Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  The clothes from my former life, the ones that were too good to give to Goodwill but not good enough to be accepted by the consignment clothes store a couple of towns over.

  “Not quite designer enough,” said the snooty girl as she idly flicked through them, looking not at the blouses but at the labels, a sneer almost visible on her face as she handed them back to me. She didn’t thank me for coming in, or say good-bye, merely turned her head and grew busy doing something else in a way that was altogether too superior, I thought, for a twenty-something working in a consignment dress store, snapping gum in a decidedly irritating way.

  I meant to take them to another, less judgmental consignment store, but life had been so busy back then, all my energies going into trying to support my kids, trying to find a new place to live, I never got round to it.

  So here they are! These blouses I tried to get rid of, which were not good enough for the girl in the consignment store, but which are more than good enough, probably in fact too good, for my new life.

  The olive green chiffon top with the long sash that wrapped around and tied in a large bow. Bought at a small boutique on Nantucket one summer, it was beautiful, if not by anyone I had ever heard of. I hold it up, remembering how much it suited me. What was I thinking in trying to get rid of it?

  A baby blue silk tunic, embroidered with silver thread and tiny silver sequins. I remember wearing this all summer one year, in our rented house on the Vineyard. It is still as lovely as I had thought back then.

  An ivory silk tee, long chiffon sleeves, cut on the bias with an asymmetrical hem, that I had always loved, but had never worn. It was far too edgy for the conservative girls of New Salem.

  There are a few more. A black evening vest that was Armani, but the label had fallen off, hence the consignment girl’s disdain; a navy-and-cream-patterned blouse with large floaty sleeves; a hot pink caftan that, again, I never wore but always loved.

  I feel a surge of happiness that I kept these beautiful clothes I had forgotten about. I will wear them all, but not in the way I once did, teamed with strappy Manolo Blahnik sandals and large, glittering diamonds.

  I’ll wear them to suit who I am now. With jeans and boots. Maybe even clogs.

  I pick up the ivory silk tee, returning to the bathroom to tip my head upside down as I blow-dry the curls, crunching the stiff dried gel until it is soft, tipping my head back with a shake as soft curls flow in a waterfall down my back.

  I am ashamed to admit it is a few seconds before I can tear myself away from the mirror. I look nothing like the glossy, overly made-up, highlighted, straight-haired, bejeweled, and intimidating trophy wife.

  Nor do I look anything like the Maggie of the last two years: dowdy, weary, colorless. A woman who doesn’t care what she looks like, has gone through something so painful, it is clear for all to see. A woman who has lost all joie de vivre, who puts her energies into getting through each day.

  A woman who recognizes her life has stopped, and does not care whether it starts again or not.

  The woman looking back at me in the mirror is fresh, natural, approachable. She is soft and pretty. She is a woman you would want to talk to. You would want to be friends with her.

  I would want to be friends with her.

  Not because she wields power, but because she is real.

  50

  Maggie

  Buck holds the door of the River Tavern open for me to go first, and I pause for a second as a swell of pride washes over me at my handsome, grown-up boy. He has dressed up, in a button-down shirt and chinos, his hair swept off his face in the way he knows I like it rather than the Bieber-esque sweep that he, and all his friends, have been doing of late.

  The restaurant is warm and bright. It is like walking into sunshine, every table filled, delicious smells, a handful of people at the bar in the front room, the buzz of happy conversation filling both rooms. We’re greeted by a smiling girl who seems particularly enthralled by Buck before being led to a table in the back, against the wall of windows.

  “Mom, you look amazing,” Buck says as the girl, reluctantly, leaves. “I haven’t seen you like this in such a long time.”

  “Like what? Dressed up? Usually it’s too much effort,” I grumble as the waiter hands me the drinks menu, but I’m thrilled. “I wanted to look nice for our first grown-up mother–son date.”

