Family Pictures (31 page)

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.

Her joy doesn’t last long. By the time she has reached the bedroom door, ready to check on Eve just down the hallway, it has been replaced by the sliver of fear that lodges itself in her heart at exactly this time, every day, just after she wakes up.

Sylvie bought this house three months ago, torn between staying in a house she loved, despite the memories of Mark that leaped out from every corner, and starting again.

Angie found this house. She had been driving past and saw the
FOR SALE
sign, screeching into the driveway and charming the owner into giving her a viewing there and then. It was the perfect house for Sylvie, she realized before picking Sylvie up and bringing her back to see for herself.

Sylvie hadn’t even been sure she would move. It was clear she needed more room for her growing business, but she could have added on to the old house, could have renovated to bring the house up to date in her current style.

The memories of Mark hadn’t lingered in the old house in the way one might have expected. Perhaps because Sylvie had decorated herself, it had always felt like hers. Even the bedroom held no trace of Mark, particularly since Sylvie instantly removed the giant television screen he had insisted upon.

But the house Angie took her to that day worked. It was just like the old one, only brighter, lighter, with more room and incredible views.

“This is the house for Figless Manor,” Angie had said as they stood on the porch outside the master bedroom, gazing toward the mountains in the distance. Sylvie turned to look at her, a question in her eyes.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? Figless Manor’s your new line. Simon came up with the name. Isn’t it fabulous? Remember how you used to call your house Figless Manor when you first moved in? When the old owners removed the fig tree? I was telling someone the story, and Simon suddenly said it was the perfect name for a line of jellies and jams, and he’s right.”

Sylvie lights up, flinging her arms round Angie. “I love it,” she murmurs. “You’re a genius.”

“Simon’s the genius, but I’m not far behind. But imagine living here! It’s perfect. You can have your studio here, your workshop—hell, even a commercial kitchen. And you know all the interior magazines are going to go nuts for this. It’s time.”

“Let me think about it,” Sylvie said, knowing there was little to think about. She waited three days to be sure, spending her time pouring candles—for at that time, she was still doing them from home—went to the grocery store to buy food for dinner that night, and stopped at Angie’s on the way home.

Angie didn’t stop talking from the moment she opened the door. Her doctor had prescribed her Ambien—as an antidote, it seemed, to the Adderall he didn’t know she was taking, which was not only enabling her to do all the things she wanted to do in a day, but had also seen her lose twelve pounds.

“So I woke up this morning having had this weird dream that Simon and I had crazy monkey sex for hours last night.” She leaned over the table as Sylvie started to smile. “Which is totally weird in itself because I don’t have those dreams. And I certainly don’t have crazy monkey sex. If we do anything, it’s a quickie. My God! Who has the time for anything else? But this was … hot! Like, seriously hot! I’m not going to go into detail, but we did things I never would do.”

“You’re so funny.” Sylvie shakes her head, appreciating Angie’s lack of boundaries, even as she knows she would never make the same confession.

“But, wait! So this morning I’m lying in bed thinking about this dream, and I don’t remember the whole thing, just bits of it, and then Simon rolls over, and he’s all super lovey dovey and he looks at me and says, ‘Wow. What got into
you
last night? You were amazing!’”

Sylvie’s mouth drops open. “What? It was
real
?”

“I
know
! Except I can’t remember. Well, I can remember, but like you remember a dream. Not like it actually happened. But Simon has fallen totally in love with me all over again. So when he went to work, I googled ‘Ambien’ and ‘uninhibited,’ because let me tell you, this was seriously uninhibited.… Okay, okay … I won’t go into detail. But, Sylvie, this is a whole thing. Ambien sex. It’s like this whole thing out there where people have this crazy totally uninhibited sex, and don’t remember anything.”

When Sylvie stops laughing, she shakes her head once more. “Only you.”

“Only me what?”

“Only you could take an Ambien and have crazy sex and not remember it. Other people take Ambien and eat the contents of their fridge every night.”

“I’d kill myself,” Angie announces seriously. “Or Simon would divorce me. But I was always terrified of Ambien because I thought I’d be the eater. And turns out I’m the crazy nymphomaniac! Who knew! I’m telling you, if ever you thought there was a problem in your marriage, just take an Amb— Oh,
shit
! Oh, Sylvie. I’m such an ass. Forget I ever said that, okay? I can’t believe I just said that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sylvie said. “Really. This is me. And you’re you. I forgive you.”

“So.” Angie sat forward, her face now serious. “Simon spoke to you about the financials, right? You know you can totally afford it, plus you get to write off a ton of stuff. You’re doing it, right?”

Sylvie nodded. “How could I say no?” laughing as Angie squealed and threw her arms around her.

*   *   *

Sylvie pauses by the mahogany table in the hallway. Taking center stage, commanding in a large silver frame, is a black-and-white photograph of Eve, taken before she got ill, when she was so beautiful, it was almost heartbreaking to compare it to how she is now.

She had hoped a new home might mean a fresh start, might give Eve the ability to move on, to start a different kind of life, start eating again, but Eve was declining fast, and Sylvie was still struggling to accept her inability to help, her powerlessness over Eve’s decisions not to get better.

She still made meals for her, despite the knowledge that Eve would only drink a clear chicken broth, if anything at all. She was, she said, still going to Overeaters Anonymous meetings, still talking to her sponsor, but Sylvie could see it wasn’t helping.

Watching her daughter disappear before her eyes was, without question, finally, the hardest thing Sylvie had ever been through. Harder than the grief of Jonathan, the betrayal of Mark, Eve was her flesh and blood; Eve was all she had; if Eve didn’t … if anything happened to Eve, if she made herself disappear permanently, Sylvie knew she wouldn’t be able to go on.

She wouldn’t want to go on.

Eve spends much of her time at home in her bedroom. She comes downstairs to make tea—drinking copious amounts to try to stay warm, even in midsummer—or curl up in front of a movie. She is always swathed in layers of clothes, has withdrawn so completely from life, each time she leaves the house, Sylvie considers it a small miracle.

Sylvie had hoped this summer would see her get better, but although she is still in therapy, it is not so intensive, and Sylvie is terrified Eve has regressed. She booked a trip to Mexico, just the two of them, but Eve, who has no energy anymore, refused to go.

She sleeps, reads, watches reality television shows. Eve glides around the house like a tiny ghoul-like bird, her eyes once again sunken, her hair lifeless and dull, her teeth almost too big for her face.

Sylvie joins Eve to watch the reality shows, in a bid to regain some kind of a connection with her disappearing daughter. It has worked, to a point. They are able to find common ground, a meeting point, in their shared disgust at some of the antics, their amazement at what women will do for, if not fortune, fame at least.

The connection is more shallow than any connection Sylvie has had with her daughter, ever. She is so terrified of upsetting Eve, of causing a fight, of Eve losing even more weight, she treads lightly, no longer talks about the great elephant in the room, tiptoes as carefully as if she is walking on glass.