Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  “Grace,” I manage, my own voice on the verge of hysteria, no longer caring that everyone I ever cared about impressing is now standing in my garden watching me in astonished, mesmerized silence. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s Dad,” she sobs, collapsing on her knees on the grass, dissolving into tears. “He has another family.”

  No accident. No one is dead. I have no idea what she is talking about. I have no idea what those words mean. I blink.

  “Mom!” she cries, her voice that of a little girl, filled with pain. “Those times he’s in California on business? He isn’t. He’s with his other wife. And daughter. I met her. She was here.”

  “Grace, you’ve made a mistake,” I say slowly, for this is not happening. This cannot be happening. My daughter is clearly having some kind of a nervous breakdown, or trying to humiliate me in front of everyone I know.

  “Grace.” My voice is now steely. I will not let this happen. Someone, anyone, get my daughter out of here. “I have no idea what is happening to you, but get inside now. We will deal with whatever game you’re playing later.”

  “It’s not a game!” she shrieks, and her eyes are filled with pain, and I have to give her credit: If there were Oscars for amateur acting, she’d be deserving. “Eve. My friend. She was here. She recognized him. He’s her father.”

  I stand there, blinking. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “This is clearly a mistake.” I attempt a gracious laugh as I look around the gathered circle of fascinated, shocked women. “Will you please excuse me while I try to find out what’s going on,” and as I attempt to walk across the grass, I find my legs are shaking, and I am suddenly just a little bit numb to everything.

  23

  Sylvie

  Of late, Eve has become secretive, locking her bedroom door, demanding privacy. Sylvie hasn’t ventured into Eve’s bedroom for a while, but Eve is in New York for the weekend, must surely be having a good time or she would have heard from her, and Sylvie can use the time to sort out her room.

  Perhaps find out why her daughter is changing so drastically before her eyes, but that isn’t a conscious thought, at least not one she will recognize.

  Thank God she doesn’t have what so many of the other mothers of teenage girls have. When they report finding bowls filled with mold under the bed, Sylvie breathes a sigh of relief. Eve is organized and tidy, even does her own laundry. She can’t bear mess of any kind.

  Her room smells permanently of lavender, thanks to an organic room spray she keeps both next to her bed and in the bathroom, which she uses somewhat obsessively.

  In the old days, Sylvie and Eve would go through her closet together, deciding what should stay, what should go, what could be gifted to friends. While risky to do this without Eve, Sylvie is fairly certain she can pull out the clothes Eve no longer wears.

  But as soon as she opens the closet door, she finds herself unable to move, sadness sweeping over her. Here are all the beautiful clothes Eve can no longer wear. The cute white pants, the embroidered skirt, the lilac dress she wore to prom, all of which are now huge on her.

  Eve was able to wear most until recently, cinching the waists in tighter and tighter, until even she had to concede the impossibility of the situation. Lately she has been living in leggings and layers of clothing to keep her warm.

  Sylvie reaches for a pair of TOMS that are almost worn through, pulling out the shoe boxes they’re resting on. They should be empty, but something is in there. She opens the lid to find it stuffed with empty food wrappers. All the shoe boxes are filled with empty food wrappers. Oreos. Twixes. Empty cake boxes pulled apart and flattened. Cheetos. Doritos. Nutella. Chip bags. Family packs of chocolate.

  Enough food to satisfy a family of many for a very long time.

  It is exactly what Sylvie has been dreading. Eve cannot be as painfully thin as she is unless she is throwing up all this food she is eating.

  The evidence can no longer be ignored. Eve is bulimic. Anorexic. Both, maybe. Either way, this is a fully fledged eating disorder. They can’t wait for Eve to grow out of it, can’t bury their heads in the sand any longer.

  Eve may not agree, but she no longer has a choice. Sylvie gets her cell and pulls up a number she had programmed in a few weeks previously. UC San Diego’s Eating Disorders Center for Treatment and Research.

  “Hello,” she says. “My name’s Sylvie Haydn. I think my daughter has an eating disorder, and I’d like to make an appointment to bring her in. Yes. Tuesday would be great.”