  Buck smiles before shaking his head. “It’s not just dressed up. You seem … happy. I haven’t seen you happy since … well … honestly? I don’t know that you’ve ever looked this happy.” He grins. “You seem younger, which is really weird. Maybe it’s the curly hair. It’s just a totally different vibe, and the whole thing suits you.”

  “Wow! That’s a lot to dissect. Meanwhile, when did my teenage son become so perceptive?” I reach over to squeeze his hand, for he is right that tonight I feel happy.

  I am happy to be exactly where I am, with my son, in this restaurant. I am happy to look around the room at my fellow diners, none of whom I know, yet I feel the kinship of our shared humanity. I am happy to sit, finally comfortable in my skin and, for the first time in two years, be truly of, and in, the world again.

  I’m not looking to run away anymore. I don’t wade through life wondering how everyone can seem so normal when everything in my world is upside down. I don’t find myself watching a movie, or reading a book, and spacing out for a few minutes as I acknowledge that absolute happiness exists, but for other people. Not for me.

  I no longer feel as if I’m swimming underwater, able to hear but not to feel. Able to speak, but only the basics, for my voice had gone, drowned in a sea of shame. I’m no longer hiding in my workroom, declining all invitations to girls’ nights out with Patty and Barb, venturing out only across the garden to Mr. and Mrs. Wellesley’s, and only because they nurture me like a daughter, have only ever provided a place of safety, and comfort, and love.

  I’m not counting the hours until I can go to bed, wanting a few hours respite from the numbness, fighting the wish that I could stay in bed for days—perhaps for the rest of my life.

  I am here. Present. Happy.

  Sitting in the River Tavern, across from my handsome son who is currently having a long conversation with the waiter about the giant molcajete on the counter into the kitchen, peppering him about how the guacamole is made, how come the avocado doesn’t get stuck in the holes.

  Tonight I can breathe.

  Tonight I realize I have finally come back to life.

  * * *

  Our meals have been eaten with gusto, Buck making me laugh all evening with stories of school, his friends, their girlfriends. I still can’t believe how lucky I am with Buck, with this child who tells me everything, who trusts me enough to talk to me honestly. Every now and then, I remind myself not to count my blessings yet. Once upon a time, I could have said the same thing of Grace.

  Grace. A cloud descends whenever I think about Grace. I keep writing to her, but she hasn’t responded. I’m kept in the loop by Buck, and occasionally Chris, although he is busy with his life in New York, too busy to do more than text every now and then.

  I don’t blame him. I don’t blame Grace; I just wish things were different.

  You reap what you sow. I think of this often, usually when the pain over my estrangement from Grace becomes almost too much for me to bear.

  How can I blame my children for not wanting to be with me, when I didn’t want to be with them? I hate admitting that, have been able to see that only since my world fell apart two years ago, but throughout their childhoods, I had no idea how to be with them, how to be present, how to be a mother.

  How could I have known? I was raised by wolves myself, both parents out working all day while I was left entirely to my own devices. I had a key, would come home from school every day to a silent house. I’d make myself a snack, do my homework, clean the kitchen, and do laundry.

  When my mother got home from her cleaning job, she was exhausted herself, too tired to be i
nterested in me.

  How could I have known how to parent when I wasn’t parented myself?

  “Am I a better mother now?” I say, smiling at Buck, who is moaning with pleasure at the date pudding we are supposed to be sharing, which is currently in the middle of the table, three quarters gone, my spoon lying untouched in front of me.

  “Than when? Before? New Salem?”

  I nod.

  “Mom! How can you even ask? You know you are, but it’s an unfair comparison. Life was so different, you had so much more stuff going on. And the three of us kids were home. Well. Until Chris went to school, but it was different.”

  “It was, but Grace thinks I was a nightmare. Controlling and critical. I’m only able to see now how true that was, but I’m not like that anymore, am I?” I want to be sure I’ve changed as much as I think I have.

