to play golf tomorrow?” Richard asks, as he cuts into his grilled chicken. “We can make it a threesome.” Both Bob and Jeff instantaneously free up their schedules for a coveted round of golf at the exclusive Rose Wood Country Club, where Richard and I are members.

“Yeah, baby,” Richard says, as the server asks if we want red or white. Richard’s arms soar into the air. “I’ll bring cigars!”

These men are high achievers, hedge fund and real estate guys at the peak of their careers, who own their businesses. But not only that: Bob and Jeff are family men, and they are charitable.

“Remind me where your kids are in school?” I lean over to ask Carol.

“I switched them out of public to Rivers last year,” she says, using a broad “a” in “last” with a Kennedy-esque accent. “They get much more attention.” Rivers is a private school with a well-paid faculty in Weston, another upscale suburb. Richard would not be pleased, because, unlike many of our friends and neighbors in Wellesley, he believes in public education unless a child has a learning or behavior problem.

“You made the right decision,” I say to Carol. If she wants her kids in private school, why not?

After dinner, the president steps to the podium.

“Good evening. Tonight we are raising money for our new student center.” For 2003, this is the cutting edge of campus life. He ends his speech, thanking everyone for their support. “Bid high and bid often,” the president says, pinching his bow tie.

Richard leans over and whispers loudly in Carol’s ear, “Make Bob bid. About time he takes you on a nice trip.”

This comment sets off belly laughs between Bob, Carol, and Richard. I sip my wine. A thousand memories and resentments come to mind, of Richard’s feuds with Elizabeth and Jake, my family, and none of them makes me laugh.

Paul, the auctioneer, takes the stage. “Shh! Shh! Shh!” he blows, testing the microphone before his voice fills the room. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s start with a bang! This first item is just the tip of the iceberg.” He details a four-night stay at the Georges V Hotel in Paris. I know well Paris and this landmark, mere steps from the Champs-Élysées, walking distance to the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and nearly every designer store I can think of. “The City of Light, people! Go deep in your pockets for this one.” Paul quits the stage and walks between tables, sharing perks of the luxury package: a king-size bed, a marble bathroom, breakfast included. “Four nights and five days. Starts at two thousand. Do I hear three? Four?”

Richard’s number stirs on the tablecloth. Before lifting it, he seeks my permission with a raised brow. I nod, reluctantly, and Richard raises his number. Only we know that our marriage is crumbling. A loudmouth at the next table, wearing a poorly tailored coat, initially beats our offer, but Richard’s friends, rowdy from the wine, spur him on. When Richard wants something, he’s nothing but persistent.

“Sold for seven thousand!” Paul declares when Richard wears the other guy out, $250 at a time. The auctioneer races over to congratulate us, recognizing Richard as a trustee. “They say a happy wife is a happy life—Mr. and Mrs. Freeman are going to Paris!” Paul cheers and the crowd claps. It’s not his job to understand that no trip to Paris will make this wife happy.

I lean over and kiss Richard drily on the cheek. “Thank you,” I say. But a sinking feeling overcomes me, dread settling like the humidity outside, a suffocating weight. I hate myself as Richard takes my hand, strokes my sweating fingers. How will I explain to Elizabeth that we’re going to Paris?

Our friends applaud and congratulate us. As the evening passes, with Richard’s encouragement, they bid on various items. Some prevail and others are outbid, but returns are high for Pine Manor. The more people drink, the more they spend. The school raises $750,000, outdoing last year, and Richard is on cloud nine.

As we share goodbyes, hugging friends, my smile again fades. The valet brings us the Aston. I plop onto the seat, worn out from the evening, and can’t help but land on the issue that has been at the top of my mind for years: Will I ever reconcile the animosity between my husband and my sister, or is my only solution divorce? I notice the pride that Richard exudes from the event’s success, and it irks me. He seems unaware of my grief—of who, what extension of me, is always missing from these happy moments. He fondles my knee while starting the car, but I turn away toward the window.

