Die for You by Lisa Unger

“My face is what I give to the world. Look closely and you’ll see what the world has given to me.” Of course, it was perfect. Isabel was always pitch perfect whenever she put word to paper.
    In Linda’s memory, they seemed very young that afternoon, so excited by Linda’s upcoming show, the publication of Izzy’s first novel right around the corner. They thought, as they always had really, that the world belonged to them. They’d never been called upon to think of themselves any other way. Even the grim tragedy that marked their late childhood hadn’t changed that idea very much.
    Linda walked away from the window and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Wretched. She’d never been happy with her body (too small at the chest, too wide at the hips) but she’d always liked her face. She’d always been satisfied with her easy prettiness, good skin, well-formed features, shining blue eyes. Recently, though, deeper lines had started to make their debut around her eyes and mouth. Lack of sleep and too much stress were causing her to look haggard and worn out. Even her silky blond hair seemed drier, was losing some of that estrogenic glow. She put her hands to either side of her face and pulled the skin taut to simulate a bad face-lift and made herself laugh.
    She’d never thought of herself as vain, but she supposed there were things she’d taken for granted about her looks. And now that those things were fading, she realized that she was very vain indeed. She noticed things about Izzy—her slim middle, the youthful fullness of her face, the smooth skin around her eyes—and it seemed to Linda that there was suddenly a big difference in the way they looked. They’d always been opposites in their coloring, Linda favoring their mother, Isabel their father. But they’d been equal in the timbre and volume of their beauty. Their father’s favorite proud refrain: “The Connelly sisters are lovely and smart.” There wasn’t a brighter one or a prettier one. Linda and Isabel had never felt the urge to compete with each other in those arenas.
    Linda would not have believed that two kids and five years could make such a difference in her appearance. But then again, she’d never even thought about her age until recently. Lately, she’d realized that the softness at her belly would not be dissolved by exercise or no-carb torture. There was a sinking to her face that would not be improved without surgery or injections. But she’d always imagined herself as having too much character to succumb to surgical beauty treatments. She couldn’t see herself as one of those vain, awful women who cared more about the lines on their foreheads than about their children, who thought that looking young (not that they looked younger, exactly, just altered) meant a reprieve from the disappointment gnawing at the edges of their lives. How much energy that must take, to fight that losing battle. She was an artist; she’d age with character and grace.
    Not that any of it mattered, not really. It was just one in a legion of dark little thoughts, mental gremlins, that could nip and gnaw at her sense of well-being if they were allowed.
    Of course, there were bigger problems than her fading youth. How selfish was she to be thinking about such stupid things when Isabel’s life was falling apart? Linda broke away from her reflection, slipped back into bed, and pulled the heavy mass of blankets and comforter around her. She wanted to avoid the day for just a few more minutes, avoid her missing brother-in-law and the fact that her injured sister had just raced into the fray. Normally, she’d be frantic. But for some reason, she just felt drained by the whole matter, as though she’d awakened covered by a blanket of snow. A kind of emotional hypothermia had set in, stiffened her joints, robbed her of energy.
    When she received the call yesterday and raced to the hospital, saw her sister pale and unmoving on the