Family Pictures (22 page)

He’s squashy, and scratchy. Bits of him are still furry, but most of the fur has been loved off. I rest him on my shoulder like a baby, pat him on the back as tears well up in my eyes.

I should be home. I shouldn’t be here, in this unfamiliar room that is becoming more familiar by the night. I want to be there for my brothers, Buck in particular, but every time I see my mother, I feel this wave of fury, and it’s all I can do not to explode.

I blame her. I do. And I hate her for it. For seventeen years, I have lived with her, watched how she treated my dad, how she took him for granted, barked orders at all of us, put all of us down, and how, eventually, she drove him into the arms of someone else.

I wanted to hate Eve, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hate her mother, but I couldn’t even do that. Everything Eve had said about her mom, before we’d figured things out, sounded amazing. She sounded like the mother I wish I’d had. She was, it seems, the wife my dad wanted too.

But how could he do that to us? How could he just walk away from us? I understand that he’s not answering Mom’s calls. I understand why he’d want to get as far away from her as possible, but to not answer my calls? To ignore me? I have never been through anything more painful in my life.

I don’t feel like I’ve lost one parent. I feel like I’ve lost both. My father, the man I have spent my entire life worshipping, has disappeared. The only thing I was ever sure of, growing up, was that I was a daddy’s girl—that my father loved me, that no matter what happened, Daddy would be there for me. How wrong I was.

Which leaves only my mother, whose love I have doubted as far back as I remember, unable even to pretend to care about us, unable to put aside her own concerns to attempt to take care of her children. My mother, who is the most self-absorbed and selfish woman I have ever come across, doesn’t care about pretending to be a good mother anymore. She doesn’t care about putting on a show.

She just stays in bed.

And we three are left, like orphans, to fend for ourselves. Chris has gone back to college already, the drama too much for him, but I am seventeen, still at home, and Buck? Buck is barely a teenager. Buck needs his mother. I know, in her absence, I should be the one there to take care of him, but I can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand being around her, knowing she is the one to blame for all of it.

I always knew my mother never loved me. I never knew, until a few days ago, that my father never loved me either. I sit, teddy on my shoulder, tears silently rolling down my cheeks until the entire house is quiet. I watch the clock until it is after midnight.

The Carvers go to bed early. They like cocktails before dinner, large ones, then wine with. They encourage us to join them, rules and laws be damned. This means they sleep early and heavily, and I know where all the liquor is kept.

When I am absolutely sure everyone is asleep, I tiptoe down the hallway and listen outside everyone’s door. Huge snores from both Mr. and Mrs. Carver, lighter ones from Landon.

I make my way downstairs, using my iPhone as a flashlight. In the pantry is three quarters of a bottle of red wine they opened earlier tonight. I know they won’t notice if it’s missing. Landon’s always joking they have no idea what’s in the cellar. I fold it into my robe and go back upstairs, softly shutting the door and sitting back down on the bed.

I never used to like wine. Or vodka. Or, in fact, any alcohol in particular. I am finding the more you drink, the more you develop a taste. The Carvers, in particular, have delicious red wines. Granted, you are not supposed to swig them from the bottle, but I am still able to appreciate it, and I will say one thing: It definitely helps take my mind off all the shit in my life.

31

Maggie

At four in the morning, I am staring at the full moon, not even trying to get back to sleep. The computer is next to me on the bed, open to tab upon tab of men leading secret lives.

I am stunned at how similar their stories are.

And stunned at how stupid I have been.

There are, apparently, eight key deceptions used by spouses leading a double life, all of which I have spent years explaining away.

1.
Change in sexual appetite.
Of course Mark had a change in sexual appetite. So did I. Who has the time and energy with numerous children and the craziness of our lives. Surely this is the same for all the married couples we know? How was I to know this was a sign?

2.
Hidden money or financial records.
It has never been officially
hidden,
but I have no interest in any of that. Mark takes care of the money. He always has. He’s a hugely successful businessman who was able to buy the company he worked for, and build it into something that enabled us to live the life we always dreamed of. When I see a bank statement, my vision starts to blur. I’m sure I could have been more involved if I’d wanted to be, but I didn’t. That was Mark’s job. I was busy raising the children—was I really expected to keep an eye on that too?

3.
Regular clandestine contact with an ex-spouse or ex-girlfriend/boyfriend.
There
are
no ex-spouses or girlfriends, and my God I hope there are no ex-boyfriends. That would be one betrayal too many. There’s no clandestine contact with anyone, because there isn’t anyone. Although, I suppose, clandestine would mean I wouldn’t know about it. But as charming and handsome and loved as Mark is, he didn’t bring old friends to our relationship. He always said he was making a fresh start with me. I never questioned it. Maybe I should have.

4.
Hidden or inaccessible pagers, cell phones, or e-mail accounts.
He has one cell phone, one e-mail account, and no pager.
That I know about.

5.
Frequent travel.
Of course. His clients were on both coasts. I didn’t like it, hated how many events I had to attend unaccompanied, but I understood. It all made sense. Then.

6.
Exclusion from the usual “couples events.”
When Mark is here, he comes to “couples events.” Admittedly, he doesn’t like large crowds of people he doesn’t know, but neither do I. He is exceptionally private, and careful about our social circle. We have built a circle of people we trust. No. A circle of people Mark trusts. The truth is, I never understood it. I’m beginning to understand it now.

7.
Deceptive body language.
What does that
mean
? Does it mean he shiftily looked away when I asked him where he’d been the last few days? He didn’t, and I never asked. It never occurred to me to question him. Sometimes, obviously, I expressed my discontent at having to constantly go to events by myself, but so many husbands here are away, there was always someone else on her own, usually a group, so we’d meet first for a cocktail. It was fun. More fun usually than going with Mark.