I’m a bit tipsy from three glasses of wine, pining for my sister, whom I know as well as I do myself. But no matter how much I drink, it doesn’t change the facts. At family dinners, Richard sits off by himself, staring at the cubes in his drink. And when Elizabeth’s husband, Jake, comes to our home, my brother-in-law sits across from Richard but obscures his face with a stiff newspaper. The tension has settled on our children now, an unmelting snow. They tiptoe around both fathers, on eggshells.

At a stoplight on our way home, I am watching the gypsy moths beat themselves insensibly against the red, rounded eye of glass, and Richard blurts, “Can’t you just be happy—once?” He seals his lips on a moody silence that lasts the rest of the night.

Being Richard’s wife is a full-time job. If only I could get it right.

Chapter Three

The night after the Pine Manor fund-raiser, Richard and I go out for dinner alone. If there’s any spot in Boston where we can discuss our marital problems, it’s Abe & Louie’s, one of our places, a pillar in the life we’ve built together. Its mahogany-paneled dining room with deep leather booths represents a comfort and luxury that put us both at ease.

Richard greets the maître d’ with a rehearsed handshake. “Good to see you, Romeo,” he says, slipping him a twenty. My husband wants to ensure that we’ll be seated near the windows at the front of the dining room, away from the kitchen and the commotion of its two-way doors.

Romeo selects two menus and gestures for us to follow him to our favorite table, perfect for people-watching. “You’re looking well,” Romeo says to me as we walk, concealing the $20 bill in his cuff. “Have not seen you for a while, Madame Samantha,” he adds tentatively.

“I’ve been well,” I say, and smile, though I feel myself wince. As Romeo seats us and engages Richard in small talk, I fidget with my wedding ring, taking it off, sliding it on. It stays on my finger this time. The scent of drawn butter, fresh black pepper, and roasted thyme in the restaurant has a pacifying effect.

Romeo leaves us with leather-backed menus, and I look into the eyes of the man I’ve loved for twenty years, allowing myself to trace the soft folds of his jowl and the chiseled crease above his lips. He doesn’t believe that I appreciate him and all his success affords us, and I don’t feel valued by him as a mother and wife. Richard sits erect with his perfect posture, wearing his Nantucket tan, these unspoken accusations between us.

“I like that blouse,” Richard says, alternating his eyes between the menu and me. “New?”

“Yes, I just bought it at Saks.” I sit straighter—it’s easy to feel slouchy next to Richard. For this evening, I’ve worn a black lace top with dark skinny jeans and a pair of gold, backless heels. In my midforties, I know that how old we look depends on how well we take care of ourselves, and I keep myself in good shape.

I take Richard’s hand on the tablecloth and draw his eyes from the menu because he already knows what he will order. We reach into the basket of warm bread that Romeo has placed without instruction, and, for a brief time, the conversation flows.

We talk about the Red Sox, how this might be the year they really win the World Series, careful not to hope too hard. The fact that I’m a Sox fan bonded me early on to Richard, a season-ticket holder for thirty years, and it’s one of the passions we still share. When we first met, I impressed him by knowing the starting lineup of the 1967 dream team. “You know Joe Foy played third base?” he said incredulously, palming his forehead. Now we take our daughter, Alexandra, to Sox games at Fenway. Richard is intensely proud of her fandom. “My daughter takes the Sox-Yankees rivalry to a new level,” he boasts to his friends, meaning that Alexandra, eleven and whip-thin, will berate anyone wearing a Yankees hat.

The server brings our cocktails: pinot grigio for me, Ketel One on the rocks, with a splash of cranberry and a lime, for Richard. I take my first sip and unfold the pressed cloth napkin on my lap. Richard rearranges the water glasses and shifts the salt and pepper shakers, as if to assert complete control over his surroundings, the same way he shuffles the deeds of buildings in the Back Bay.

“We may as well talk about why we came,” he says.

I take a gulp of wine to ease the sudden tightness in my chest.

