by Lili Evans
He had stayed in New York for two years. Long enough to get a taste for what he wanted. He had served rich men their meals, flirted with their wives, and taken the tips they left behind. He bartended for a while, making considerably more money, and discovering his strengths and weakness in the service industry. Finally he scored a job working in a hotel around the wealthy people he wanted to surround himself with. That job proved to be his big break: Phoebe happened to be visiting Carlton Hotels in New York and after a whirlwind romance, she took him back with her to San Francisco.
It had taken considerable time and effort to persuade her father that he was good enough for his daughter. Long hours and grunt work had helped him up the first rungs of a very high and slippery ladder. Phoebe hadn’t cared and had pushed her father to see Troy for himself.
He hadn’t wanted to tell them who he was: a Halingsford, with rich, high society parents, but they had found out anyway. He was well connected. Or he had been, Troy thought bitterly even now. Would have been. Should have been, if his father had given him even half of what his parents had given him. His mother came from old money. Bankers, Troy recalled.
And his father the lawyer, Troy thought snidely, believed he’d made his own career. He’d accepted the inheritance from his grandparents. He accepted unlimited help from his own parents. And what had he given his son? Nothing. Only criticism and expectations that Troy had never been able to get beyond.
They had manipulated all of their children, pitting them against one another, and picking favorites. That was when they’d bothered to pay attention at all, Troy thought. So he’d left. He’d told them what he thought of them and left. And five years later he’d never so much as bothered to call. Oh he’d thought about it. He’d wanted to call when Phoebe’s father promoted him. He wanted to call when he’d got married. He’d wanted to call just to say, “you old bastard, I did it. I made it on my own. Without you. I live in an LA condo and I have a beautiful wife, who I actually appreciate. Something you never did.”
But he didn’t. He didn’t call and say any of those things.
Phoebe’s father had taken him on, had given him a chance. Phoebe’s father had been more of a father to him than his own had ever been.
And so it wasn’t worth the time or effort to pick up the phone and call home. That would make them too important.
He didn’t think of them often, the parents who had disappointed him, who had alienated him and the rest of their children. Under his resentment of them was a grudging acceptance of his upbringing: if they had have raised him differently, if they had have been good parents, he might not have the life he had now. Their selfishness had driven him to his own success.
He shook his head. They weren’t worth his time or thoughts. He wouldn’t think of them, any of them, now. Not here. He wouldn’t allow them to spoil his evening.
He looked around suddenly for his wife. A few minutes of casual conversation would improve his mood, but she was speaking intently with a respected client across the room and he didn’t dare interrupt her.
Lost in his own thoughts he selected another glass of champagne from a passing tray and drank deeply. He didn’t need his parents any longer, he reminded himself. More importantly, he didn’t want them.
With a toast to his independence, he turned his attention back to the party. And back to himself.
****
The house was too quiet and it was making Marianne edgy. Normally she appreciated solitude, even thrived on it, but today she felt too restless to enjoy it.
Her son, Daniel, was spending two weeks with his paternal grandparents and had left the night before. Marianne didn’t mind him going. Nick’s parents were good people and had always treated her warmly. They hadn’t judged her for becoming pregnant with their grandchild after only knowing Nick for a few months. They hadn’t pushed her to marry him the way she knew her own parents, William and Vivien, would have. And when their relationship had ended nearly before it began, they had been supportive, only wanting to see their grandson, and caring genuinely for her own well-being.
They were wonderful people.
She wanted her son to know them. She wanted him to spend time with them and make memories with them. She had left her own family five years before on bad terms. A year after that she’d given birth to Daniel.
She had never even called her mother to tell her.
Now, she stood in her small house, a cottage really, and listened to the quiet. The house was charming and it was hers. After growing up as she had, in a huge, expensive house, it was laughable that she would be so proud of such a small space. But she was. It suited her, she thought, and she had worked hard, on multiple levels, to be able to have it.
She had spoken to Daniel on the phone that morning and he had sounded happy and excited. At four years old he was too young to understand why he always went to visit his grandparents for the same weeks in June. Marianne knew that it was best for him to go. More than that, she knew how it would have looked to Nick if she had refused.
Now that he was gone and the house was empty she wished desperately for him to be back. He would have given her some distraction. He would have given her someone to talk to.
The twilight seemed to press against her windows, to intrude on her. The tiny cottage suddenly felt too big for one person.
It was stupid, she told herself. Getting worked up this way, giving into old memories was what always got her into trouble. Her hands trembled once as she filled the bright red kettle with water for tea. While it heated on the stove she went to her kitchen table, sat, and simply put her head in her hands.
Nick always worried that she would have another breakdown. And when that time of year came, the month of June when her life had fallen apart five years before, he wanted Daniel out of the house. He wanted Daniel far away from her.
