by Jane Green
He was rarely here to accompany me to the various events I used to fill the emptiness in my life, and it is beginning to dawn on me that this wasn’t a marriage. This was an arrangement.
An arrangement that didn’t make me happy, an arrangement that was so unreal, I’m questioning not just my marriage, but also everything connected with it.
The furniture, the clothes, the stuff, already mostly gone, and none of it missed.
The friends who have all disappeared, the parties to which I’m definitely no longer invited, the committees I will never be asked to chair again—does any of it matter? Did any of it ever matter?
I keep driving, these thoughts whirring through my head, no idea where I’m going, aware only that the farther away I drive from New Salem, the calmer I become.
I exit on a whim, take roads because I like the look of them, noticing the leaves hanging over the roads, the bright green of the grass, the farms dotted around, cows grazing peacefully in the meadows.
Guilford. Old Saybrook. Lyme. I follow a sign to Ashlawn Farm, curious as to what I might find, delighting in finding a coffee roaster and café, settling into an old wooden chair on the porch of a charming farmhouse, sipping the delicious coffee as I look out over the fields, not realizing for a while that there is a smile on my face.
A few others join me on the porch. We smile hello, make small talk, and it is only when I am left alone again that I realize I have found the place to start the next part of my journey. Left up to me, I would never set foot in New Salem again, not least because at the ripe old age of forty-four, I find myself starting again with absolutely nothing?
The only thing of which I’m certain is that this is the place in which to do it—a town that has finally managed to fill me with peace.
42
Sylvie
Sylvie sits on a bench overlooking the water, sipping from a bottle of water, berating herself for feeling so nervous. This is Mark, for God’s sake. The man she had lived with and loved all these years.
The man who had lied to her all these years.
She wouldn’t speak to him on the phone, or let him come to the house as his attorney had suggested, after she borrowed money from Simon to bail Mark out. She isn’t even sure why she did it, only that with Eve being so fragile, she couldn’t bear for her to think of Mark in prison.
They are meeting at Torrey Pines—the state reserve. While beautiful, it held no romantic memories for either of them, was neutral enough to remove the possibility of running into anyone they knew.
Not that running into people was a problem for Sylvie. She held her head high, refusing to be seen as a victim in this. She was still Sylvie: mother, friend, artist.
She couldn’t describe herself as wife. Not anymore.
The women in school had rallied round, inviting her out with them, sending letters and e-mails expressing their dismay and support for her. Sylvie rarely accepted those kind invitations, but knew they were genuine.
Keeping busy was the distraction she needed. During the day, she painted houses; at night, she made candles. Whatever she could do to get by. Too much quiet time, and she found herself dwelling on the past, the movie of her life with Mark running through her head, rewinding and replaying, as she tried to figure out why.
* * *
She hears him before she sees him, the butterflies in her stomach instantly waking up. She turns and stands, quickly rearranging her features to hide her shock at his appearance.
Mark, always so debonair, handsome, so very much the California boy next door, looks terrible. So thin, his pants are hanging off him, his face is gaunt; deep shadows under his eyes. Where before, he was always immaculately dressed, Mark’s polo shirt is stained and worn.
If you didn’t know better, you might mistake him for a homeless man.
He stops in front of her and drinks her in. “You look wonderful.” The tears in his eyes seem genuine.
“You look terrible.” Sylvie cannot help it. They both smile, and for a moment she forgets what he has done, sees only the man she has loved, the possibility in that smile, before dislodging the thought with a shake of her head.
“Oh, Sylvie.” He reaches for her hand as she takes a step backward, noting the dismay in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He backs away himself, unable to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “Shall we … walk?”
The path is narrow, a sandy trail along the cliffs by the water. They walk in silence, Sylvie hyperconscious of not touching Mark, moving off the path and into the grass to avoid their arms brushing by mistake as they move.
“I’d like to try to explain,” Mark says eventually.
“Oh, I don’t think you can,” Sylvie says to stop him. “I didn’t contact you for an explanation. I contacted you because Eve has been very ill and I thought you ought to know.” Sylvie continues walking, turning only when Mark grabs her arm and pulls her round to face him, his expression stricken.
“Eve? What’s the matter? What is it?”
There is no doubt. Dr. Lawson was right. Whatever else he might have done, Mark is Eve’s father, and he loves her. It is clear on his face. He truly loves her, and there is no question in Sylvie’s mind what she must do.
Not for her, but for her daughter. To help her daughter heal.
She explains, forcing herself to keep her hands by her side as Mark weeps, knowing his own part in this.
When he finishes, she asks quietly, “Where are you living?” knowing the likely answer.
“I’m in a shelter,” he mumbles. “It’s not great. I had a few nights on the street, though, so this is the Four Seasons by comparison.” He attempts a laugh, but how can Sylvie laugh at how far he has fallen?
“You can stay in the guest room.” She turns to him, registering his widening eyes. “No—” She steps back, away from his hands reaching out. “This isn’t anything other than a kindness. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but Eve needs your presence.”
* * *
What have I done?
