Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  Yet Lara continued to call for a good couple of months after I left, until presumably the message, couched in my unresponsive silence, could no longer be ignored.

  “How are you, Lara?”

  “It is so good to hear your voice, Maggie!” Lara says, her voice attempting to envelop me in warmth, in the way she used to. “We have missed you!”

  I pause. “Thank you.” How could I say I miss them too? My memories of my old life have been so tainted, it has been hard to remember the good, the times before, when life seemed, in a different way, simple, if only because of everything I didn’t know.

  “I cannot believe you’re still on the same number and I got you! Everyone talks about you all the time—wonderful things—and we’ve all been worried about you, especially when no one could get hold of you. Is it true you’re living in the country somewhere? Essex?”

  I lower myself on the chair, looking around at the trees. “Close. Old Saybrook,” I say. “I guess it is country.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. The girls and I were talking just the other day about how we need a break, a great girls’ weekend somewhere, and of course we got to remembering our old girls’ weekends with you, and Casey and I thought, let’s come and see you! A girls’ weekend! Wouldn’t that be fun? It will be just like old times.”

  This is the very last thing I want to do. I remember, so clearly, hearing Lara’s voice in my house, introducing herself as Kim so I wouldn’t know of her betrayal. How can I pretend that never happened? How can I forgive and forget, and what would we possibly have in common now?

  “Maggie? Are you there?”

  “Sorry. Yes. Bad connection.”

  “There’s something else,” Lara says quickly, her voice now serious. “I wanted to say this in person, but if I don’t say it now, I won’t get to see you in person and I won’t be able to tell you. Maggie, you were a good friend to me, and I treated you horribly.”

  I wait. Silently.

  “I’ve been carrying this around for two years, and I kept trying to call to tell you, to apologize, but you wouldn’t return my calls, and then these awful people just moved into your old house, and it got me thinking about all the good times we had there, and I knew I had to call. I bought your things, Maggie. Not Kim. It was me. I bought your purses, and your jewelry, and I talked the woman into accepting much less than they were worth, and I never told you.”

  “Why? Why would you do such a thing.”

  Lara takes a deep breath. “I’m so ashamed. No one ever knew this, but Steve had been unemployed for almost a year. He’d given me this crazy budget, and I hadn’t been able to buy anything, and I just went a bit nuts when I knew all your beautiful things were going to be sold. If it helps,” she adds miserably, “I haven’t worn anything, or used any of the bags. I couldn’t. Every time I even look at them, I’m filled with shame. And then you didn’t return my calls, and I thought you knew, and I tried to just let it go, but I couldn’t. And I miss you, Maggie. And I am so, so sorry I did that.”

  It sounds genuine, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t just roll over and say fine, let’s go back to being best friends, because an apology two years after the event is better than no apology at all?

  “I’m giving it all back to you,” Lara says. “I’m never going to use it and I realize I can’t keep it. These things are yours.”

  I look down at my sensible black clogs, the only shoes I can stand to wear for my waitressing job, then turn to take in my tiny rented carriage house. A bark of laughter escapes me, for what would I do with the crocodile handbags and sparkling jewels here? I’d have to go through the hassle of selling them again, knowing prospective buyers up here are few and far between, or list them on eBay. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  “I don’t want them,” I say finally. “I don’t need them anymore. I’m glad you told me, and it’s … well. It’s thoughtful of you to get in touch and offer them to me, but no. Thank you. No.”

  “Then I have to give you the proper money for them,” Lara says. “I don’t remember the exact amount, but I know roughly. Let me at least do that. I owe you that.”

  How I’d love to be in a position to say no, but I can’t. An injection of cash could buy Buck the new lacrosse pads he’s been longing for, not to mention college. An injection of cash could go into a rainy day fund, not to be used until and unless we really need it.

  “That would be great,” I say. “I appreciate your honesty. Thank you. Lara, can I ask you something? How is my old house?”

