Split Level

Carol closed the microwave door and quickly surveyed the kitchen. It was looking better. It needed to. She was about to entertain. That morning, her plans for that Friday evening had included popcorn and red wine. Watching a movie. Maybe taking a long, hot bath.

But when Shaylin caught wind of these plans, she had insisted on coming over at seven.

Carol walked a few steps to the wine rack and selected a bottle of Cabernet—the one with the rooster on the label. She liked that one.

So what if Shaylin sees I’ve already opened it, Carol thought. Shaylin was cool.

Too cool. Shaylin was 25, maybe 26. Old enough to be her daughter, had Carol and Gerald been able to have children. Too young to be hanging out with a middle-aged wino like me, Carol thought, pouring the wine into a glass, then pouring another large slug before setting the bottle on the counter.

She took another swipe at the kitchen counters, tidied the throw pillows on the couch, straightened the remotes on the coffee table. She sprayed Febreze in the guest half bath, then lit a Glade candle in a burst of inspiration.

What the hell, Carol thought. She went down to the basement and retrieved a handful of scented candles she often bought in sets of five, when they went on sale at Target. The candles looked more expensive than they were, which is why she favored them. They carried semi-exotic names: Sea Shell Beach, Lavender Honey Parade, Fresh Snow Falling. Her favorite: Late Autumn Leaves.

Creative, she thought as she placed three candles in a row on the mantle. Some candle maker—rather, marketing people—making the candles seem more glamorous.

You can change a label or a name, she thought. But the thing itself is nothing new.

She spent a few minutes turning the lamps on and off, on and off, trying to get the lighting right. Not so bright there’s a glare on the TV if Shaylin wants to turn it on, she thought.

Gerald, her husband of many years, hated the lamps in the living room. He preferred to watch TV in the den, which was downstairs.

Well—sort of downstairs. Their home was a split level, which Carol hated.

“I feel like as soon as I walk in the door, I have to decide if I want to go upstairs or downstairs,” she had told Gerald many times.

“What’s wrong with that?” he would reply. “Pick one.”

Carol thought she heard her phone vibrate on the kitchen counter. She walked back into the kitchen and unlocked her phone, wanting to make sure it wasn’t Shaylin.

But when the screen brightened to life, there was nothing there.

No missed calls, no missed texts. Nothing.

Gerald’s last text to her, she realized, was from three days ago. It was a text telling her he wouldn’t have time to call her. He was headed to a meeting. They hadn’t spoken on the phone since he left ten days ago. He hadn’t even texted to let her know he’d made it safely to San Francisco.

Can’t talk, the text said.

Speaking of, she thought, would Shaylin be hungry? She could order a pizza. She might have one in the freezer.

Carol poured herself a second glass of Cabernet. 6:42 p.m. She was having no trouble with the wine. It tasted so refreshing after a long day at the bank.

Fridays were the worst. Fridays were paydays, and the throng of people rushing in the door at 5:10 p.m. made her hostile. They stood in line texting on their smartphones, impatiently shifting their weight, staring at the large clock on the wall as though it were her fault so many people wanted to take out cash.

And the number of people who didn’t seem to know a thing about their own banking disgusted her.

“What’s your account number?” she would ask.

A customer would stare at her blankly, maybe pull out an ATM card from a wallet.

“You mean this?” he would say.

She would have to smile, sigh inwardly, and explain to the person the difference between a debit card and a banking card.

Although, Carol thought, perhaps it wasn’t all their fault.

Accounts could be quite confusing. There were so many account numbers and logins and PINS and passwords.

Carol managed all their accounts—hers and Gerald’s—so Gerald could focus on work. Carol managed the bills. She didn’t balance the checkbook the way she grew up watching her mother with a ticker-tape calculator once a month at the kitchen table, but she logged in to their various bank accounts and investment portfolios every few days to make sure things were running smoothly.

Carol had the sense that Gerald had no idea how long these seemingly easy tasks took. He thought she was a natural choice for those chores since she worked as a bank teller—rather, as a customer service representative. Recently, corporate had done some re-branding at the bank. It was meant to make employees more approachable.

But she still had the same exact job as before.

You can change a label, she thought. But the thing itself is nothing new.