All the way home, her emotions tumble from one extreme to the other. Pain, love, hurt, disgust, betrayal, pity. If she had a choice, she would never see him again. She has endured so much pain in her life already, she has learned to deal with extreme pain by removing herself from it, moving on.
Her love for her daughter won’t let her do that.
This isn’t about her anymore. This is about Eve. She hasn’t even told Dr. Lawson she was doing this, will wait for the right time, but she is sure this is necessary.
He shows up that night, contrite, his possessions in one faded bag.
“I know you can’t forgive me,” he says as soon as he steps over the threshold, in a clearly well-rehearsed speech. “But, Sylvie, I never meant to cause anyone harm. I fell in love wit—”
“Stop!” she says sharply. “I don’t want to hear it. You can stay in the guest room, but I am not interested in being your friend, let alone anything else. I am not interested in an explanation. I would be much happier if you spent your time away from the house when I am home, and I do not want you discussing this with anyone other than your attorney. I need to talk to Eve’s doctors about the possibility of you going to see her.”
Mark, overcome with relief at not having to return to the men’s shelter he has been staying in while he awaits the trial, closes his eyes briefly and nods, all traces of confidence, even arrogance, long since gone.
43
Sylvie
Angie whirls around, fire flashing from her eyes. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Sylvie frowns. “I hate it, Angie. I can’t stand seeing him in the house, yet there’s a part of me that feels like it’s right that he’s in the house, it’s where he belongs.”
“He’s lucky he even has a fucking house!” Angie scowls. “If it weren’t for us lending you money, that house would have been in foreclosure. God, Sylvie. I knew you wer
e a saint, but this is pushing it.” She leans forward, her voice suddenly low. “Don’t you dare let him back. Don’t you dare let him charm himself back.”
Sylvie laughs wearily. “As bizarre as this sounds, I know that won’t happen. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for Eve. He is her dad, and she needs both of us right now.”
Angie pauses. “Is that what your therapist said?”
She nods.
“And how about Eve’s doctors?”
“Haven’t brought it up yet. That’s next on the list.”
“But why in your house?” Angie insists. “That’s what doesn’t make any sense. He’s committed the ultimate betrayal, yet the consequence is he gets to live in your wonderful house with you doubtless waiting on him hand and foot.”
“Firstly, I’m hardly waiting on him. I’ve told him to stay out of the way when I’m around.”
“And he’s respecting that?” Angie frowns doubtfully. “No cozy dinners for two on the terrace?”
Sylvie thinks of how it has been the past few days, the two of them in the same house, circling each other carefully, both anxious to stay out of the other’s way. While she was walking past the guest room door this morning, it opened, Mark wrapped in a towel on his way to the bathroom. She stopped and stared, unable to tear her eyes away from his thin, pale frame, a shadow of the man he used to be.
“I look like hell,” he offered softly. “I know. I understand they have great workouts in prison,” he attempted to joke. “They say it’s all you have to fill your days.”
It was the first time he had mentioned prison, and Sylvie, fighting so hard to push down any remaining vestiges of love she may still have for her husband, automatically wanted to comfort him, tell him it’s going to be okay.
That’s not her job now. And even if it were, she couldn’t possibly tell him it’s going to be okay when it very probably isn’t.
“No!” Sylvie is vehement. “I cook something, put some on a plate for him, and leave it outside his room. I’ve told him I’m not interested in socializing.”
Angie shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know, Sylvie. The whole thing is weird. Why would you let him back home? He can still attend daily therapy, living somewhere else.”
“You want to know the truth?” Sylvie bursts out. “I feel sorry for him. He looks terrible. He’s so thin and gaunt, he’s been living on the streets for God’s sake.”
“Good,” huffs Angie. “Serves him right.”
“Angie,” Sylvie urges. “He’s facing ten years in jail. His life is over. I feel sick every time I look at him, but not as sick as he must be feeling inside. I don’t know why he did what he did, because I am too busy running to visit Eve and my mother in their goddamned hospitals.” Her voice is broken with a sob. “And when I get home, there is no one there for me, and even though I will never forgive him, there is some measure of comfort in having another body in the house. There is some measure of comfort in knowing that I am not entirely alone.”
“I’m sorry.” Angie feels terrible. “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through, and I can’t judge. I didn’t mean to. Just swear to me you won’t be sweet-talked into bed by him?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Sylvie nods without a smile as Angie walks over to give her a hug.
* * *
It is Eve’s first time out of rehab. A day pass, designed to slowly integrate her from inpatient to outpatient, continuing the therapy and twelve-step meetings, starting each day at her mother’s house with a phone call to her sponsor.
“Great, Mom,” Eve mutters as she sinks into the passenger seat, buckling herself in. “My first day out of prison, and you’re taking me to another hospital.”
Sylvie is about to jump on the defensive before she looks over to see Eve is smiling. “I’m kidding, Mom. I know I have to see Grand-mère. How is she?”
A deep sigh from Sylvie. “She’s not good. The swelling of the brain hasn’t gone down since the stroke, and she’s not conscious.”