  “No, Mom.” He shakes his head. “You’re not. Don’t take this the wrong way, but for the past few weeks, this is the first time, literally, that you’ve seemed like a mom again. I mean, you’ve been home all the time, and you’ve been there for me in a way you never were back then, but it’s almost been like you were only half there. You just seemed so … sad. The Dad stuff, and Grace, and then we hardly ever hear from Chris. It felt a bit like I was the only one who had you back in some way, but I lost you too.”

  “I’m sorry.” I swallow the lump in my throat, blinking back tears. “I did lose myself, and I know it’s been hard, but none of it meant I didn’t love you. Any of you. I am back, though. Really back. I wish Grace would give me another chance. Have you—?” I look down at the tablecloth. “Have you heard from her recently?”

  “No. She hasn’t been on Facebook, so we haven’t chatted in a while. Chris saw her a couple of weekends ago, I think. He posted something about being in New York and taking his sister out to the Spice Market.”

  I force my face to retain its pleasant demeanor, as false as that feels, given the pain of knowing so little about my two elder children’s lives. I know hardly anything about Chris’s work, his friends, what he does in the evenings, whether he’s finally learned to do his own washing. I have no idea how he’s coping, even less about Grace.

  “So how was Grace? Did Chris say anything about her?”

  To my dismay, Buck shakes his head. Of course they didn’t talk about it. Chris has other things going on, and Buck is sixteen. Why would they be interested in discussing Grace?

  I swallow. “Do you know if she said anything about me?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I’m sorry. Want me to find out?”

  “No. I’m sorry. It’s okay. She’ll get in touch when she’s ready.” I blink the pain away and force myself away from the memories and regrets, back to the present. “How did you turn out so well? Unless I’m wrong.” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not dealing drugs or anything when I’m not around?”

  Buck laughs. “And risk Coach kicking me off the team? Are you kidding? Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest. Maybe I’m too dumb to be angry about it.” I watch his face grow serious. “Of course I was hurt, and I didn’t understand, but”—he shrugs—“I guess I never thought that Dad did it because he didn’t love me. Who knows why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to try a different kind of life, and got in too deep before he could stop it, but I never felt that he did it because I wasn’t good enough. I think that’s the crucial difference between Grace and me. I think she thinks it’s her fault.”

  “She doesn’t,” I say quietly. “She thinks it’s my fault.”

  “Yours. Hers. It doesn’t really matter. The fact is that blaming doesn’t get you anywhere. It keeps you stuck. Blaming stops you from moving on with your life.” He reaches for another spoonful of pudding as his words strike to the core of my being.

  * * *

  After kissing him good night and thanking him for the most wonderful treat I have had in years, I pad upstairs to my tiny bedroom under the eaves. The walls are papered in an English floral print wallpaper, pretty striped curtains, window seats with large, tasseled pillows.

  Mrs. W had decorated the guesthouse, intending her son and daughter to come and stay, expecting it to be filled with grandchildren, friends. This bedroom was for the daughter she rarely sees, her dreams, expectations, and love embroidered into every pillow, sewn into every square of the blue and white quilt.

  The bedside lamps cast a warm glow as I climb into bed, propping the pillows up behind me as I reach for the computer, setting it on my lap as I stare at the screen, Buck’s words still echoing in my head.

  Blaming doesn’t get you anywhere … blaming stops you from moving on with your life.

  It is, finally, as clear as day. That is why I haven’t been able to move on. I was too busy blaming:

  I blamed Mark—for the shame, the lies, the deception, the financial mess, the stealing.

  I blamed Sylvie. Others may have thought she was as much a victim as me, but I knew that had it not been for her, had Mark never met her, I might still have a faithful husband. I might still have the life I thought I always wanted.

  But most of all, I blamed myself. How could I have been so stupid? How could I not have questioned his obvious lies? How could I have been so accepting?

  You see what you want to see, and you hear what you want to hear.

  I believed because I wanted to believe. I went against every instinct that told me something was amiss, and chose to ignore them because I didn’t want anything in my life to change.