  * * *

  Making the appointment doesn’t make her feel better. She sorts out the rest of Eve’s closet, terrified of what else she may find, relieved there is nothing. Her mind is whirring, though, and she recognizes she needs to do something to calm herself down.

  Yoga. Remembering how much yoga calmed her down on vacation, Sylvie googles “Prana Yoga,” for she has heard good things about the studio. There is a class in thirty minutes, and somewhere in the coat closet downstairs is a yoga mat.

  Prana is offering a one-week Intro Special of thirty dollars, which is perfect. This is exactly what she needs.

  * * *

  Sylvie tries not to worry about Eve as she drives over to Prana. She breathes in deeply through her nose, jumping sharply as her cell snaps her back to reality. She pulls over to the side, hoping it’s Mark, who has gone AWOL.

  It is not Mark. It is Clothilde. Hiccuping.

  “Hi, Mom. Are you okay? Do you have the hiccups?”

  “Obviously I do. Where are you?”

  “On my way to a yoga class. Do you need something?”

  “I feel sick.” Sylvie is dismayed to hear Clothilde slurring ever so slightly. She isn’t supposed to have alcohol, but various caregivers have been persuaded to sneak her in a bottle of good wine.

  “Have you been drinking, Mom?”

  Clothilde doesn’t answer. “They’re ignoring me,” she says.

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll come over after my class.”

  The phone goes dead as Sylvie shakes her head. No good-bye, no thank you, no appreciation. But there never is, she tells herself. It’s not her fault. She is the way she is. The problem lies with Sylvie expecting anything different.

  At least, she realizes, parking the car close to the yoga place, Clothilde’s call managed to take her mind off a daughter with an eating disorder and a husband who has disappeared.

  * * *

  The calming energy washes over Sylvie as she turns to look at the women walking in, exchanging smiles as they walk past her, lithe and toned, exuding serenity.

  “I’m sorry.” The long-haired girl behind the desk hands her credit card back with a sympathetic grimace. “It’s denied.”

  Sylvie frowns. “Can you try it again?”

  She does, with the same result.

  Mark cut up the other credit card the other day when he was home. He was consolidating, said they would no longer use the Visa, but the Amex should be fine. She checks the card, suddenly wondering if she had given the girl the Visa by mistake, but there was no mistake.

  “My husband must have forgotten to pay.” She cannot hide her dismay. This is not the first time this has happened. As busy as Mark is, paying bills is crucial. Sylvie has offered to take on this responsibility, to ease Mark’s pressures, but he won’t hear of it.

  Sylvie hands over thirty dollars in cash, noting that she is down to forty-three dollars. Lately she has tried to carry cash, for precisely this reason—if Mark is late paying a bill, she doesn’t want to have to get caught short.

  With ten minutes to go until the class starts, Sylvie sets up her mat before quickly texting Mark.

  Again.

  Where are you? Am getting worried. And PAY AMEX BILL. Got denied again. I love you but call me! Xxx

  Driving over to her mother’s, still in her yoga gear, no makeup, which her mother will hate, Sylvie does feel much better.

  The undercurrent of anxiety over her husband’
s whereabouts is still there, and her fear for Eve, but she thinks of the yoga teacher telling them to focus on their breath, on the present, on the current moment.

  Perhaps she is finally on her way to becoming a yogi after all. She hates all the Sun Salutations, but the end, the Shavasana, lying on her back and focusing on her breath, relaxing her entire body? She could have stayed there all day.

  Driving back home, she finds herself appreciating everything around her in a way she certainly didn’t on the way out. Look how beautiful the trees are, the bright blue sky with just a few puffy clouds lazily floating along. How lucky is she to live here, to have this life, to have Eve, to be married to a man she adores.

  This state of calm is not something she has experienced often of late, and she’s determined to enjoy it for as long as she can, because God knows it’s going to be over as soon as she arrives at Clothilde’s.