  “Oh, Maggie!” Lara groans. “These awful people have moved in and they’ve torn out all your gorgeous plantings and put in a tennis court. And the hedges are gone in the front, and they’ve built this huge stone wall with a fence on top so no one can see anything, but it’s not a pretty stacked wall, it’s one of those ugly ones we hate!”

  I smile as I listen to Lara, and I realize that I have demonized everything associated with my old life, including the people I once called friends. And yet here is Lara, sounding like Lara. There are so many sides to the coin. Hearing her voice brings back the good memories, the times she supported me, the fun we had.

  We are all human. None of us infallible. We make mistakes, screw up, and are entitled to forgiveness. The shame, anger, and humiliation that led to me cutting off the limb of my former life doesn’t need to drive me today.

  “It’s good to hear from you,” I say. This time I mean it, and we promise to stay in touch, Lara saying she’ll come up and stay at the Bee and Thistle over in Old Lyme, and I make the appropriate excited noises, even though she and I both know it will never happen.

  I say good-bye, only to notice a foil-wrapped parcel on the floor beside the back door, covered with a clean checked dishcloth. Picking it up, I pull a corner aside as steam wafts out from a freshly made rhubarb and apple pie.

  I manage to use my elbow to open the door, set the pie on the counter, before turning and tripping over Buck’s backpack in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  * * *

  “Beggars can’t be choosers” became my mantra whenever Buck complained about our house being small, or dark, or missing our basement and swimming pool in the summer.

  The truth is, I love this house. The fact that it isn’t mine, but rented from the older couple in the main house, affords me a freedom I didn’t expect. When the pilot light in the boiler goes out, or the window won’t open, or the pipes start clunking and groaning, I don’t have to make phone calls and dole out hard-earned money; I just walk across the yard, through the pathway between the trees, to bang on the back door of Mr. and Mrs. Wellesley’s home.

  They call me the daughter they never had, and they, in turn, are without any question in my mind, the parents I always wanted.

  Mrs. Wellesley—or Mrs. W as she insists on being called—leaves homemade pies, jams, vegetables picked from their garden, on the front porch.

  Monty and Bruno, the Labradors that were Mark’s, that Buck refused to allow me to put up for adoption, are allowed to romp around the garden freely, both of them now lying down next to Mrs. W as she gardens.

  “They’re my new best friends,” Mrs. W will say proudly, patting both dogs on the head. “I honestly don’t know what I did before they moved in. I know they’re only dogs, but they’re such good company!”

  I assume the Wellesleys don’t know my story. I may have been in every newspaper, but I reverted to my maiden name immediately. No one here has ever said anything, or given me that look—curiosity mixed with sympathy—that tells me all I need to know.

  I was all over the papers as the “perfect” Connecticut trophy wife. Warren-Tricomi highlights, Laura Mercier makeup, Temple St. Clair heart pendant, swathed in cashmere and pearls, I was more Stepford than Stepford.

  Not anymore. I catch sight of myself in the glass door of the microwave and tuck a strand of strawberry blond hair, streaked with gray, behind my ear.

  It hasn’t been cut in ages, and I’m growing to quite
like long and wavy. Natural. I don’t bother with makeup anymore either. I have no idea how Patty manages perfect makeup at work. Any makeup I’ve tried slides off my face within half an hour.

  The Botox, Perlane, facials I used to have every three months are completely unaffordable now, even if I wanted to do it. The frown line in the middle of my forehead is clearly visible, but everyone now thinks I’m in my thirties.

  I realize the irony of that. In my thirties, married to Mark, trying to be the perfect housewife, mother, volunteer, trying to attain perfection through all the exterior accoutrements I was convinced I needed to fit in, I managed, unwittingly, to age myself ten years.

  Now, my skin, unhidden by layers of foundation, powder, illuminating minerals, glows with good health. Early nights and fresh air, little alcohol save the odd glass of prosecco with Mrs. W, have definitely brought a sparkle back to my eyes.

  Years of yoga, Pilates, the Bar Method, Zumba, anything to try to beat the curse of too much rich food and too much alcohol, have given way to walking for pleasure and being on my feet all day for work. My legs have never been so toned.

