Family Pictures by Jane Green
Here, today, in this wonderful room, with these wonderful people who have looked after me so well, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that for the first time in my life, I am truly accepted. They have known all along, and have not judged me for it.
They don’t think the real Maggie isn’t good enough, nor do they judge who I was, who they might have presumed me to be after I was described so horribly in the newspapers.
“How about a drink?” Mr. W, clearing his throat, uncomfortable with this display of emotion, stands up and moves to the bar. “Brandy, I think,” he says as Cole and I catch eyes and start to laugh.
“She’s not overwrought, Dad!” Cole says. “Brandy’s a little much, no?”
“I know!” Mrs. W says. “How about a glass of prosecco?”
* * *
During the roast beef, Cole announces he’d like to go for a walk after dinner.
“I miss the beach,” Cole says. “Can we go down to the beach? There’s nothing so beautiful as the beach at night.”
“Missed the beach?” Mr. W laughs. “We’ve had postcards from Thailand, Fiji, Bora-Bora. You’ve had plenty of beach!”
“It isn’t the same as the beach in Old Saybrook,” laughs Cole. “There’s only so much white sand and turquoise water a man can take.”
“That’s a hard life,” I tease, trying to catch Buck’s eye, gesturing he should help clear the plates.
“What?” Buck frowns at me, looking down at his plate, confused. “Is there something on my plate?”
“No, honey. I was trying, very subtly, to get you to help clear the plates.”
Buck jumps up, embarrassed, as he reaches for Mrs. W.’s plate.
“It’s all right, dear.” Mrs. W waves him to sit down as Buck, unsure what to do, looks to me for direction. “Elsa will do it,” she continues.
“I know Elsa could do it,” I say, “but I’m raising him to be somebody’s husband. Think how his wife will thank me for all the training I’m doing now.”
“You’re quite right,” Mrs. W says. “Young people today have to be taught. You’re doing a lovely job, Maggie. Buck is just a delightful young man. You have trained him well, isn’t that right, Wells?” She turns to Mr. W. “Children and dogs. Much the same, at least according to that man we like,” she asks. “What is his name? Small. Mexican. Come on. Who am I thinking of?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” Mr. W stares at her, bemused.
“Oh yes, you do, Wells. We watch him all the time. You do that thing he says. You know: tssst.” She makes a hissing noise that causes both dogs, lying by Mr. W’s feet at the table, look up. “See? Tssst.” She does it again, looking at the dogs. “Dog … Whisperer! The Dog Whisperer! Now, what’s his name? Oh, Lord. My memory is so bad these days.” She looks helplessly at her husband again.
“Cesar Millan?” Buck offers.
“That’s the one!” she shouts triumphantly. “He’s always talking about the pack leader, and it’s just the same with children. They need to know who their pack leader is, who to respect.”
“Does that make me pack leader?” I grimace. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“It does, and it’s good. The pups need to know who’s in charge. What’s that other thing he says? That it’s never the dogs who are crazy, or bad, but their owners. Once the owners change their energy, the dogs are fine. Calm, assertive energy. All the problems stem from the dogs not knowing where they stand, and not being able to trust the person who ought to be pack leader.”
“Just so you know—” Buck sits back down at the table, leaning in to Mr. and Mrs. W conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I only let her think she’s the pack leader. It keeps everybody happy,” and he winks as they all start to laugh.
* * *
I stand on a rock as the wind picks up, messing up my hair, until eventually I just unclip it and let it blow back, free-form, closing my eyes and breathing in the night air.
The others have begged off. Wimps. Buck was invited to hang out with friends; Mr. and Mrs. W declared that after such a huge meal, the only thing they’d be good for was bed.
Which left just Cole and me. Something tells me they might have all done this on purpose.
I breathe in, closing my eyes, almost tasting the salt and sea, flinging my arms out to the side as I tip my head back, admittedly a little tipsy from all the wine at dinner.
“This is wonderful!” I shout over to Cole, who’s standing at the water’s edge, leaning down to examine a shell. “This makes me feel young. I don’t know why I never come here.”
“You’re not exactly old.” Cole walks over, putting the shell in my hand.
I can barely see it in the dim moonlight, but I run my thumb over the ridges and place it safely in my pocket.
“I used to come here all the time,” Cole says, settling down on the rock. I join him, pulling my knees up and wrapping my arms around them. “Usually when you live somewhere, you never take advantage of all it has to offer. I had a girlfriend once who was from London. She had lived in London for thirty years, and she had never been to the Tower of London, or seen the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. She’d never been to the Houses of Parliament or Westminster Abbey. I was stunned. She’d taken it all for granted, saw them as tourist attractions for visiting Americans.”
“Were you her visiting American?” I am curious, forgetting I had wondered, albeit briefly, whether he might have been gay.