“Is she going to die?” Her face shows curiosity rather than fear.
“Yes. Well”—she shoots her a look—“we’re all going to die, but in Grand-mère’s case, it’s sooner rather than later.”
Eve stares out the window wordlessly. When she turns back, Sylvie is shocked to see her eyes have welled up.
“Evie, sweetie? I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to cause you any more pain, but you need to see her. You need to say your good-byes just in case.”
“I don’t even like her.” Eve bursts out in a sob. “She’s evil. I have no idea why I’m crying.”
Sylvie knows. She reaches over and takes her hand. “Loss is hard,” she says quietly. “Especially when you’re young. You’ve already been through so much. I wish this wasn’t happening now, but we have to assume there’s a lesson in it for us. There has to be, otherwise what would be the point. But I think there’s more here. I think this loss is bringing up the loss of your father.”
Eve is openly sobbing now. “I don’t even remember my father,” she says. “How can it be?”
“You may not think you remember, but it’s there, and this is your first loss since your dad. It has to trigger your subconscious. We’ll talk to Sonya about it tomorrow, okay? Or do you want to call her when we get home?”
“I’ll wait until tomorrow,” Eve says as Sylvie makes a mental note to call the therapist as soon as she is on her own.
* * *
Sylvie, always attuned to energy, knows something is wrong as soon as she walks in the house. Mark is not in his room, but at the kitchen counter, nursing what looks like a large Scotch.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvie asks immediately. “What’s happened?”
“I’m so sorry,” he starts. “It’s my fault. I picked up the phone without thinking.”
“And?”
He sighs. “It was Maggie. She went ballistic. I tried to explain that I was just staying here, that there was nothing between us, but she refused to believe it. She’s on the warpath.”
“Warpath? What does that mean? Warpath?”
“She said she was going to sell her story to the press, and that we’d both be sorry.”
“What?” Sylvie stands still. “What goddamned story? The press already know everything there is to know. Don’t they? Mark? Is there more you haven’t been telling me? What the hell else is there?”
“Nothing more. She thinks we’re together. She thinks we’re hiding the money and we planned this—”
The shrill ring of the phone interrupts him.
“Don’t answer it,” he groans. “It’s probably her.”
Sylvie ignores him, snatching up the phone.
“Mrs. Haydn?”
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Rothenberg from Scripps Memorial Hospital. I’m so very sorry, but I have bad news. Your mother has had another stroke.”
“What? But I thought she was stable.”
“The swelling in the brain did subside, but very often, subsequent strokes can occur in the next few weeks, which is, in fact, what happened.”
“How is she—is she—?” Sylvie, feeling strangely blank, can’t say the word.
“I’m afraid your mother has passed away. We did everything we could. I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says awkwardly. “It may be of some comfort to know she is at peace now.”
I doubt that, Sylvie thinks. She’s probably demanding to be let into the front of the line at the pearly gates. But she merely says thank you and puts down the phone, gazing blankly at the tiles behind the stove, wondering what this feeling might be.
Now it’s Mark’s turn to ask what is wrong, all thoughts of Maggie having been forgotten.
Sylvie turns to him blankly. “My mother has died.”
“Oh, Sylvie.” Mark extends his arms to her, his expression a mask of sympathy as Sylvie shakes her head and moves away from him, explaining that she just needs to be on her own.
She steps outsid
e into the yard, breathing in the lavender as she makes her way to the mossy old bench in the cutting garden, curling up on the cushion and hugging her knees, laying her head on her hands as she stares up into the velvety sky.
Which is when it comes to her.
This doesn’t feel like grief.
This is relief.
44
Sylvie
Sylvie can feel Maggie’s eyes burn into hers, but she refuses to turn and acknowledge her, feeling only sadness that they had almost formed a friendship, until Maggie allowed a false set of assumptions to swallow her up in hatred.
The courtroom is deathly quiet save for the scratchy scribbling of the illustrator, her colored chalks perfectly capturing the grim determination on Sylvie’s face, the distraught near-hysteria on Maggie’s.
At least the truth will come out today, here, in a court of law. Maggie may not have believed Sylvie, may have convinced herself Sylvie and Mark were in this together, but today she will know she is wrong.
Sylvie looks over at Mark, who gives her a small smile that, were you to notice it, you might think was a smile of encouragement. Were you Maggie, you might think it confirmation of collusion and love.
Maggie, noticing the smile, for she cannot take her eyes off either of them, desperately searching for evidence to support her belief, feels an almost-uncontainable rage flood her body. She does not know Mark’s smile is a smile of shame. Of apology. Of acknowledgment that he has fucked up everything in his life he has ever cared about.
He thought moving back in would open the door a crack, allow him to find his way back to Sylvie’s heart, but he was wrong. No matter what he tried, he hit a blank wall, until Sylvie eventually had to ask him to leave, the humiliation being too much for both of them to bear.
* * *
Coolly Sylvie looks at the lawyer, confirming her name, address, various technicalities, and eventually her legal status as married. The lawyer then asks if she recognizes her husband in this courtroom.