  I still can’t believe how different this life is, or why I felt so insecure before. I’m grateful I’m no longer driven by the need to impress. Whom would I need to compete with here? The other waitresses, Patty and Barb? Mrs. W? We’re all equal. The Wellesleys may live in a grand and beautiful old house, but I know for a fact they don’t see me as lesser because I rent their guesthouse.

  Patty has worked every day of her adult life, is a single mother of four kids, and is the woman who inspires me most of all. Whatever lemons life has thrown at her, she’s made sparkling, sweet lemonade that is filled with zest and joy.

  The old Maggie judged first, asked questions later, judging precisely because she knew, deep down, she wasn’t good enough. It took losing everything to realize I’m okay. Exactly as I am.

  “Helloooo?” Mrs. Wellesley’s voice floats in from the porch.

  “In the kitchen!” I say. “Come in! Tea?”

  Mrs. Wellesley strides in, keeping on her gardening clogs, as I remember the ridiculous rules I had up all those years in New Salem, terrified of anyone coming to the house and finding it less than perfect. What’s the worst that can happen? Mrs. Wellesley trails some mud in? So what?

  “I wiped my feet!” Mrs W smiles, wisps of gray hair escaping her ponytail, mostly hidden by the large straw hat. “I wanted to check you got the pie before the critters did.”

  “I did! And you’re wonderful! I love rhubarb, and Buck, as you know, will be thrilled.”

  “That’s what I meant to tell you!” Her eyes light up. “Mr. W’s taken him down to the boatyard to start getting the boat ready. He said practice wasn’t until later and he’d done his homework. They’ll be back by five. Is that all right with you?”

  All right? It’s better than all right. It’s perfect. My kids spent their whole lives waiting for Mark to be a father. When he was there, when not running outside for conference calls or, as I know now, calls to his other family, he could be great, but he was gone so much, the kids missed out on the little things that bond a parent and child together.

  Not that I was much better. Instead of spending time with them, I handed them off to nannies. Or babysitters. Or anyone I could pay to amuse them when they were small and needy, while I organized bake sales, meetings, charity galas.

  It is a wonder they have turned out as well as they have. Chris, so funny, down to earth, easygoing. Grace, so confident and beautiful, although these past couple of years have taken their toll. I’m not in touch with her. I try, but she hasn’t forgiven me. She continues to blame me for Mark’s infidelities, his betrayal, and refuses to answer my e-mails and calls.

  Grace moved up here with us but was back in New Salem, living at Landon’s, within the week. She started school, ended things with Landon soon afterwards, then seemed to go out of control.

  I’d find photographs of her on Facebook, bottle of vodka in hand, looking out of it with a group of friends, kissing some random boy.

  I was horrified. And upset. And concerned. I phoned Grace, and will admit, I didn’t handle it well. I was still trying to come to terms with everything myself, still in that awful space of being terrified of life on my own, and didn’t say anything right.

  I’m ashamed of it now. I demanded to know why she was drinking, told her what happened to girls who were easy. Grace became angry and belligerent, and we both ending up screaming terrible things at each other.

  It happened another couple of times, before eventually leading to what I think of as the Cold War. I have apologized. Many, many times. I’ve tried to explain, but my words fall on deaf ears.

  “She’s just being a teenager,” Patty has said, when I used to despair, turning to Patty and Barb for advice, support, a friendly ear during a break at work.

  “You should have seen me at the same age,” Patty went on. “I was a regular hellion. Don’t you worry about the partying. If she didn’t do it when she was younger, she’s just getting it out of her system now. It’s all part of the process, honey. It’s how they separate from us. Apart from Mikey,” she muses, referring to her youngest son, who is now back home with Patty since his divorce a year and a half ago. “I damn well wish he’d separate from me. He turned round yesterday and said wasn’t this great, us living together? Why would we ever want to change?” She shuddered with horror.

  “Did you point out you might want to change because you were sick of doing his piles of laundry every day and having to clean up after his mess, and lend him money when he conveniently forgets to go to the bank?” Barb pointed out.