  A weight I have carried on my shoulders for two years finally leaves me.

  It is time to let it all go.

  51

  Buck

  “Take it easy, Hathaway!” I distantly hear Coach yell as I slam my opponent into the wall at the side of the rink, growling in rage as I push him back again.

  I have no idea how I’m able to play lacrosse and hockey with such fury, such passion, because take me out of the rink, off the field, and I’m the most mellow dude you’ll ever meet.

  But here at Norwich Ice Rink, let’s just say I have something of a reputation during the games. Not when I’m practicing, but when I’m put in an organized competitive situation, a whole other side of me comes out. Maybe it allows me to tap into a rage that’s so deep, I barely register its existence, although no psychologist would be surprised after what my family has been through.

  I let the guy go and follow the coach’s directions, catching the eye of a group of girls who’ve started following our team. The other boys have known most of them forever, and apparently I’m the “fresh meat” that’s bringing them to the games.

  They’re cute, but I’m not really interested in any of them.

  For months after my dad disappeared, my mom kept talking about needing to take me to see someone; how important it was for me to talk about it, share my feelings. It took ages for me to get her to understand that I didn’t have anything to talk about.

  I never felt the way Grace did, that my dad did this because he didn’t love me, or that I was to blame. People fuck up; he had fucked up, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. It did force me to grow up, though. I may be sixteen, but I feel twenty. Maybe twenty-five. When I look at this group of girls, cute and giggly, and following my every loop and slash round the rink, despite knowing we are the same age, I feel old enough to be their father.

  The girl at the River Tavern, on the other hand? The one who showed us to the table the other night? Who must have been around twenty or twenty-one? Now she is definitely worth revisiting.

  We win the game, but I decline the offer of celebratory ice cream. I’ve got a job at the boatyard to get back to, and I wave a general good-bye in the direction of the girls, walking off to the truck.

  I throw my bag in the back, when I feel a hand on my arm. I turn. It’s one of the girls. The prettiest, in fact. If I were to be interested, which I’m not, this would be the one.

  “Hi.” She smiles. Seductively.

  “Hi.” I pause, hand on the door handl
e. “Rachel, right?”

  Her face lights up. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you around.”

  “And you’re Buck.”

  “Buck Hathaway.” I extend a hand to shake hands, the way I’ve always been taught, which seems to throw her a bit. She looks down at my hand, laughs a bit, then shakes my hand.

  “This is the coolest truck in the whole world,” she says, looking over it. “I see you driving around, and I could just die of jealousy. I’m driving a smashed-up Honda, and I dream of an old F-100.”

  I’m impressed she even knows what this is, and no, she didn’t check the tailgate.

  She scuffs a flip-flop in the gravel and looks up at me, biting her lip in a way that is designed to be part cute, part suggestive. “So I just came out to see if you were interested in hanging out with a bunch of us tonight?”

  “Hanging out?”

  “My place. Around eight. My parents are going out. You should come. Do you have your phone? I can text you my address.”

  I get out my phone and give her the number for her to send the text, thanking her for the invitation.

  “I’m not sure I can make it, though,” I say, forcing an expression of regret on my face. “My mom asked me to do some stuff for her. I’ll try to get out of it, though, okay? I’ll do my best.”

  “I’ll be much more fun than your mom.” She pouts. “Promise,” and with that she turns and walks back to the rink, deliberately swinging her butt in a way that is just the tiniest bit tempting.

  But here’s the thing. She still isn’t my type. And she definitely isn’t much more fun than my mom. Maybe that was true two years ago, but my mom has become the coolest mom I could ever have wished for, and far more a friend than a mom, although there are still certain things I would never, ever tell her.

  That although she knows my dad writes me long letters from jail, I write him back. I didn’t at first, but Chris was gone, and I missed him. I wanted him to know about making Varsity, and the truck, and what was going on, but telling him anything personal took a little while. Trusting him at all took a little while.