Page 36 of For The Record

Isabelle’s smile is cheerful but it seems practiced. She folds green peas into the mashed potatoes on her Wedgwood plate. “She sure did. Resident tea-spiller and all that.”

“Of course she did,” I say, then, add with more bitterness than I intend, “But isn’t it a bit ironic, considering the way her marriage imploded?”

We eat in silence for a moment as we recall the incident as if it came straight out of a telenovela: Aunt Rebecca opening the closet door only to find Uncle Eddie in the throes of passion with the housemaid, who was fired a minute later. I hope they gave her severance, at least. Promptly after being discovered, Eddie’s belt had, for some reason, come unbuckled and his pants fell around his ankles. In front of everyone. At a family dinner.

I almost laugh at the memory of three years ago. “She can dish it out, she should be able to take it.”

“You’re right about that.” Isabelle clinks her glass against mine. But hers doesn’t look like champagne or her usual white wine.

“Are you drinking apple juice?” I ask, surprised.

She shrugs. “I have an early day tomorrow, and shooting my scenes hungover is the worst. It’s harder for the makeup artists to cover dark circles, too.”

Something in her voice is strained, her excuses too free-flowing, but I don’t push her about it. What would I say, anyway? “Yeah, I should probably cut back.”

Our conversation lapses into painful silence after that. I scrutinize her from the corner of my eye: face a shade paler than her usual sunny California tan, red lipstick slightly smudged, and knife-sharp winged eyeliner.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, even when my father shifts in his seat at the head of the table, Heidi on his right. “Why don’t we go around the table and say what we’re all grateful for.”

Despite the phrasing, it’s not a question. My father only gives commands. I tuck a braid behind one ear, fingers brushing my feather earring.

“I’ll go first,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m grateful that all four of my lovely children were able to join us and take time away from their careers on film sets and recording studios… And, of course, the office, managing other people’s rise to stardom.”

A smattering of laughter. That last one stung a bit. Even my younger sister Harper has dabbled in singing Lana del Rey covers and putting them up on YouTube and TikTok. The last time I talked to her, she had twenty thousand followers. Not the childhood I had, but both of her parents are too busy to worry about it.

Heidi smiles, squeezing her husband’s hand. “Well, I’m grateful for the cookbook that I have coming out in a few months.”

The assembled A-list and B-list guests ooh and ahh at one another’s accomplishments and thinly veiled brags as they go around the table. The word “thankful” is echoed so many times I’m beginning to feel like I’m at an awards show. My stomach sinks as I think about the prospect of saying what I’m grateful for. Leo and I are barely a thing for me to talk about, and even that, I hardly think of as a real relationship. It’s just… a thing; a very fun, not serious, no commitment thing.

Next to me, Isabelle turns even paler when it’s her turn. Shooting out of her chair, she claps a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

But she’s barely made it three steps from the dining table when she projectile-vomits into one of Heidi’s antique Ming Dynasty vases.

Well, that’s one way to avoid participating in a Thanksgiving tradition.

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I trail after my older sister toward the bathroom, partly out of selfish curiosity, partly to avoid having to say what I’m thankful for. We dart toward the second-floor bathroom next to an empty guest bedroom, and I hold her hair back as she starts puking into the toilet.

“Thanks,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her smile is wan, her voice sounding like she’s about to vomit again. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re my sister.”

She rises unsteadily and reaches for a cup on the vanity, rinsing out her mouth. “Blech. I hate throwing up.”

“I know,” I remember the few times when we would go to the carnival as kids and how once, she ate too much candy before going on the rollercoaster. She never went back with me and Aaron after that. “Are you sick? Do you have one of those twenty-four-hour stomach bugs that have been going around?”

In lieu of a response, Isabelle hastily ties up her hair and goes back to throwing up. When I’m pretty sure she has no guts left, she says hoarsely, “Yeah, probably. One of the gaffers was pretty sick this week, I probably caught it from him.”

“Well, I hope it’s nothing.” If she’s feeling so poorly, though, then why would she risk infecting everybody by coming to Thanksgiving? I rub her back and realize I can feel every vertebra of her spine. I knew actresses were skinny, but I didn’t realize quite how much. “How’s the movie shoot been? Any crazy costumes?”

She shrugs weakly. “I haven’t missed wearing corsets and speaking in a British accent all day, every day. At least hair, makeup, and costume take less time.”

In my mind, those things would be fun to do for a living. I guess I’ll never know. “Do you like the director?”

Isabelle stiffens, her shoulders tensing. “Antonio Perez? He’s alright.”

Before I can ask the questions burning in my mind, she straightens up.

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