Family Pictures (21 page)

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 the 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.

I snatch it up, instantly breathless, my heart sinking as I hear Kim’s fake-concerned voice. “Maggie! I didn’t think you’d pick up! Everyone’s been calling you for
days.
We were so worried.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you for your concern, though.”

“But are you really fine?” Her voice is like honey, so slippery and oozy, you’d never know what a bitch she is. “I just wanted to let you know you’re in all of our thoughts. Is there anything I can do, Maggie? Anything at all?”

“You could find my husband” comes out of my mouth as I mentally curse myself. I didn’t mean to say those words out loud, and certainly not to Kim. “I’m kidding,” I cover up quickly. “We’re just figuring it all out.”

“So it is true?” she asks. “He does have this wife and child? Linda was a divorce lawyer, and she says he’s definitely going to jail. You poor thing. This must be so awful. And I heard the money’s all gone. Oh, Maggie. You must be in hell. I just cannot even imagine what you must be going through. Honestly, if I had to sell this house, I think I might kill myself. Especially after you’ve put so much work into it. Where are you going to move to?”

“Kim,” I say firmly, “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but that’s certainly not true. Our finances are perfectly fine, and as for the house, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Really? But I heard—”

“I don’t really care what you heard. It’s not true. I have to go now. Thanks for all your concern.” This last bit was dripping with sarcasm, and she can’t have missed me slamming down the phone as I gnash my teeth in fury.

When you are on top in this town, the world is your oyster. I have only ever been on top; I have been the one gossiping about the others, feeling more grateful, blessed, lucky than those poor souls who have gone through changes in life circumstances that make the rest of us shudder with horror.

The women who live in huge houses until their husbands leave them for the brighter, shinier, younger model; paying for killer lawyers and accountants who make the beleaguered former wives look insane; claiming poverty until the divorce is finalized, when husband and second shiny wife build a bigger, better, more impressive home as first wife, now ground down by divorce, squeezes into a rental apartment above someone’s garage.

Those first wives, once one of us, have “closet sales.” Scores of women lucky enough to have held on to their wealthy husbands claw frantically through piles of Chanel, cashmere, Hermès; sifting through diamonds and pearls; paying whatever the poor former wife is asking; telling ourselves we are helping her, refusing to feel guilt at benefiting from someone else’s misery.

There but by the grace of God. It could be us. Any of us. Each time we see a former first wife, now working in a clothing store, or getting her real estate license, it reminds us of the fragility of our own marriages.

After the obligatory rounds of “Hihowareyou!” and “Youlookfantastic!” or “You’velostsomuchweightmustbetheDivorceDiet!” we try to get away as quickly as possible, away from the reminder that this could be us if we’re not careful.

Which is why we are addicted to Pilates, yoga, highlights, tans, waxes, Perlane, Juvéderm. We take it for granted that we are all top tier, and we plan on staying there, on keeping our husband’s attention, on making sure we don’t become like
them.

Yet here I am. Alone. Betrayed. Humiliated. And the subject of everyone’s attention. The object of their schadenfreude. Oh, how they delight in talking about other people’s misery, attempting to hide their joy with sympathetic expressions, murmurs of concern, casseroles left on the doorstep as if being left is an illness, an affliction.

Which, of course, it is.

I want to know what people are saying. I want to tell them none of it is true, but I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. I know only that bad rumors are like multiple games of whispers—one salacious rumor will only produce more, until the end result bears no resemblance to the truth.

I can’t march into town. I can’t even drive through. The prospect of people’s sympathy fills me with horror. And shame. I cannot, will not be an object of pity.

I cannot, will not take their phone calls. Welcome their visits. Not until I have somehow managed to get over the humiliation, the shame, the devastation of everyone knowing what I have always tried to hide, the reason Mark has left:

I am not enough.

*   *   *

Later, I get angry. It fuels me, gives me the energy to get dressed, go downstairs. Anger sees me pulling dishes out of cupboards, layering pasta and tomato sauce, furiously grating Parmesan cheese over the top. Buck and Chris move quietly around me, setting the table without being asked, feeding the dogs without complaint.

Buck even goes outside to gather his lacrosse stuff up. I watch him out the window, seeing him go into the pool house. Everything has been removed, all evidence of the day everything changed.