8.
Mysterious use of cash for “incidentals” or poorly explained expenses.
Why would he get cash from me when he is the one working to provide for us? Wait … We were supposed to be taking the kids to Aspen for winter break, and he canceled at the last minute. Not that, he wouldn’t be able to come but we should still go—the whole thing was canceled. The hotel had made a mistake and double-booked, and there was no other availability. The kids were devastated. I’ll admit, it sounded odd. No other availability? In Aspen?

Now that I think about it, when I told Mark that I’d just find another hotel, he went nuts and said that the kids had been too spoiled, and there would be no Aspen this year, end of story.

He apologized later, explained he’d been under a tremendous amount of stress, and went on to say that he was so worried the kids had been brought up with an enormous amount of privilege, he wanted them to have a time-out; he wanted them not to fly somewhere glamorous for a vacation, but to learn to amuse themselves at home.

It sounded plausible at the time.

The money.

Why aren’t the credit cards working?

Sylvie seems as concerned as I am. Mark is worth millions. This doesn’t make sense. Money doesn’t just disappear. If Mark has disappeared—and no one could deny that now—he must have taken the money with him.

But how could he have left us with no working credit cards? I don’t write checks, but I need to find out what’s in the accounts. He wouldn’t have emptied out our accounts. We’re his family: his wife, children. Whatever else he may have done, I know he will not have left us stranded.

Debt collectors are another issue entirely. That’s a business issue. I’m sure he has the real money, the big money, somewhere.

Find Mark, and we’ll sort this whole mess out.

*   *   *

Today I am strong enough to start digging. Today I need some answers. This morning I will be going to his office. I am certain he won’t be there, and his employees are refusing to pick up my calls, but
someone
will know where he is, and I will not leave until they tell me.

I will sit in their office all night if I have to. All week.

After that, I’m going to the bank.

32

Maggie

Usually when I go into the city, it’s with the girls for a shopping trip. Sometimes we go to the theater; more often we’re hitting Bergdorf or Barneys, leaving someone’s SUV in a garage for the day, pumped up with adrenaline at spending money, leaving our suburban lives, pretending to be big-city chicks.

We stride confidently into stores, trying on everything, tossing expensive designer clothes next to cash registers as casually as we would buy magazines.

We giggle and trip our way up Madison Avenue, arms laden down with clothes that must be worn immediately, the rest shipped straight to Connecticut in order to avoid the tax.

I pass those same stores today expecting to feel a pang, but I don’t. Just as I feel no pang knowing I will not be returning to Theory to collect the pretty items so carefully wrapped, waiting in a bag on the floor behind the counter because my credit card was refused, as I said I’d be back the following day.

I do not need them. I never did. Clothes and jewelry were interesting to me only as a passport out of my working-class life, a life of shouting, and poverty, and nothing to look forward to.

Those accoutrements became more interesting when I married Mark, when I saw how effective they were as currency among the young families with whom we socialized.

My insecurity was so rampant, my fear of rejection so strong, I believed that however perfect my accent, however highlighted and blown out my hair, however impeccable my manners, I would never be truly accepted unless I became more
them
than them.

I grew up thinking class was the determining factor, but after moving to Connecticut, I quickly realized it was money. Nobody cared about old money. Mark coming from an old-moneyed
Mayflower
family was interesting only to the old guard. To the new, he was relevant only if he had the money to go with it.

I put pressure on him, I’ll admit. My competitive nature came out. I saw the power these girls wielded simply because they had the most expensive jewelry, or the biggest house, and I wanted to feel powerful too.

I pushed Mark to buy the company. When he finally said he had found investors, had raised the money to do so, I was thrilled. The
Gazette
listed him, some years later, as the millionaire CEO of Hath Office Solutions, and the only thing that would have made me happier was a
b
instead of an
m.

I pause outside Gucci, think of the bags I may need to sell if my worst fears come true. Not that the bags matter. Not that any of the possessions matter. They may have given me power, but in a world that is so superficial, so meaningless and narcissistic, it is no power at all.

Oh how ashamed I am.

I keep walking, idly wondering what I will do if Mark is there. The thought of him, so handsome, devastating in his navy suit, lighting up the room with his smile, is like a dagger, and I cannot help a sob coming out.

I do not want to cry again. I do not want my mascara to run down my face when I have spent so much time attempting to look like I am strong, unbreakable—like I am the kind of woman who will no longer be played.

And yet I cannot help but know that if he apologizes, looks deep in my eyes and asks my forgiveness, explains this as something that got out of hand but he cannot, will not, leave me and the children, I may not be able to resist.

If he swore blind he would never see Sylvie again, never be unfaithful again, wanted to go back to how it was in those first, early years of marriage, would I believe him? Would I want to try again?

*   *   *

Bastard. I grind my teeth as the anger rises, imagining myself slapping his face, storming out, taking the children and making sure he never sees them again, taking the house, all his money, ensuring he spends the rest of his life paying for what he did to me.

*   *   *

I catch sight of myself in the tinted windows of the stores I stride past. I feel terrible, but I look fabulous. High, patent heels; short skirt; swingy coat; Prada bag slung over my shoulder. I am the image of city chic—you would never know I live my life in suburban splendor. I look, in short, like the trophy wife the other trophy wives aspire to be.

How could Mark even think of being with anyone else?

More to the point, why do I already know the answer to that particular question?

*   *   *

I march up to one of the security guards at the desk, photo ID already in hand, and give him the name of the company. He frowns.

“Tenth floor?” I remind him. “Hath Office Solutions? Mark Hathaway?”

The other guard leans over. “Oh yeah! They moved.”

I stare at him. “What?
When?
”

“About a year ago? Yeah. It was just over a year ago.”