The bank hadn’t exactly been her dream job. Rather, it was something she thought she would do until she could be a stay-at-home mom. That hadn’t worked out so well.

When she’d hinted to Gerald that she’d like help managing their online accounts, Gerald had said, “but you’re so good at it.”

It seemed like a bad thing to be proud of being skilled at. She didn’t disclose to Gerald how many times she accidentally locked herself out of accounts. It was so confusing. Sometimes a username was your email, but sometimes it was a unique word—or not even a word! A series of letters, numbers, and special characters—but not an exclamation point! Lately, no one wanted that special character anymore, so her clever username of CarolBells62! was often rejected.

The Carol was, of course, her name. The Bells referred to an inside joke between her and Gerald. When they first met at a party—one of her very first college parties—the music had been so loud, and Gerald so intoxicated that he’d misheard her.

“Carol Wells,” she had said.

“Carol Bells? Like Christmas! You’re beautiful like Christmas! Carol Bells!”

She’d been too shy to correct him. Plus, being compared to Christmas—that was the kind of compliment she used to get from Gerald.

Not so much anymore.

Carol used to make such a fuss whenever Gerald traveled for work. She’d wake up early, make him a big breakfast. Slip a love note into his luggage.

Not so much anymore.

The room that Gerald used as his home office was supposed to be a nursery. But it had only ever been a depressing, tiny workspace with twin windows and a closet. The clock on his desk read 6:58.

Carol wondered again why Shaylin wanted to hang out with her on a Friday night.

“It’ll be so fun!” Shaylin had squealed. “I want to just chill out and play with your cat and paint your nails and gossip.”

There was little chance their party would make it into Gerald’s office, but Carol tidied it anyway. Maybe Shaylin would want a tour. Papers and bills populated Gerald’s desk, which she had been using this week while he was gone.

Her latest project: real estate listings.

On the couch with some wine and her iPad, she surfed Zillow.com. She’d like to live downtown. Get a place—maybe a condo?—with a better layout.

She’d casually mentioned the idea to Gerald a few times, but so far he hadn’t bitten. She needed to wait until Gerald was in town for a few days so they could look at listings together. He’d just been gone so much lately. Gerald had taken a case last year; he was gone for long stretches, it seemed—had been for six months. This current trip he was on was supposed to be one of the last. Gerald said he was tired of hotels, long flights, and long meetings.

But Carol wasn’t sure if she believed him. He never seemed sad to go, and he never seemed happy to return home.

Carol heard her doorbell. She tossed back the rest of the wine, then impulsively shoved the empty glass into the filing cabinet. She smoothed her tongue over her teeth, hoping they weren’t maroon.

She anticipated the next few minutes: giving Shaylin a tour, listening to her compliment the décor, watching her try to wrangle Duchess, their high-maintenance Persian.

Carol took a deep breath and then on a total whim—or maybe it was the wine—she took the folder of real estate listings back out of the drawer and laid it front and center on the desk.

Let Shaylin see, she thought. Let her ask.

* * *

Predictably, Shaylin’s favorite part of the house was the kitchen. It was everyone’s favorite. An entertainer’s kitchen: an induction stove, large island in the middle. There was a long counter, too, with a bar.

Shaylin had brought a bottle of white wine, which Carol hadn’t expected.

Carol suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten anything. The wine was making her feel heavy. She opened Shaylin’s bottle and poured two glasses anyway, as Shaylin made a toast: “To girls’ night.”

Hastily, Carol found a box of crackers in the pantry. From the fridge, she pulled a block of sharp cheddar and a tub of garlic hummus she bought the other day. She was thankful to see the carrot sticks, the two green bell peppers she’d sliced.

While Shaylin vented about that day’s annoying customers, Carol made quick work of slicing the cheese, creating a spread while Shaylin talked.

“If you’d like,” Carol said, concentrating on keeping her knife steady, “I have frozen pizza.”

“That sounds awesome. I’m supposed to run tomorrow, and I know I should be eating super healthy, but all I want is carbs. I’m serious. And cheese. Cheese is so good.”

Carol smiled. She felt relief she could cook something substantial—something to help soak up all the wine. She didn’t want to be drunk. She didn’t want to look like an old fool in front of Shaylin.