“I was,” he laughs. “I dragged her to every tourist attraction I could think of, including the Edinburgh Festival, and she loved it. She kept saying she couldn’t believe there were so many amazing things right on her doorstep.”
“Edinburgh’s not exactly on her doorstep.”
“No, but you get the point.”
“So what happened?”
“At Edinburgh?”
“No!” I push him playfully. “To the girlfriend?”
“Same as with all of the others,” he says simply. “I wasn’t able to stay in one place for any length of time. I had a penchant for choosing women who wanted the very opposite of what I wanted. I think perhaps they saw me as a challenge, thought they could change me, that I would fall so deeply in love with them, I would give it all up to become a husband.”
“Did you not love any of them enough?” I’m quiet.
“I loved Imogen very much.” He turns to me then, just a sliver of his face visible in the moonlight. “She was the London girl. But the timing wasn’t right. I knew that if I had stayed in London, as she wanted, and married her, a part of me would have died, and I would always regret it. And at some point, I would doubtless end up blaming her, and she would wake up one morning and find a note on her pillow and a missing backpack, and that wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”
“You loved her enough to leave her,” I murmur.
“I suppose I did. The story does, however, have a happy ending. Imogen is married to Stephen, who is a barrister, and they have three beautiful girls. I am godfather to the eldest, and get on with Stephen like a house on fire. The only traveling he is interested in involves luxury hotels with staff that wait on you hand and foot, and a children’s club.”
“Was it a lucky escape?”
“I would never have been able to offer her stability. Not back then, for sure. Or, let’s face it, a Georgian house in Islington.” He smiles. “But I do sometimes think about what might have been.”
“So what is it with the traveling?” I press. “Aren’t you a little old to still be chasing the dream?”
“I’ll remind you I’m the same age as you,” he laughs. “And yes, I am a little old to be doing what I have done for so long.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Paint, mostly,” he says.
“Houses?”
Cole smiles at me. “No. Portraits. Some landscapes.”
“On beaches in Thailand?”
“Those are the perks that come with the job. Sometimes I arri
“How low is low?”
“It varies. I’ve even been known to do it for free. Not the paintings, though—that’s too time consuming—but the sketches.”
“How can you do it for free?” I ask, knowing how every penny counts in life. Particularly mine. Particularly now. “How can you possibly afford to do that?”
“Look at my life.” Cole shrugs. “There’s so little I actually need. I have no mortgage, no children to support, no bills to pay. I rent apartments short term, or find rooms in people’s homes and stay for however long feels right. It has been as little as a couple of days and as long as a year. When I get a show, I can ask far more for the paintings, which supplements the other work I do.”
“Where did you go that you stayed a year?”
“Siena. It was the least lucrative year of my life, but I loved living there.”
“Yet you didn’t want to stay?”
“I did. Until I didn’t. And then it was time to go.”
“And you’ve never thought of settling down? Of finding one place to call home and, what’s the expression, laying your hat? Isn’t it tiring, taking off all the time?”
“This is home.” Cole smiles, gesturing all around them. “Old Saybrook. My school was home. Middlesex. And Yale.”
“Yale.” I raise an eyebrow, impressed.
“It’s not as impressive as it sounds,” he laughs. “I only got in because every member of my father’s family has gone there since year one. There are Wellesley halls and libraries. It was all rather embarrassing. But these places are home for me, although I never felt myself bound to them until … well. More recently I’ve found myself beginning to change.
“It’s not a longing, exactly, but I have found myself thinking more and more about this place, and of course my parents not getting any younger. And then today, being surrounded by everything familiar and good makes me wonder if it might be time to come back.” He sighs. “But then I read an article about Costa Rica, and all I want to do is grab my stuff and go.”
“You could,” I say. “Why not? Being here doesn’t necessarily have to tie you down. It might be lovely to spend proper time with your parents, and you could leave whenever you got the urge, just don’t stay away as long. They miss you enormously, and you don’t need me to tell you they’re not getting any young—” I stop suddenly, embarrassed. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry. I’m doing it again. I’m telling you what you should be doing. I’m controlling. I am so sorry. It’s none of my business. Ignore me.”
“What?” Cole frowns at me. “What do you mean, you’re controlling again? You’re not controlling, you’re just giving me your opinion, and I’m grateful for it. I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. My parents are, as you have discovered, wonderful. I want to spend time with them. Please don’t worry. You haven’t said anything wrong. Come on.” He jumps off the rock. “Let’s keep going.”
* * *
“My parents were right,” Cole says as we get out of the car, back home. I have said good night, and thank you, and I am about to walk up the path to my cottage, when I turn.
“They said you were nothing like the media portrayal of you. They said you were lovely, and warm, and real. And a great mother.” He smiles. “All of which you are.”
I’m glad we are now in pitch darkness and he can’t see the flush of pleasure that spreads across my face.
“Night night,” I call, knowing my voice doesn’t hide the smile that is currently stretching ear to ear.