She wasn’t a bad mother, Marianne thought defensively. She had given up the alcohol and drugs before he’d been born. But for someone who had battled addiction, for someone who had struggled as hard as she had with depression, it wasn’t something that merely went away. Every day was another day of coping. The entire process was dealt with one day at a time.
She’d left home at twenty, already struggling with her own demons. She had turned to drugs and alcohol after that, living on friends’ couches, sleeping in stairwells, until she’d met Nick. Nick had been the first person who had sincerely wanted to help her and in a way he had.
He had given her the best thing in her life: her son.
That had been the intervention she needed and she had tried hard not to look back. She was a good mother to Daniel, she knew she was. She worked from home as an artist and sold her work throughout Vancouver and on the internet. She and Nick spoke daily on the phone and had no problems maintaining joint custody.
But Nick still didn’t trust her during those weeks in June.
Marianne poured the steaming water into her mug and tried not to be angry. She wanted to see his side, she really did.
With a sigh she took her tea to the back door and pushed it open to breathe in the night. Barefoot she stepped onto her stone patio and wandered to the lawn chair she had arranged beside a small table. Lighting a cigarette she sat back. She tried to relax.
At twenty she tried to kill herself, Marianne reflected. The overdose had drawn unwanted attention and had landed her in the mental ward of a hospital. She’d taken antidepressants and spoken to psychiatrists. They determined she was in shock and guilt stricken. Marianne could have told them that herself.
She could remember only bits and pieces of the aftermath of her sister’s death. She remembered her anxiety while they searched for Dani, who was missing for two days. She remembered, vividly, especially because of her recurring nightmares, finding Dani’s body between the bushes and trees.
She and Dani had been identical twins, and so it had always seemed to her that her sister’s murder had been a sort of death for her as well. In therapy they had called that guilt, but
Marianne didn’t remember enough to know if it was. She only relived it in fragments now. She didn’t remember planning to kill herself, either, only that she had woken up in the emergency room alive and confused.
Every June it all resurfaced. This year, though, was worse. Her nightmares had been more intense, more disturbing, than usual. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She was edgy and irritable. This was the first year she had hoped to be well enough that Daniel could stay with her. Her sister had been dead for five years and she had expected to be less emotional, more controlled, so that Nick wouldn’t take him away from her. But it hadn’t happened. This year was worse than ever.
She stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her tea. If Daniel were here he would have distracted her. He would have required her attention. But he wasn’t, Marianne thought, and that meant she could do whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to worry about falling apart. She didn’t have to answer his questions. She could honor this five year anniversary however she wanted with no one to answer to but herself.
She got abruptly to her feet, her tea forgotten, and walked briskly toward the house before she could change her mind.
****
Nadia sat on her parents’ bed, as she had so many times before, and watched her mother. This was both ritual and routine. As a child Nadia had watched curiously, awed by the tubes and bottles that lined her mother’s vanity, intrigued by the glittering jewels that were casually selected and worn. As she got older, it became a time of bonding and conversation. Vivien would tell her daughter stories of her own childhood. She described events that otherwise were never spoken of. Nadia, the youngest child, and the only one that still lived at home and still spoke to her parents, would sit on the bed as always and listen.
“This birthday means a great deal to your father,” Vivien said at length. “I want everything to be perfect.”
“It is,” Nadia told her. “The caterers are nearly ready. Everything looks great.”
“It has to.” Vivien seemed agitated.
“Are you all right, Mom?”
“Of course,” Vivien calmly brushed her hair. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because it’s the first party you’ve thrown since Dani died, Nadia thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. In the five years since her sister’s death they had never spoken her name. If they pretended that she hadn’t lived then she couldn’t have died.
“You just seem a little stressed,” Nadia said finally.
“Well, I am, naturally,” Vivien replied. “There are so many details. So many people.”
“It’s okay if you are, Mom,” Nadia said softly. “It’s a big day. An important one.”
“Yes, for your father,” Vivien set her hairbrush down with a snap. “Everything needs to be perfect.”
“It will be,” Nadia reassured her.
“He hasn’t arrived yet has he?”
“No,” Nadia watched her select her jewelry. Her mother was in her fifties and didn’t look or act like it. She hoped to be as youthful when she was that age.
“Sam is going to take him for a few drinks and then bring him home.”
“He’ll be surprised,” Nadia said. “He’ll be happy you did it.”
“I hope so,” Vivien’s voice was doubtful. She smiled brightly. “I’m about finished here. We should go down in case there are any early guests.”
Nadia watched her rise from the chair looking graceful and elegant. Although she looked like her mother, with the same dark hair and deep blue eyes, she often felt clumsy next to her. Her mother was the perfect society wife. Nadia was more like her father. She loved to laugh and play. Etiquette and cocktail parties bored her.
But it was her father’s birthday and she would attend this function even if it bored her to tears.
“Will you be going out afterwards?” Vivien asked as if she had read her daughter’s mind.
“Maybe.” Nadia slid off of the bed. She wore a short green dress, her long hair loose over her shoulders.