Carol thought not for the first time that if she had had a daughter, she’d like one to be like Shaylin. Smart, beautiful, funny, bubbly. She was so cheerful at the bank. Carol didn’t know why she worked there. There was no way she would stay. Shaylin took classes off and on at the community college in business—or was it finance?

Either way, once Shaylin got her associate’s, she’d probably go on to a four-year university. She should, anyway. She was too good to be a bank teller.

Err—a customer service representative.

“I’m hungry all the time,” Shaylin said.

“Me too,” Carol answered warmly, “but I can’t justify it like you. It’s not because I’m training for a half-marathon, it’s because I’m old and fat.” She laughed.

“Oh, come on,” Shaylin said, dipping a carrot stick into the hummus. Carol pre-heated the oven to 425 and removed the pizza from its thin cardboard shell. “You look great.”

“For my age.”

“Come on,” Shaylin said again. “Don’t be one of those ladies who doesn’t know she’s hot.”

Carol laughed, taking a sip of the white wine. It tasted good after all that red. It tasted light and airy—like Shaylin. Was this her fourth glass of wine, then? Carol had the impression of memory of putting the rooster bottle into the recycling bin.

“I have an idea,” Shaylin said. “Let’s go play in your closet while the pizza bakes.”

Carol studied Shaylin and the smile playing on her lips. She had her eyebrow pierced, which Carol usually didn’t like on women, but it looked great on Shaylin.

She looked so artsy. She was wearing a black t-shirt dress over some leggings and was still wearing the cardigan she had worn to the bank that day. She probably hadn’t gone home to change—Carol realized she didn’t even ask Shaylin if she’d gone home between work and coming to her house. She wore two long gold necklaces. Teal eyeshadow covered her lids. She had a wristwatch on that looked like a man’s—large and gold and clunky. But it all worked, and Carol thought if she was going to take fashion advice from someone younger, she could do much worse than to take it from Shaylin.

“No,” Carol said. “I just have middle-aged lady clothes,” she laughed. “Black pants? The kind with the hidden panel to hide my tummy?” She put her hands on her midsection, which was flatter and firmer than most women her age—or so Carol thought. Of course, many women her age had given birth.

Shaylin stood up from the barstool. “That’s it. We’re going to come up with at least five outfits. Come on, I do this with my friends all the time. We’ll take pictures and then you’ll have ideas for next week and you won’t have to think about what to wear.”

Carol shook her head once more before relenting.

A wave of relief washed over Carol as Shaylin marched right by the spare bedroom—the bedroom Gerald often slept in when he was home. She had made that bed, ushered his dirty laundry from the floor, though. He said it was quieter in the spare bedroom, and that he’d grown accustomed to sleeping alone.

Shaylin cut a path straight to the master bedroom, found the walk-in closet immediately, turned on the light, and surveyed her wardrobe. She invited Carol to pull her favorite pieces of jewelry and put them on the bed.

“Okay,” Shaylin said. She took a long drink and rubbed her hands together. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

* * *

If she hadn’t been keenly listening for it, Carol might have missed the oven timer beeping insistently from the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Shaylin, who was arranging an old suede skirt Carol hadn’t worn in ages on the bedspread with a cobalt-colored blouse.

She cut the pizza into eight pieces. She was supposed to let the pizza cool and settle before serving, but Carol was having too much fun to wait. She loaded a large serving tray with plates, napkins, and half the pizza. She went to the refrigerator and pulled a container of shredded parmesan cheese. What the hell, she thought, and pulled a bottle of ranch dressing, too. She liked to dip her crusts in ranch when Gerald wasn’t around.

She was about to leave the kitchen when she heard her phone vibrate on the counter. She gave it a quick look. New message from Gerald, it said. She didn’t read it. He hasn’t texted me in days, she thought, and he wants to text me now? When I’m finally having fun? Forget it, she thought. That can wait till later.

She walked back to the master bedroom and placed the tray on the bedspread, careful not to disturb Shaylin’s thoughtfully coordinated outfits. She noticed Shaylin had matched a pair of black boots with one of her favorite gray dresses—one she didn’t wear often because it was wool and quite itchy. Shaylin was moving a pair of earrings from one outfit to another, looking at Carol and then at the clothes. Carol smiled.

“I need to see you in this dress with this scarf,” Shaylin said. “I can’t tell if the scarf is enough by itself, or if you need earrings.”

