Picture Perfect

They are sitting very close together – not by choice. The small, round dining table is only suited for six people, and not ten, the number necessary for the whole family to get together. As the sister spoons out a lump of soggy mashed potatoes for each guest, her nose crinkles. In the process of placing the spoon on the plate, the sister’s arm inadvertently brushes against her sister-in-law’s elbow. 

This was not a typical family dinner, where playful rivalry overshadows the deep love and affection existing  beneath the surface. Instead, kind but shallow gestures mingle with hollow small-talk, casting a thin layer of ice over the ocean that’s trapped below. 

The sister’s eyes dance around the dining hall, inflicting cracks on this ice, allowing parts of the ocean – the truth – to shine through. In the back of the room, a dusty, two by three foot portrait was plastered to the wall and illuminated by a singular beam of light radiating from the chandelier. The dust specks covering the grayscale painting sit like dull stars; obscuring the soft, smiling features of the male and female silhouettes.

Maybe that’s where the couple in the painting are now – among the stars – as they take glances at the shadowy family left behind..

The sister-in-law made sure to hide this same canvas of her in-laws with old pots, vases from a flea market – all meaningless items. 

At dinner, the sister-in-law is the center, pulling her husband – the sister’s brother – closer towards her and further away from everyone else. The sister glances at the portrait as she passes the last of the potatoes, her brow furrowed in thought. 

On a day that could be predicted by no one, the patriarch passed away alone, in the comfort of the sherpa blanket that covered his slim, frail figure. He rose from the Earth in the same way a balloon would, floating towards his wife – his love, the family matriarch – who passed away before him… before their son married and brought home the sister-in-law into the family fold.

The last time we were united. Images of that funeral flooded the sister’s mind; she mourned her mother, but she didn’t know that she would soon be mourning her brother. She didn’t know that she would be confined to talking to her brother – no, to a shadow that resembled her brother – once a week. She didn’t know the sister-in-law would always be in earshot, listening with steak knives as she edited the brother’s script, into well, boiled potatoes. And, the sister-in-law achieved that: her husband didn’t go to his father’s funeral; no, he was busy vacationing with his wife and three children. 

It… couldn’t be reimbursed. 

As the sister peeled away the parchment paper from a loaf of banana bread, she wondered what kind of vacation her brother got. Did a corpse wrapped in linen haunt his mind, just as it appeared in her sleep every night? A corpse that could not be brought back to life; a corpse that could not be… reimbursed. 

Yet the sister couldn’t stop blaming herself. Could she have saved her father from his silent misery? She tried by finding him herbs, doctors, anything to cure this disease that society didn’t understand, this disease that her brother didn’t want to hear a word about, this disease that gradually plagued him. Maybe the mother’s melodic voice wasn’t enough to convince her father that there was something more to live for in this world. Of course it wasn’t enough: a bridge needs two ends to stand. 

This thought ripened in her mind, growing into a huge lump and threatening to explode. But then it shrank, as the sister-in-law cleared her throat, “Should we take the family photo now?” The sister glanced away from the table, recoiling at the term – family.  

Yet, the sister used a napkin to wipe the sauce of the sister-in-law’s poorly cooked, half-burnt lasagna off her lips. “Of course. And the lasagna was delicious, thank you.” She plastered a large smile across her face to match that of the sister-in-law’s; it was large enough to mask the real thoughts bubbling inside. The ice continues to crackle.

The sister followed her sister-in-law to the living room; on the floor, the daughter sat criss-crossed and played with dolls – a generous yet expensive gift. The sister-in-law used money to stuff the gaping holes she created in the relationship. Meanwhile, the sister knew that nothing she brought would entertain her nieces and nephews; there was no point in trying to fill a hole that would keep on opening. 

My child will grow up to believe that her aunt loves her. The sister lost sight of what the word meant, but she knew it wasn’t this. As she stood in front of the camera, she wrapped one arm around her young daughter and the other around her husband and feigned an even larger smile. At least she’ll have an idea of what a family should be. Maybe it was better to gently roam atop the ice so that cracks wouldn’t ripple across the surface – so that the ocean wouldn’t rise and wash this illusion of family away.

The ghostly presence of the patriarch and matriarch linger in the shadows of this new photo. The sister could feel their eyes directly on her back, sending chills through her – a reminder that the silent truth also had a place in this boisterous, bubbly photoshoot. 

Everyone wore matching red and black, checkered outfits; perfection. Holiday postcard ready.

No one would know how close the ice was to cracking. But of course, it resealed – forever trapping the ocean beneath.