“What’s your decision?” Richard asks, dropping his voice to the center of the table, out of range of any eavesdroppers. “Are you going to change or not?”

I bow my head but feel the heat of Richard’s gaze through my curtain of hair. We have been through this so many times that it’s a song on repeat. What Richard is really asking is for me to distance myself from my family, especially my sister, Elizabeth.

“We both have to change,” I say, trying to keep my voice measured, but I can feel it wavering. Richard thinks that Elizabeth and I communicate and see each other too constantly—she lives ten minutes away—and that I take on my sister’s problems as my own. In childhood photographs, I always stood behind Elizabeth, my hands on her shoulders. I peek at my husband’s face through my hair, hoping for a shred of understanding. If I ever go along with Richard’s request to marginalize Elizabeth in my life, it means I won’t be the same person.

“All I ask for is some privacy,” Richard says, “in my own house, with my own family. Or is that too much for you? Look, our family—you, me, Alex and Harrison—does not include your sister. Just the way you feel and think about her takes time away from me.” This diatribe against Elizabeth has made Richard breathless. He inhales deeply. “You know what your problem is? In a nutshell?” He rushes. “You don’t know how to be a good wife and a good sister at the same time.”

I begrudge my husband his somewhat valid point. His resentment over the years has persuaded me to conceal more and more of my relationship with Elizabeth from him. All this sneaking around, you could accuse me of carrying on an emotional affair. Richard’s blunt thinking has taken over. I can see that he believes eliminating Elizabeth from my life will save our marriage.

Mercifully, our first courses arrive: salad and oysters, followed by glazed vegetables and juice-drenched steaks. I slice into my steak and place the first morsel in my mouth. “Eat,” I say, with my mouth full. “It’s good.” Richard gives me a tepid smile. We have always loved going to dinner, and for a few minutes we’re quiet, tasting, chewing, and swallowing. The server brings more wine, another cocktail.

Richard wipes the corner of his mouth with the linen napkin and starts again. “Let’s try to talk calmly.”

Feeling fed and less tense from the wine, I still find myself taking a deep breath and bracing myself.

“You say you’ve changed. You really haven’t,” Richard says. “Maybe you’ve modified some of your habits, but you haven’t changed your core feelings.”

“So you’re not satisfied with changing my behavior. You want to change my heart,” I say, a little too loudly. A woman from the next table actually turns her head.

“You don’t get it,” I continue. “She’s my sister, not some faucet I can turn on and off!” So much for a calm discussion.

Richard rubs his forehead, as if I exhaust him. “You can still love her; just don’t take every call.” The server replenishes our water as we cease fire. Richard lifts his ice-melted vodka and downs it in three gulps.

In moments like these, when I feel frustrated and out of control, I turn my attention inward and focus on strengths. I remind myself that I am a devoted, responsible woman who thrives on solid family connections. My desire to make things right for everyone I love tugs at my heart, even when my own best interests are at stake.

“I’ve jumped through hoops to please you,” I say. My stomach turns over on itself, and I become a bit breathless. Lately I wait on Richard at family dinners, sit by his side at Hanukkah, focus all of my attention on stoking his ego and his accomplishments, much less so on Elizabeth.

“You don’t even know what I do at the office,” Richard sneers. “Do you? The money you spent on that blouse? You know what your sister does every hour!”

“I know you just raised capital to buy out the Gilman Company. You’re renovating on Boylston to move your offices there. Watch yourself.” But what I think Richard is saying is that I don’t know how he ticks, and on that score he might be right.

“We talk about our kids,” I say, to explain why I cherish Elizabeth. “We vent.” I would assume that such attention would only smother and annoy a person as independent and self-made as Richard, but in fact he craves attention. It’s not enough for him to succeed—he wants to bask in my pride of his success.

I slump in my seat. As with so many similar conversations, we’ve reached a stalemate. The deep booths and mahogany walls that I’ve long associated with glamour and ease now only make me feel trapped. The wineglass sweats in my hand, my second already, and I can’t wait for my third. This conversation is so old, it has grown a beard.