  * * *

  The home is a bustle of activity. The director is in the lobby as Sylvie walks in, waving her over as she moves to the elevator.

  “She’s already on her way,” she explains breathlessly.

  Sylvie looks at her blankly. “What?”

  “The ambulance left a few minutes ago.”

  Sinking. “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t get our messages? Oh, Mrs. Haydn. I’m so sorry. It’s your mother. She appears to have had a stroke. They’re rushing her in to Scripps…”

  Sylvie has already turned and is running back to her car, too ashamed, too guilty to look that woman in the eye. She knew something was wrong, but her goddamned yoga class was more important.

  She knew something was wrong, but she put herself first.

  She is just as self-centered, as self-absorbed, as selfish as her mother always said.

  24

  Maggie

  As I enter the kitchen, still shaky, I turn to look out the window to see everyone who matters in this town standing outside in small clusters, whispering about me. Instantly I realize that unless I want to find myself a social outcast, I had better get myself back out there quickly and repair the damage my daughter has done.

  I have no idea why she said what she said, other than the teenage emotional hell I keep reading about, that I have always prided myself on not having yet experienced.

  I consider calling Mark, who had to leave early this morning for the airport, but dismiss the thought. There will be time to deal with all of it later. Now I need to call on every ounce of grace I can find and smooth this over as best I can.

  I take a deep breath, picture Jackie Kennedy, and glide outside, ignoring the descending hush, a smile on my face.

  “I have no idea what my daughter’s talking about.” My voice is a tinkle of nonchalant laughter. “Teenagers!” I roll my eyes. “Such drama! Some television show, I’m sure. More champagne, anyone?”

  No one can accuse me of not being the consummate hostess.

  There is not, as I had hoped, a babble of conversation, a sigh of relief. Instead I see glances of sympathy as women come to say good-bye, gathering me in their arms, many women I barely know.

  They hug me tight and whisper things like, “You’re going to be fine,” and “You’re so strong,” and each time I pull back and reassure them, “Grace has been under so much stress. She’s a straight-A student, but I think it’s been hard.”

  I perform beautifully.

  Kim comes up and embraces me so tightly, I have a mouthful of feathers. It’s only when I start to cough that she releases me.

  “Poor Grace,” she says. “I do hope it’s not the beginning of a nervous breakdown. What a terrible shame for the tea this year.”

  I could stop her, contradict her, but suddenly I am terribly tired, and being away from everyone is the only thing that starts to make sense.

  * * *

  Grace can’t stop crying, and I want to comfort her, but I can’t. We have been over and over this, and each time, her story doesn’t change—this girl, Eve, picked up a photograph of Mark and turned white, saying Mark was her father.

  Mark is not here to fill in the missing links. None of which make any sense, except that it is no longer feeling like teen drama, but like something that could be real, something that could be so terrifying, my mind is refusing even to fully contemplate it.

  Thank heavens Lara is here. She is the one who manages to comfort Grace, who then slips a glass filled with whiskey into my hand, whispering that she “couldn’t find any brandy.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I hate both.” I drain the glass, grimacing as I set it down. “Thanks.”

  “Grace,” Lara says gently. “Why don’t you tell us again.”

  And she does.

  * * *

  When she has finished, I am calm. What proof does this girl have? It doesn’t make sense. What makes sense is that she saw Grace’s life, her home, her lifestyle, and she was jealous. I have no idea why she made up this terrible lie, but it is so clearly a lie.

  “It’s not true,” I say confidently. “You said she was overwhelmed by this house? It sounds like some fantasy this poor girl cooked up when she saw how we live. I hate to say it, and I don’t mean this condescendingly, but it sounds like she was jealous and was looking to hurt you.”

  “I was there, Mom!” Grace bursts out. “She wasn’t lying. She was as shocked as I was. She wasn’t making it up, Mom. I believe her.”

  “That’s your choice, Grace,” I say. “But I don’t, I’m afraid.” I am suddenly furious that Grace believed some hick from California, ruined my reputation because of some ridiculous jealous child. I start to shake with rage. “Good God, Grace. That you interrupted my tea, and exposed this ridiculous lie to all the women in town? That, Grace, is unforgivable.” I am more furious by the minute.