“Still seeing the same guy?”
“Maybe.” Nadia smiled. “You won’t like him.”
“I expect that’s why I haven’t met him yet.”
“You might still, I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it,” Vivien slid her arm through Nadia’s as they walked out of the room. It was a rare gesture of affection. Although they engaged in long talks on occasion, Vivien never seemed comfortable touching her.
“I will. I really don’t think you’ll like him though.”
“Maybe I won’t,” Vivien agreed. She shut the bedroom door behind her. “But then not every man I spent time with would have impressed my parents either.”
“Really?”
“I’ve made my share of bad decisions,” Vivien looked down at her as they descended the stairs. “Maybe my share and yours.”
Nadia laughed. “I’d love to hear that story one day.”
“There are some stories a woman never tells,” Vivien said softly. “Some mistakes are big enough that they should only be your own.”
“Some mistakes aren’t actually as bad as we think.”
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Vivien turned to her. She hesitated a moment, as if debating what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it.
“When I look back on my life, the entirety of it, there are things I would do exactly as I did. There are others though,” her voice trailed off, “that I would never have let happen. Certain decisions that you make now will ultimately change your life, for good or bad, and once you’ve made those decisions you won’t be able to undo them. Not ever.”
Vivien sighed and then continued, “I want you to remember this. If you don’t remember anything else I’ve said after I’m gone, remember this. Be careful who you choose to be involved with. Don’t take love or sex lightly. We always think we know our lovers, our husbands, but we don’t. They can make fools of us. And once there are children involved, once we depend on them for money or reputation, walking away isn’t so easy.”
“Mom?” there was so much she wanted to ask. Instead she said nothing.
“I don’t want you to depend on anyone. Ever. For anything.”
But I depend on you, Nadia thought.
The doorbell rang.
“The first of our guests are arriving,” Vivien said bitterly. “Let’s get this party going and be done with it.”
Chapter Two
Outside the lovely white house, on the back patio, those closest to William gathered to wish him well. Champagne and spirits flowed freely and guests sampled appetizers from circulating trays. Caterers had prepared a variety of food and servers moved inconspicuously among the guests to offer it. Everything was according to Vivien’s specifications and everything had gone beautifully.
William made his way slowly from one end of the garden to the other, stopping to chat with old friends and colleagues. He was pleased that his brother, Marius, had made the trip from London and had brought his wife and children with him. They managed to speak weekly on the phone and emailed each other regularly, but it had been a year or more since he’d seen any of his extended family and the fact that they’d made the trip despite being so busy with their own lives meant a lot to William. He and Vivien had made their own family but at the end of the day it was his brother who had made the effort to be there with him. His own children, save Nadia, were no where to be seen. There had been no phone calls or cards in the mail. After five years he’d stopped expecting it but, after seeing Marius and all the others who’d turned out for his party, it still burned.
He turned from his brother, who was describing a recent trip to Berlin, and looked toward the house. He had made a home here for thirty years. The stately structure held many good memories and many hardships. William liked to think he had overcome them. He liked to think that with aging came times of triumph and times of sorrow. He was approaching his retirement and a new era of his life. He tried not to think of his past, of where he�
��d been and the mistakes he had made. But now, staring at the house, seeing his wife standing on the back terrace alone, a wistful expression on her lovely face, he couldn’t help himself.
Vivien had never truly recovered from all that had happened to them. The bitterness and estrangement that had followed Dani’s death had affected her deeply. While William had been able to consider, accept, and compartmentalize the events that had happened to him in life, Vivien could not. She withdrew into herself, sinking into stretches of depression that held her for weeks at a time.
She was a lovely woman, William thought as he gazed at her. Ebony hair and sapphire eyes. She had aged well and kept herself remarkably youthful. William had always prided himself on his marriage, had always referred to her as his better half. She was witty and intelligent and an excellent hostess. Reflecting on his life, looking back on his marriage and the choices he had made, William knew that he had been right when he had asked her to marry him.
Between them they had made six children, with only one in attendance. That was the grief in Vivien’s beautiful eyes, William knew. She was thinking of them and wishing they were here. Angrily he put aside his memories and any sense of responsibility. Every once in a while they crept into his thoughts, grabbed a hold of his heart and gave a good hard squeeze. He was human. He was entitled to his emotions. Vivien, he knew, thought of them every day. It had destroyed her most of all to lose them so completely from her life. They never spoke of it. It was something they could not properly put into words.
It was not how William had thought his life would be.
He put that aside the moment it occurred to him. He had lived his life up until now, he reminded himself. He had married well, traveled, and built a successful law firm.
William sighed deeply, resentfully. He was becoming melancholy and he shouldn’t upset himself at his birthday party. Vivien had gone to a lot of trouble. He began to walk toward the house, thinking that he would find his wife and tell her how lovely the party was. But when he looked up again, hoping to meet Vivien’s eyes, she was gone.