  “Damn right I did. Little squirt hugged me, planted a big kiss on my forehead, and told me he knew I was joking. Lord help me,” she muttered as she hurried into the kitchen to fetch the order for table 11. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  Grace had always been so good, had risen above the drinking, the drugs, the sexual experimentation talked of by the mothers in hushed whispers. Grace had always been the perfect child. The one in the steady relationship with the boy from the right family, the girl no one had to worry about.

  With luck, and God’s grace, Patty is right. I’ve learned to let go, because there’s nothing I can do about it until she comes round. And she will come round. Surely.

  Grace wanted to be in the courtroom during the trial, but I refused to allow it. She said she needed to see him, but I knew it was only going to cause her more pain.

  And how could I subject her to the photographers, the journalists, the stares? Mark’s lawyer had the temerity to suggest we all show up, his supportive family, portraying us as having somehow forgiven him, allowing the jury members to humanize him.

  I didn’t want to humanize him. I wanted to kill him. At the very least, I wanted him to suffer.

  I saw immediately that not letting Grace come was a mistake. That was when she stopped speaking to me entirely. That first Christmas, Grace went to Tulum in Mexico with her roommate’s family. The boys and I spent Christmas with Mr. and Mrs. W, themselves on their own, their daughter living in London, their “free-spirited” son living in Thailand. Or perhaps it was Vietnam. They weren’t entirely sure, but they were sure that the boys and I were part of their family.

  I put the kettle on the stove as Mrs. W sits down at the kitchen table and pulls off her gardening gloves, staring down at her knobbly, arthritic fingers as she slowly stretches them out, sighing with the pleasure of it. I am filled with love for her, and I lean down spontaneously to kiss Mrs. W on the cheek as she looks up at me, beaming with pleasure.

  “Now, what did I do to deserve that?” she asks.

  “Nothing. You’re just you. And you’re wonderful.”

  Mrs. W straightens up, clearing her throat, but I see the glistening in her eye. I have no idea why Mrs. W’s children both moved so very far away, but I do know how much they are missed.

  “I thought perhaps you and Buck would like to come
for dinner on Saturday. Nothing fancy, but Mr. W’s been out foraging fiddleheads, and we’re planning to cook them up. How about it?”

  “That would be lovely. I’ll check Buck has no other plans, but I’m definitely free.”

  Mrs. W suppresses a frown, and I know exactly what’s going through her head. She and Mr. W have long been concerned that—other than work or to ferry Buck around, who is now old enough to borrow Mr. W’s old pickup truck therefore no longer needs a ride from me—I have no life.

  They’d never dare come out and say it, but now that they’ve given Buck the keys to the kingdom, they’re always suggesting I do more, go out more, have a life of my own.

  A little while back, Mr. W had shown up at the guesthouse before school, wondering if Buck was interested in using his old pickup truck, a 1958 hunter green Ford F-100. He kept it in a garage up the street, and no one had driven it for years. It probably wasn’t very cool, but it was serviceable, and it seemed a shame to let it just sit when Buck was now driving and really old enough not to be driving me crazy for rides everywhere.

  Buck, who had no idea what a 1958 Ford F-100 was, almost fell over when Mr. W slid the garage doors open to reveal the coolest old truck he had ever seen, a truck that is, truly, the envy of all his friends.

  Buck has friends, many of them, but I do not, and I’m okay with that. It is hard, moving to a new town in your forties, with children who are too old to allow friendships formed with mothers found at Mommy and Me playgroups, or outside the classroom door in preschool.

  I don’t need friends. Look what happened last time. I am friendly with the other waitresses at work, and there is the crowd I have coffee with at Ashlawn Farm, and that is enough.

  Mrs. W is looking around the kitchen, her gaze falling on the bottle of wine on the counter. “Oooh,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “How about a little drinkie? It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  47

  Sylvie

  Blinking her eyes open, Sylvie tries to ascertain from the sliver of sunlight on top of the curtains whether it is a nice day, eventually jumping out of bed and throwing the curtains open, smiling briefly at the clear blue sky and a low sun that promises to grow bright and warm.