  “You embarrassed me in front of all the women I know because of a fantasy some girl cooked up? I don’t even know what to say. I am sick at what you did.”

  “What I did?” Grace shouts. “All you care about is your image! You think this is so unrealistic? You think this couldn’t happen to your perfect life? So where is he when he’s not here? How come days go by when none of us can get hold of him? And all you care about is how you look in front of the stupid women in this stupid town. You make me sick!”

  “Grace Elizabeth Rose!” I storm. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. You are grounded!”

  “You can’t do anything!” she shouts as she storms out, pausing only to shout over her shoulder, “And you’re the one who’s going to look stupid, not me!”

  * * *

  I try to laugh it off to Lara, with an “oh, teenagers” mumble, but Lara just looks at me with more sympathy than I am comfortable with right now.

  My voice comes out in a whisper. “Do you think it might be true?” I can’t even conceive of the full horror of that.

  She shakes her head. “Absolutely not,” she says. “Mark? No way. I think you’re right. This girl was clearly jealous and wanted to try to hit Grace where it would hurt.

  “Honestly, Maggie? There’s no way Mark would do that. How could he, anyway? It’s not like you don’t know where he is.” She laughs as I look away, thinking of all the times I call his number and there’s no reply.

  All the times he’s traveling and I never gave it a second thought. So he has an office in California. Everyone here has a husband who travels, or has an office elsewhere, or stays in the city Monday to Thursday. We know some of the husbands are sleeping with other women on their away days, but we’re pretty sure we know who those husbands are.

  Not Mark. Mark isn’t one of those. Mark isn’t one of the husbands who drinks too much at the Christmas parties and flirts with my friends. He hasn’t ever been caught drunkenly making out with someone’s wife in the backyard.

  When Mark’s in California, he’s working. Having early nights.

  Unless he isn’t. But if he isn’t, what does that mean? I look around at this beautiful life I have created, we’ve created, and I look back
at Lara for validation. “You’re sure Mark isn’t doing anything?”

  “Why don’t you call him?” she says. “I think this is something between the two of you, and you need him to reassure you, not me.”

  I groan. “I can’t believe this happened today. In front of everyone.”

  “They’ll get over it,” she lies. “We always think everyone’s talking about us, but frankly, we’re all too busy.”

  I give her a stony-faced look and she shrugs.

  “Okay, okay. So everyone will be talking about it, but so what? Who cares what anyone else thinks? Those of us with teenage girls are well aware of the histrionics and drama—you’ll be able to pass this off easily.”

  There is a long pause. “Not if it’s true.” My heart leaps into my mouth at the thought.

  “No. Not if it’s true. But it’s not. Go on, call him.”

  “I’ll call when you’ve gone,” I say, for I do not want Lara, even Lara, to know that I have not been able to get hold of Mark in days.

  I do not want Lara, even Lara, to know that despite her soothing words of wisdom, despite my own explanations—as reasonable as they sound to my own ears—I am terrified, utterly terrified, that Grace may be right.

  25

  Sylvie

  Bare-faced, eyes closed, tiny in her vulnerability, Clothilde lies hooked up to an assortment of wires, monitors, IVs, as Sylvie stares at the blankets, her mother’s hand resting in her own while she sits in a chair pulled up close to the side of the bed.

  The doctors have talked to her in hushed voices. Explained that Clothilde has had a massive stroke, suspecting her high cholesterol had led to a blood clot in her heart traveling up to her brain.

  They tell her it’s a waiting game. They can do CT scans when the edema, the swelling, subsides. If the swelling subsides.

  They can make no predictions until that happens, leaving Sylvie sitting quietly in the ICU, holding her mother’s hand, wishing she had turned up earlier. She has been reassured it wouldn’t have made a difference—Clothilde was having the stroke when she called Sylvie; even if Sylvie had gone straight there, in the twenty minutes it would have taken her, the outcome would have been the same.