Carol giggled. “Yes ma’am. You should take a break, though. Have some pizza.”

Shaylin took a slice and chewed thoughtfully. Carol picked up the clothes and stepped into the bathroom. She decided at the last second to keep the door partly open. She was aware that Shaylin would be able to see her reflection in the mirror from where she was standing, but it still felt wrong to Carol to close the door, like it would cut off the intimacy of the evening.

What 25-year-old wants to play dress-up with me on a Friday night, she thought again, stepping out of her black pants and pulling her sweater over her head. Probably, she’s meeting up with a boy later. Still, she’s so nice to come over. Keep me company.

Carol modeled Shaylin’s first outfit cheekily, putting one hand behind her head like a pinup model. Shaylin clapped.

“Oh my God, you look great! Purple complements your complexion. Like your hair is a pretty shade of brown—do you color? You need to wear purple more. My roommate is really into dressing for your season. I should text her your picture and ask what season you are.”

Carol giggled again. She wanted to think, this is what having a daughter would be like, but she didn’t really think it would be. Her own daughter, at this age, probably wouldn’t have been interested in this. It was just a fantasy to think she would have moments like this with her own daughter.

Suddenly, Carol felt empty, hollow. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She stepped away from Shaylin and back into the master bathroom, pretending she needed the bright light and the big mirror to assess herself again. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

It’s just the wine, Carol told herself. Eat another piece of pizza once you get this outfit off. Don’t get weepy. For God’s sake. Don’t make her uncomfortable. You’re having a fun time—you haven’t had fun like this in ages.

“No, you look hot, Carol! I think you should keep your hair way down with that outfit. And you don’t need the earrings. Wear that Monday. Please?”

“Thanks,” Carol said. She smiled at herself in the mirror, making sure she didn’t look weepy. Her teeth looked fine. Her cheeks were pink.

“Hey, and I mean it,” Carol added suddenly, still looking in the mirror. “Thanks for coming over. I’m having so much fun. You were right—I needed some girl time.”

Shaylin didn’t say anything. Carol took another look in the mirror before stepping back into the bedroom.

She found Shaylin sitting in the armchair by the bed, chewing pizza and staring at her phone.

“Shaylin?”

“Oh, sorry. I grabbed my phone to text your picture to my roommate and I got one of those New York Times alerts.”

“New York Times?”

“Yeah. Headlines. I started reading. There was a plane crash—a flight from California. It was a small plane, but it killed like, 137 people. Jesus.”

“Oh,” Carol said. Her arms dropped. She didn’t think she was so drunk she was slurring, but she wanted to make sure. She spoke carefully. “That’s too bad.” She continued to stare at Shaylin, the faint glow of her phone on her face. She was so pretty. Shaylin shook her head and pressed a few more buttons.

“Okay,” she said, holding her phone up to Carol. “Say cheese!”

“Cheese!”

That odd feeling was back—the one from the kitchen. It’s just the wine, she told herself. Shaylin ushered her into the bathroom to try on a velvet skirt she hadn’t worn in a decade.

It’s just the wine, she told herself again.

Carol smiled for picture after picture, focusing on having fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy.

She was an Autumn, Shaylin’s roommate had replied.

Later that night, an hour after Shaylin had left, she finally read the message from Gerald. There had been a missed call, too—four, actually. She’d missed all that noise from her phone in the other room. She polished off Shaylin’s white wine as she read his text message.

Pick up the plane is going down oh my god say goodbye to my mom tell her I love her Carol I love you CarolBells

She spent the next hour in a daze, on the couch, holding her phone and the empty bottle of white wine. At one point, she fell asleep. She woke up to Duchess meowing on her stomach at dawn. She’d forgotten to feed the cat. All day Saturday as she surfaced through her hangover and fielded phone calls in a haze.

There is so much to do, Carol thought.

Deliver the news to his family. His mother. His friends. There was the correspondence, the emails. She would need to make the arrangements.

She would need to log into all their accounts and update everything. She would need to declare him dead everywhere.

The house. She wouldn’t want to stay; it was too much for a single person. She’d want to live downtown—perhaps in a condo. Something with a better floor plan.

Gerald had decided to take an early flight home, it seemed, and now Carol Wells had a lot she needed to manage.