“Ever hear of moderation?” Richard blurts, as I order another glass of pinot grigio. I don’t dignify that question with a response.

I try to take interest again in food, eyeing my bloody, half-eaten steak without much of an appetite, but, despite myself, I kick the wheel.

“I’ve stopped inviting her to our home,” I say. “I’ve stopped taking her calls in front of you. I know it upsets you. But why can’t I talk to my own sister when you’re not around?” I lean back onto the tufted banquette, my shoulders shaking.

“You’re welcome to talk to her, just not every day,” Richard says, then shakes his head in disgust. “You don’t need to know about every problem her kids have, how they do on tests and what their teachers says, every goddamn time Elizabeth goes to the bathroom.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” I say, and drop my napkin on the tablecloth.

Richard brings his fist to the table. Water sloshes from my glass. My eyes dart around the dining room, wondering who might have seen. The woman at our neighboring table looks over again.

“Is this even a conversation?” I say, lowering my voice. “You just want me to agree with you.”

“Let’s go,” Richard says. “All you do is piss me off.”

My husband flings his napkin, flags the server, then stands and pushes himself from the booth. “I deserve to feel like number one in my marriage,” he says. “How hard is that to understand?”

The next day, I do the only thing that ever makes me feel better after a fight with Richard: I go for a walk with Elizabeth. Despite Richard’s hope otherwise, Elizabeth and I are closer than ever. His ultimatums about creating distance from my sister have made me run to her even faster.

As I pull up to the Brookline Reservoir, the early sunlight stabs at my eyes. I lean against the weathered fence, and when I see Elizabeth’s car, I try to put on a good face. But she can tell something is wrong. “You’ve been crying,” she says.

If I open my mouth, it’ll come out garbled, so I press my lips together and nod.

Elizabeth knows all about my problems with Richard. Actually, I tell her too much, and confiding in her ends up making Richard seem like a villain. She hugs me, and we squeeze our hands together—the secret code of comfort we’ve had since we were young.

A primitive trail of dirt and gravel surrounds the reservoir. Maple and birch trees offer shade, and teak benches a place to relax. Every time we meet, Elizabeth and I circle the water at least three times, walking and breathing through constant conversation. This morning our fate is an uninvited guest, invisibly matching our strides. We walk briskly with the sun warming our faces, strengthening us for the tough times ahead.

“Spill,” Elizabeth says, as we start our first lap. “Tell me everything.” But as we finish that lap, she begins to lag. I’m so wrapped up in my story that I don’t notice when Elizabeth falls back a few paces. I turn and run to her. She’s limping, her face twisted in pain.

“Seems worse than yesterday,” I say.

“The doctor thinks it’s sciatica. But the pain keeps getting worse.” She grimaces.

“Should we stop?” I ask.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Elizabeth takes a few steps that would have been easy before, trying to straighten out her walk. She always puts on a brave face.

We continue at a slower pace. Cars rumble faintly behind us on Route 9. The wind picks up as we round the corner, forcing us to exert more effort in our strides. The path gradually crowds with people speed-walking and jogging. Just ahead, two women barricade the lane with their strollers, carrying cups of steaming coffee. They’re talking loudly, laughing, and I want to interrupt, to scold them harshly for acting like the path is theirs, to insist they be considerate of other people. I’m not sure from where this sudden anger surges, but it startles me. Instead of berating the stroller moms, Elizabeth and I detour onto the grass, wetting our shoes with dew.

“I have to get out of this mess,” I say.

“Maybe it’s the last straw.”

The last thing Elizabeth wants me to do is leave my husband, but she loves me and knows that I’m suffering.

We finally circle back to the parking lot and drink from the water bottles in our cars. I see Elizabeth wince again. “Go home and call your doctor,” I instruct, snapping out of my self-absorption, happy to inhabit the older-sister role.

“I already have an MRI scheduled for later today,” Elizabeth says.

“Oh, okay. Please let me know how it goes.”

