Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  The more hysterical Maggie is, the calmer Sylvie becomes, fighting irritation at how spoiled Maggie sounds.

  “Maggie, I have no idea what your situation is, but my advice to you is start figuring it out. I’ve spent days sifting through every piece of paper I can find. You need to go to every bank you know you have accounts with and talk to all the credit cards so you have an accurate picture. You may be fine.” She doubts this, but doesn’t want to bring Maggie back to the edge of hysteria.

  “As for working, most people do. I’ve worked most of my life, and even though Mark didn’t want me to have a full-time job, hard work doesn’t scare me, and it shouldn’t scare you. As mothers, we do what we have to do to look after our children. I may not be able to have the life I have had for the last eleven years—”

  There is a sharp intake of breath. “Eleven years? That was when you got married?”

  Sylvie pauses. “You didn’t know?”

  “I … I didn’t realize.” Her voice sinks. “How do you hide something like that for eleven years? How did he get away with it?”

  “Because we let him,” Sylvie offers simply. “I wanted to believe him, so I turned the other cheek even when his excuses were so implausible, they had to be lies.”

  “And I was too self-obsessed to notice.” Maggie’s voice is a whisper as Sylvie unexpectedly feels a pang of sympathy at what the other woman must be going through.

  28

  Maggie

  Shock doesn’t hit all at once, I have learned. You discover something so awful, so life-changing, the only way you can cope is to jump straight into denial.

  It hits you; you stop believing it, start to explain it; then it hits you again. You start to justify, look for reasons why; you look around, at everything you have built, everything you love, everything that defines you, and you realize that nothing, nothing, is what it seems.

  That’s when you throw up, or faint, or sit on the floor, numb with shock, with your arms hugging your knees, tucked in a dark corner for hours and hours.

  At some point, I go into Grace’s room. I am being a terrible mother. I should be there for Grace, but I haven’t got it in me. I walk in to find Grace curled up on her bed, Chris sitting next to her, one hand resting on her back as he reads her A Little Princess, her favorite book when she was small.

  I start walking over, thinking I should be the one to comfort her, hesitating when she opens her eyes and then narrows them as she looks at me.

  “Where is he?” she spits, her voice cold.

  “Who?”

  “Your husband,” she says.

  “I don’t know.” I have no idea why she seems so angry with me. “I’ve left messages. I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m trying to find out. Maybe there’s an explanation.”

  “Yes. I already know what it is.” Her voice is flat. “You drove him to it.”

  I gasp.

  “You know you did,” she continues, hatred spewing from her voice. “You’re so mean to him all the time, always shouting at him, at all of us, always wanting everything to be perfect. No wonder he went looking for another woman. You know how Eve described her mom? Laid-back. Laid-back!” Her words rise to a scream as they pierce my heart like a knife.

  “She said her mom was easygoing. He couldn’t wait to get away from you because you’re such a fucking control freak, and now you’ve ruined all our lives.”

  “Grace, stop,” Chris implores. “We don’t know anything yet.”

  “Yes, we do.” She turns on him. “We know that we spend our lives walking on broken glass in case we do anything to upset her, but Dad found a way out. I don’t blame him. I wish I could find another mom.”

  I back out of the room then. I don’t want her to see the tears running down my cheeks. I don’t want her to see me curl up myself, on the floor of the bathroom, with the door locked, groaning with pain as I rock back and forth, wondering just how much pain a person is able to withstand.

  * * *

  Later, I sit numbly at the kitchen table as Lara stirs tea bags into hot water, carrying the mugs over to the table and gently sliding one in front of me, adding the honey I would usually add myself, for I seem to be incapable of doing anything.

  “Do I call the police?” I raise my eyes to hers. “A lawyer? I don’t know what to do. She said she’s going to call the police.”

  “She? Oh. The other wife.”

  “Her name is Sylvie.” I stir the honey in, watch it dissolve as the liquid moves in lazy circles around the mug. “She seems much stronger than me.”