“Sleep tight,” he calls.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” we both say at the same time, and the last thing I hear is his laugh as I let myself in my house.
54
Sylvie
Sylvie lets herself in the door, leaning against it for a few seconds, exhausted, trying to regain some equilibrium.
She calls out for Eve, knowing she is home given the presence of her Jeep in the driveway. The house echoes, which means nothing other than Eve is in her room, but as always, Sylvie rushes upstairs, knocking on the door, waiting for the anxiety in her chest to lighten as soon as Eve tells her she is there, breathing, alive.
This afternoon, she went to see Dr. Lawson. He was, after all, in charge of Eve, and although she is no longer in intensive outpatient therapy, she continues to check in from time to time.
Dr. Lawson was concerned to hear about the weights, more concerned when he checked the records to discover that Eve hasn’t been checking in, hasn’t turned up to her last two therapy appointments, has been, in fact, absent without leave.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Sylvie struggled to keep her voice calm. “How could you let this happen without telling me?”
He was contrite. “I don’t know how this happened. I need to talk to my staff and try to find out, but right now, my primary concern is seeing Eve. You need to get her in here today. I can clear my afternoon, but this kind of relapse requires immediate intervention. The sooner she gets here, the greater our chances.”
Sylvie’s heart jumps into her throat. “What do you mean, the greater her chances?”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Sylvie already knows this disease kills. But she’d hidden from facing the possibility of life-and-death for Eve. She can’t hide anymore.
Sylvie knocks again, louder. No reply. She pushes open the door. Eve is not in her room. Neither is her laptop. Or her suitcase.
On the bed is a piece of paper.
Mom,
I love you, but I can’t stand this. I need to be on my own for a while so I’ve gone away. Don’t worry, and don’t try to find me. I’ll be in touch soon.
Evie xx
Sylvie sinks down onto the bed as a howl of pain escapes her lips.
55
Buck
At 11:29, I hear my mom come in, and I finally know what to do. I’ve spent the last two hours trying to figure out the right thing to do, even though I know Grace is going to kill me. I figured if Mom came home before 11:35, I’d tell her. If she came home after that, I’d still have to figure it out.
Most of the time I feel way older than sixteen, except when I have to make an adult decision. My mom may be the last person I should be turning to, but I also know that she has a huge heart; she would help; she would know what to do.
She’s already collapsed on the sofa with her feet up, a smile on her face as I walk down the stairs, and she turns to me with a dreamy expression. “You can’t even begin to imagine how beautif— What is it?” She frowns, knowing in the way that mothers always know that something’s wrong. “What’s the matter? Who is it?” Her voice catches as she inhales sharply. “Is it Grace? It’s Grace, isn’t it.”
“No.” Although, I think, yes. It is. Not in the way she thinks, but this involves Grace too. “It’s a friend of Grace’s, but it’s more complicated.”
“Is she … pregnant?” Mom gives a knowing look.
“No. Mom, I was on Facebook with Grace this evening, and she had a friend turn up who’s staying with her, and the friend is ill. Like, really ill. Grace doesn’t know what to do.”
“Can’t they go to a doctor? Or hospital? What’s the matter with her?”
“Grace says she’s anorexic. She’s been in and out of treatment, but Grace says she hasn’t eaten anything since she got there, and she’s just had some kind of fit. Grace is freaking out.”
“What do you mean, some kind of fit?” my mom asks slowly.
&n
“She has to call an ambulance. Now!” my mom says. “You have to get hold of Grace now. Or I’ll do it. I’ll call them.”
Now it’s my turn to freak out. “Mom, you can’t. It’s … this girl has run away. Her … mom … doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t want anyone to know where she is, and she made Grace swear not to call her mom or the authorities. She said she’d be fine, but it doesn’t sound like it.”
My mom starts shaking her head very quickly. “Oh no,” she says. “No, no, no. I don’t care what the situation is, her parents have to know. Jesus.” She says this under her breath. “Grace needs to call her mother immediately. If this girl is sick enough for Grace to be freaking out, this girl is sick enough that her parents need to get involved right now. You need to get hold of Grace now, Buck, and tell her how urgent this is. This sounds about as serious as it can be, and anorexia kills. She has to get an ambulance and call the parents.”
I don’t know how to tell her this. I just don’t know how to find the words. “She can’t.”
“I’ll do it, then.” My mom is already heading to the computer to look up Grace’s address. “I’ll call an ambulance now. Do we know the girl’s name? Do we know anything about the family? How to get hold of them?”
I take a deep breath. There’s no way out.
“It’s Eve,” I say quietly. “Eve Haydn. Sylvie Haydn’s daughter.” I watch my mom’s eyes open wide as she freezes in her tracks.
“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean, it’s Sylvie Haydn’s daughter. She’s staying with Grace? They’re friends? How—? When—?”