I pour a glass of wine and follow him outside, walking slowly to the edge of the lawn, turning and looking back over the pool, to the terrace and house. Whatever the rumors are, whatever ends up being true, I will not lose this house. I could not be happy anywhere else.

Even if I have to take on the most expensive lawyers in the business, I will not end up in some garage apartment on someone else’s property, having to take Buck out of private school, even—heaven forbid—working.

I will not go back to where I started. I heard what Sylvie said, about gathering information, finding out where we stood, but I haven’t been ready. I’m almost there, though.

Am I scared of what I might find? No. I am terrified.

*   *   *

The boys sit at the table as I spoon lasagna onto plates and pass them over to outstretched hands, with warnings to be careful, plates are hot.

“Where’s your sister?” I look from one to the other as they both shrug.

“Go tell her it’s dinner.”

Chris looks at Buck to do it; Buck stares straight back at Chris.

“It’s your turn,” Buck says. “I fed the dogs. And I picked up stuff in the yard.”

“Yeah, because it’s
your
stuff,” Chris says. “I set the table. And got the mail.”

“Jesus!” I shout, banging the spoon on the table, which makes them both jump. “Stop fighting. Just go tell her.”

“I’m glad spring break’s over next week,” Chris mumbles as he pushes back his chair belligerently.

“You know what?” I turn on him. “Me too.” He stomps upstairs to get Grace, and I instantly regret snapping at him.

“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as he walks into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean it. I just can’t deal with the fighting right now.”

“’Kay,” he mumbles as I sigh.

“Did you tell Grace?”

“Yeah. She says she’s not hungry.”

I walk to the foot of the stairs and yell her name, which is something I never do. I have a no-yelling policy. Yelling makes me think of my parents—there’s something so déclassé about screaming through the house that I have indoctrinated the children, much to their disgust, to actually walk through the house with the phone if there is someone on the line who needs to speak to a person not in the same room.

Yet here I am, breaking all the rules.

“What?” she yells back.

“Get down here!”

I wonder how long it will take. A week ago, she would never have dared speak to me like this. A week ago, she was respectful and polite. I feel as if my daughter has been swapped in the middle of the night for this sullen, rude, furious child whom I am finding increasingly unlikable.

“What?” She lingers on the landing, looking at me with disdain.

I temper my voice. “It’s dinnertime.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care.” I grit my teeth. “We are all sitting together as a family, and you are joining us. You don’t have to eat anything.”

“We’re not sitting together as a family,” spits Grace. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed, Dad is missing. Thanks to you. So I won’t be joining you.”

I speak slowly. “You damn well will.”

“I damn well won’t,” she says before pushing past me, slamming her shoulder into mine, then running out the back door and disappearing up the driveway as I stand there, shocked to my core.

I have no experience of this. I have no idea what to do. So I close the door, walk into the kitchen—ignoring the open mouths of both Chris and Buck—and pick up my fork.

“You may start,” I choke the words through my food as I try to bring a little normality to what is rapidly becoming a life I do not recognize at all.

30

Grace

Landon’s mom is trying to treat me as if everything is normal, but she’s being extra careful, and I know she’s trying to be a mom to me right now, in the way my own mom isn’t.

She hasn’t asked me anything, hasn’t brought it up, but is suddenly treating me as if I’m another family member. Sure, Landon and I have been together for ages, and I’ve always gotten on really well with his family, but I’ve rarely been included on their regular weekend outings to, say, Cedar Point, and now I’m invited sailing as if I’ve been a permanent member of the crew.

Not to mention that Mrs. Carver has offered me use of the guest room whenever I feel like it. She even replaced the white quilt with a blue and white one that used to be her daughter’s because it makes it warmer, and she’s filled the shower with fresh shampoos and conditioners. The brands I use.

I’m staying here tonight because I can’t face being at home. Everyone in the house is asleep, including Landon. He has made jokes about tiptoeing across the landing, but I warned him not to. The last thing I need is for his mother to kick me out, and I will not go home. I refuse to go home.

I climb under the covers and prop the pillows behind my back, pulling Landon’s old teddy bear onto my knees, making him sit there, then open his arms to give me a hug.