  I haven’t stopped thinking about my phone call with her yesterday. Before I spoke to her, I had imagined her as some seductive, omnipotent, evil bitch. I hadn’t expected her to be another woman in pain. I hadn’t expected to hear the humanity in her voice.

  She didn’t ask about my life with Mark, but I told her anyway. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I needed her to hear. Whether she knew about me or not, I needed her to hear, needed perhaps to validate myself, my life, my children’s lives.

  I have three children, I told her. Chris Hathaway, Grace Hathaway, and Buck Hathaway. I have been married to Mark Hathaway for twenty-five years.

  He is a natural athlete, was a hockey player at college, but now prefers tennis or golf. He hates lace-up shoes unless they’re sneakers, won’t eat fish unless it’s salmon, and his favorite movie of the last few years is Old School. And he loves the Rolling Stones.

  My husband. My love. My voice had completely broken by the time I finished speaking. There’s more to say, so much more. I wanted to tell her what a wonderful father he is, how he looks when he’s moving inside me, how irritated I get when he comes up behind me, grabbing my butt, and how he always thinks it’s funny.

  I wanted to tell her how he proposed. At his dad’s sailing club in Kennebunkport, after a drunken evening with his dad, trying to keep a low profile, which was hard, given how well known his dad was; Mark and I sneaking outside to the deck for a cigarette; Mark producing his grandmother’s ring, proving he had planned this in advance, taking my breath away as he solemnly, drunkenly, fell onto one knee.

  I wanted to tell her what a great husband he is. How he does all the shopping, ferries the kids around to everything when he’s home, can fix pretty much anything in the house.

  I wanted to tell her how sick I feel that I am describing a man who sounds perfect, and who was anything but. And my disgust that I was describing a man I hadn’t noticed in years. I hadn’t seen him. I was too busy climbing the social ladder to care about Mark.

  But mostly I am sick because in remembering the good, I think of what Grace had screamed at me, what I have always known to be true.

  I don’t deserve him. I never did.

  I am not good enough.

  29

  Maggie

  The doorbell rings. I ignore it, muting the television set just in case Kelly Ripa’s voice drifts out the window to the driveway, letting the intruders know I’m home.

  This morning the reality hit me all over again, the shame, the fear. And I was right back to square one, to wanting to stay in bed and hide for the rest of my life.

  The doorbell forces me up, to furtively peer through the shutters in the bathroom. A black Range Rover in the driveway, a blonde in tennis whites climbing back in and driving off, doubtless having left something on the doorstep.

  I can’t get out of bed. I haven’t heard from Mark. I’ve left countless messages, from the relatively sane “let’s talk about this” kind of message to the late-night, sobbing, “how could you do this to your children, how could you do this to me?” kind of message.

  I go into the bathroom, and as my eye falls on Mark’s shaving kit, tucked in the corner, grief crumples my face again, so I hold on to the counter for support. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.

  I’m not sure which is worse. Losing Mark, or losing my life.

  I’m not sure it matters anymore.


  * * *

  There is a smell in the bathroom, and it takes me a little while to realize it’s me. Days of lying in bed, not showering, not brushing my teeth, lead to me wrinkling my nose in disgust as I pull my nightgown over my head, pausing to examine myself in the mirror. Am I really so flawed, so awful, so inadequate that my husband needed to find someone else?

  I turn to the side, cupping the potbelly I can’t get rid of, no matter how hard I work out, how many juicing, aka cleansing, aka starvation diets I do. Other than that, my body is honed at the gym, sculpted at Pilates; my hair cut, highlighted, and blown out regularly.

  Botox keeps the frown lines at bay, Perlane giving me back the cheekbones I never had. I like to think I look young for my age, rather than someone who has had work done, but all the girls I know have the same treatments I do, think the same thing, and I look at them and know exactly what fillers they’ve used. And where.

