Again Julia didn't answer, partly because Harriet might be right. She wasn't certain that she was considering her parents' best interests. How could you tell? If you were planning something covert and revolutionary, a coup that would depose them, strip them of their powers— how was that in their best interests? But what if they were already being quietly and invisibly stripped of their powers by something else?
Also, Julia didn't answer because something in her sister's voice was fixed and stony. There seemed hardly any point in answering.
They waited, electronic silence between them, each listening for the other.
When they were children, Julia and Harriet had been close.
In those years they'd shared a bedroom in the house in Villanova. When Julia woke up each morning, the first thing she did was look over at Harriet's bed, to see if she was awake. If she was asleep, Julia whispered Harriet's name in the stillness—“Hattie! Hattie!”—until her sister opened her eyes. Then Julia could start her day. She felt only half-present without Harriet; together they were a partnership. She gauged the world around her according to its effect on her sister— whether she would be frightened by a dog, whether she could reach a water fountain. Their mother had depended on Julia for that: Julia was in charge of her sister. She showed Harriet how to eat an ice-cream cone, licking the drips off the sides before they reached her fingers; she taught Harriet how to button her sweater, from the bottom, to make sure it was even.
For Harriet, her older sister defined the world. It was Julia who taught her the difference between her right hand and her left, how to remember them. She looked at Julia's face to see how she should feel when something happened that confused her. It was Julia who was in charge of everything: their games, their conversations, how they spoke, and what they believed. “Friend-cynthia,” Julia told Harriet, “that's the name of it.” She pointed to the big shrub, with its riotous tangle of yellow flowers. “Friendcynthia.” She said it fast and waited for Harriet to say it after her.
Once Julia told Harriet to stand with her before the long mirror in the front hall. They stood straight, their toes aligned. “That's me in the mirror,” Julia said, pointing to Harriet's small intent face. “That's me, and the person next to me is me.” She waved at their reflections. “They're both me.”
After a moment Harriet asked, “Where am I?”
“You don't show in the mirror yet,” Julia said. “You're too young.”
Harriet didn't exactly believe her sister, but she didn't exactly not believe her. She trusted Julia. Her sister had a large and powerful understanding of the world that Harriet respected. Harriet was her disciple, her dependent.
When Julia went away to boarding school, at fourteen, she moved into another bedroom, and things between the sisters changed. At first Harriet was eager for Julia's visits, but Julia was turning strange. She had entered a new world that she could not share with her younger sister. Julia had become anxious and uncertain of herself, and she turned distant to Harriet. Harriet resented this, and felt abandoned. When Julia came home for vacation, Harriet no longer followed Julia to her room. Harriet went to her own room and shut the door. Julia, when she wanted to see her, had to stand outside and knock. “What do you want?” Harriet answered, instead of “Come in.” Julia was hurt by Harriet's coolness. Distance settled between them, and they no longer depended on each other.
Julia went to Sarah Lawrence and studied art, and Harriet went on to Penn, where she took science and math. Everyone assumed she would go to medical school, but one Christmas Harriet announced her plan to go to veterinary school.
It was before dinner, and Katharine was out in the kitchen, the others in the living room. Julia was on the sofa, Harriet in an armchair. Edward, in his dark elegant suit, stood by the fireplace. It was empty, as usual: the fire was rarely lit, and the house was always cold. It was healthier, cold, Edward said. This embarrassed his children: their friends complained, and asked why their house wasn't heated.
Harriet sat very straight to tell him. “I don't want to be a doctor,” she told Edward.
It was a shock to Julia; she felt a sharp pang of betrayal. How could her sister not have told her something so important?
“I see,” Edward said. “What do you want to be?”
“A veterinarian,” Harriet said boldly.
This was treason. Julia looked at Edward.
“A veterinarian?” Edward repeated, frowning. There was a pause. “Why would you rather treat animals than humans?”
“Because I'm really interested in them,” Harriet said. “It's an interesting field.”
Edward shook his head. “Not as interesting as human medicine.”
“In your opinion,” Harriet said.
Edward tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“It's a very interesting field,” Harriet said, losing her nerve. “Animal medicine. There's a lot going on in it.”
“It's a lowering of standards,” Edward informed her. “It's a disgrace.”
“It's hardly a disgrace. It's actually extremely difficult to get into Penn Veterinary School,” Harriet said, her voice rising. “It's one of the best schools in the country.”
“Regardless,” Edward said dismissively. “It's a lesser endeavor.”
Katharine, sensing trouble, came in from the kitchen. She looked at their faces. “What is it?” she asked.
“Daddy thinks I'm a disgrace to the family,” Harriet said.
“What is it?” Katharine asked again. “What's the matter?”
“I'm going to veterinary school,” said Harriet. “I'm going to be removed from the family tree.”
“Edward,” Katharine said, distraught.
Edward shrugged his shoulders, as though he had nothing to do with this. “Anyone who can get into a good medical school should go,” he said. “You have a responsibility to the world. You should use the talents you were given.”
“Who are you to decide that?” Harriet asked.
Julia drew in her breath.
“Don't be rude,” Katharine begged.
“Who I am is head of neurosurgery at Jefferson Hospital,” Edward said coldly, “though I don't think I have to tell you that.”
“No, I mean who appointed you to decide the hierarchy of human endeavor?” Harriet leaned back in the big armchair as if flattened there by the wind.
“I don't need to justify myself to you,” Edward said. “Looking after animals is a lesser endeavor, just as animals are lesser creatures than human beings. I don't have to tell you that.”
“You sound like someone from the Middle Ages,” Harriet told him. “And what I'm doing is not a disgrace.”
“Harriet—” said Katharine, anguished.
“Did your grades drop?” asked Edward. “Is that what happened?”
“My grades did not drop, Daddy,” Harriet said. “I have a 3.9 average. The last two years, a 4.0. I happen to want to treat animals. I think they're really interesting, and I think the science is interesting. I like animals, and I like being around them. I respect them, which is more than you can say about your patients.”
Edward drew breath, but Harriet went on.
“Why can't I decide what it is I want to do?” she asked. “And why are you such a snob?”
“Please,” Katharine said, desperate. She was shaking her head back and forth. “Please stop this. Just stop it, both of you.”
Edward