“God, don’t let it be surgery,” Elizabeth says, reaching for the Aleve she’s been keeping in her glove box. She rarely takes any medication, so I know it must be bad.

That morning, when I get home after my walk, Richard and I barely speak. He races out of the house to his office, grunting goodbye. I stand alone at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of Special K.

After dropping Alexandra off at grammar school, I take a cardio-and-strength-training class at my gym. Then I treat myself to a blueberry muffin from my favorite coffee shop, Rosie’s. Later, I drive to Winston Flowers to buy sunflowers and orchids to brighten my home, hoping to elevate my mood. At Winston, lulled by the murmur of polite voices and the faint snipping of stems, I feel as if I’m in the South of France. I studied the language and joined the French Library in my twenties and still speak French fluently.

I pull out of Winston’s onto Route 9, and on my right I notice a fit, dark-haired man on the sidewalk. His elbows are loose, hands placed casually in his pockets, but he walks with a certain air of confidence. There are other men out there, I begin to think.

In fifteen minutes, I’m pulling into my garage and getting out of the car, juggling a few books I’ve bought: How to Have a Good Divorce, The Woman’s Guide to Divorce, A Spiritual Divorce, and others. Maybe what I’m feeling is clarity, an acceptance that Richard and I will never resolve our conflicts. It might be a relief simply to move on. At the same time, I worry about how it will affect Alexandra and Harrison and I obsess about what it will be like to be on the other side of Richard in a nasty divorce. Even if I get alimony, I worry about my financial security.

I hear the kitchen phone ring and rush in from the garage to grab it. It’s Elizabeth, but I barely recognize her voice, whispering and crying at the same time—I’ve never heard her sound like this.

“The MRI,” she says. “Something’s really wrong.”

I freeze, as if caught outdoors below zero without a coat.

“The radiologist just called and explained the results,” Elizabeth says, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to die.”

“I’ll be right over,” I say. My body springs into action. I scoop up the divorce books and shove them into the back of my closet. I rap knuckles on my daughter’s door.

“Get your things,” I say, barging in. “We’re going to Auntie Elizabeth’s. Now.”

“Can’t. I have homework,” Alexandra says, but looks up from her notebook, curious. Going to Auntie Elizabeth’s right now is not how Alexandra’s weeknight schedule goes. My daughter is sprawled on her bed, surrounded by pink faux-fur pillows. When I dropped her off at school this morning, I promised to make her favorite meal for dinner tonight, pasta with olive oil, just us. Richard will be out somewhere, eating alone, licking his wounds.

“Bring your homework,” I say. “Let’s go. Shoes.”

With Alexandra in the car, I pull back onto Route 9 in full traffic. I’m impatient, switching lanes to coast through the lights. I whip out my cell and call my parents, who live nearby in Newton. “Mom, meet me at Elizabeth’s,” I say to her voice mail. “Something is seriously wrong.”

When I turn into my sister’s driveway, I see the front door framing Elizabeth; her husband, Jake, still wearing his sport coat from the office; my niece, Brooke; and my nephew, Brett. The sight of them, for the first time in my life, makes my heart sink. Elizabeth, at five foot five, looks shrunken and small. Jake is holding a paper report in his hand, his dark eyes squinting to make sense of it. Brooke, fourteen, is quiet and still, hiding her hands in her sweatshirt. Brett, just eleven, looks down at the new red sneakers Elizabeth told me she had bought him yesterday. “Cancer,” Elizabeth gasps when Alexandra and I are finally in front of her, naming the thing.

Where I would expect tears in my sister’s eyes, instead I see bewilderment and dry curiosity. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What is the significance of the title Appearances?
2. Why do you think Elizabeth’s husband Jake could accept her close relationship with Samantha and Samantha’s husband could not?
3. What was Samantha’s role in the love triangle with her, Elizabeth and Richard?
4. Discuss the concept of having enough love in one’s heart for a husband and a sister.
5. How do you feel Jake handled Elizabeth’s illness?
6. Do you think Samantha and Richard will end up staying married?

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