  My face doesn’t look so good today. Not eating for just a few days has given me a gaunt, wild-eyed look. My hair is stringy and greasy, a big zit forming just below my hairline.

  I step back and cup my breasts, holding them up, restoring gravity. Is it this that Mark wanted? Is it that I am not particularly interested in sex? Of course, I was once, when we first met. Before we were married, we were wild, but somehow I became less and less interested once I had walked down the aisle.

  Then came Chris, the others. Neither Mark nor I had the energy to pretend, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep to the dulcet sounds of the television set.

  Mark was always exhausted from traveling. Isn’t this what happens to all married couples after a while? No one in this town is having sex. Not with their husbands, at any rate.

  I have friends who have indulged in discreet dalliances, but if I’m not going to have sex with Mark, I’m certainly not going to have sex with anyone else, and not—as others I’m not going to mention have done—with the trainer or the landscaper or—heaven forbid—the contractor. Why on earth would I risk all this to end up right back where I started?

  When was the last time Mark and I made love? A month ago? Two? The night of Grace’s play, I think.

  Oh, God. Was it really January? Months ago! Mark instigated, as always. It was quick, and nice, as always. We ended with a peck; I rolled over to sleep as Mark went downstairs to work. As always.

  I wonder how often he and Sylvie made love. I wonder if he was as uninterested in her as he was in me. Did he use the same moves? Was she better than me? More active? Did she do things to him I would not do?

  I won’t think about this now. I can’t. It is all I can do to deal with the enormity of the impending change: what it means for me; what it means for the children. They are creeping around the house as if they are frightened of me.

  Except Grace, who is hardly ever here. She is staying with various friends, which I would normally disallow on school nights, but I haven’t got the energy for her hatred, her disdain, her pain.

  I turn the shower on and crawl back into bed to wait for the water to heat up, when my bedroom door opens. Startled, I grab the covers and pull them up, terrified one of the Range Rover ladies has infiltrated the house, will see me like this, will report the godawful mess I’m in.

  It’s Grace. I sink back, relieved, before wondering why she isn’t at school. “What time is it? Why are you home?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel well.”

  I attempt to sit up, to sound as authoritarian as I did before my world fell apart, and I peer at her closely. There is something strange about her. Something off. “Grace? Have you been … drinking?”

  “God no!” she spits. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m sorry. You just look … odd.”

  “I told you. I don’t feel well.”

  “Maybe have a little rest for an hour or so, then I’ll take you in to school? I know life is really hard right now, but this is your final year, and it’s important. Please don’t screw it up because of this.”

  She gives me a withering look. “You’re not exactly the best person to be giving me that advice,” she says.

  “I know, but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I don’t want you to ruin it.”

  “It’s already ruined,” Grace says, the pain in her eyes apparent.

  “Oh, sweetie.” I pat the bed, longing to put my arms around her and make it better. “This is horrible. I wish I could make it better, but I can’t. We just have to support one another and do the best we can.”

  Grace doesn’t make a move from the doorway. “Support one another?” She snaps a sarcastic bark. “You haven’t been out of bed in six days. You missed my chorus recital and horse show. Thank God people have been dropping off food, because you’re nowhere to be seen. Jesus, Mom. This isn’t all about you. We’ve lost our father, and right now we have no one who’s there for us.”

  “I’m trying.” My voice cracks. “I’m trying to be there for you. I want you to talk to me about it. I want to help you.… I just … don’t know what to do.” I start crying for real.

  “But you don’t want to help!” Grace shouts. “You just lie in bed all day doing nothing. I wouldn’t want to talk to you about it anyway, because it’s all your fault! Dad wouldn’t have left us if you weren’t so controlling. I understand why he’s gone. I hate living here with you. The only thing that ever made it bearable was Dad being here. I hate you!” she yells. “You’ve ruined my life!” And she runs out the room, slamming the door.

  How do I reach her? How do I help her? Help any of my kids when I know what they’re saying is true? When I can’t even get out of bed to look after them? Not only was I a terrible wife, but I’m a terrible mother too. She’s right.

  I lie, numb, staring at the ceiling, listening to the shower in the bathroom run and run, and I honestly have no idea what to do, how to handle this life on my own.

  Or whether I want to handle this life at all.

  * * *

  I’ll admit it. I lie in bed, thinking about suicide. I can’t see the point anymore; I don’t care about anything anymore. I could do pills. Or slash my wrists. Part of me knows I would never do it, but there is another part that needs to try this on. How would the children be? Would they even care? And Mark. What sweet revenge would that be for him to have to carry that for the rest of his life.

  I am brought out of my sick, twisted thoughts and back to my senses by Buck. Lovely, sweet Buck, so young yet so perceptive, so loving, so good.

  I hear him come in and shout hello, knocking gently on the bedroom door five minutes later with a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies.

  “I thought you might like this, Mom.” He leans forward, kissing my cheek as I gaze at him with tenderness.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper as my eyes brim over. “I’m sorry I’m being so pathetic. I just haven’t been feeling well.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It will be okay with Grace too. She’s just hurting. You know what a daddy’s girl she is, and she can’t deal with him just disappearing.”

  “How about you?”

  Buck shrugs and looks away.

  I know he’s in pain, but he won’t tell me. Not yet.

  “I’m okay. If I stay busy, it keeps my mind off it a bit. You should do that, Mom. You should really get up and get busy. I swear it works. Not permanently, but for a bit. Until someone reminds you.”

  “You’re right.” I sit up and sip the coffee, although my stomach can’t handle the cookies. “Busy. I need to get busy.” I smile, mulling over the last part of his sentence. “Buck, when you say until someone reminds you, have people said anything to you at school?”

  He shifts uncomfortably as he gives another small shrug.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Not much. Just they heard my dad has another wife and life in California. A couple of people asked if it was true my dad was a con man.”

  I groan. No wonder Grace is staying at home. Kids can be so cruel. They have no idea of t
he impact of their words. Everyone talks about bullying, feels they are so cognizant of the dangers, yet all it takes is one unconscious comment, one observation that trips off the tongue to destroy a child’s self-esteem for years.

  There was a case of Facebook bullying last year at school. Even the kids admitted, at the time, that their dad had been right about Facebook. It is why he has always insisted the children stay away—a lack of privacy, and the power of the written word, so often written without thought, care, or concern of its impact.

  “Is that what people think?” I persist. “That he’s a con man?”

  “Just a few. They said we’d have to sell this house and end up with nothing.”

  “What?” I am now spitting with anger. “Who said this? I want to know who’s saying these things.”

  “I don’t even know their names,” Buck lies. “Just kids in another homeroom.” He looks up at me, a hint of fear in his eyes. “Is it true?”

  “No!” I state firmly. “We know Dad has disappeared, and we know he has other people he cares about on the other coast, but none of the other stuff is true. We’re not selling the house, and he is absolutely not a con man. And he loves you, Buck. Even if he leaves me, he’s not leaving you. I promise.”

  Buck nods even though he doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me. I don’t know what to believe, but I want to protect these children as best I can, and however much he has betrayed us, he is still their father and they need him.

  “You want me to make my lasagna tonight?” I ask as Buck grins and nods his head vigorously. “Tell you what. Get Chris to drive into town and pick up ground beef and mozzarella, and I’ll cook. I’ll even get out of bed and eat with you.” I ruffle his hair before pulling him close for a hug. “I love you, Buck.”

  “I love you too,” he mumbles, getting up and turning just as he reaches the bedroom door. “And, Mom? Could you maybe shower before coming down for dinner?”

  * * *

  I have just stepped out of the shower when the phone rings. I wait for one of the children to get it, but when I peer at the number, I see UNKNOWN, which could be Mark.