Family Pictures (17 page)

Last year, the tea was at Kim’s, and frankly, although I don’t want to be bitchy, it was somewhat ostentatious. Some might even say vulgar. She had a band in the garden, for heaven’s sake. The food was delicious, but there was so much of it! And the flowers were so big, you couldn’t see anyone sitting opposite you, plus seating charts for a tea is a little …
too too.

What I’ve learned, after all these years of studying how to do things correctly, is that less is always more. The truly rich don’t wear thick makeup with huge diamonds dripping in their ears; they don’t drive Aston Martins and overwhelm you with enormous flowers and endless food on silver platters.

The truly rich keep it simple. Less is more. Pretty spring flowers in wicker baskets. Homemade food. Tea served in pretty porcelain teapots on small tables around the pool.

It will be the personification of understated elegance. I will, in short, show Kim, mistress of the thirty-thousand-square-foot stone mansion, how it should be done.

*   *   *

It’s going beautifully, and I couldn’t be happier. The sun is shining down as the women chatter excitedly, complimenting one another on their pastel-colored dresses, wide-brimmed sun hats, gold and diamond jewelry glinting in the sun as they turn their heads to see who else has arrived.

In a break from the traditional white wine, I’ve decided to serve champagne, a spoonful of pomegranate seeds in each glass, causing the seeds to bubble around like a sophisticated handheld lava lamp, bringing a sparkle to the very event itself.

Lara nudges me as Kim walks in, carefully tiptoeing across the grass in her strappy high heels so she doesn’t sink in, a simple cream sheath dress showing off her Bikram Yoga body perfectly, a huge feathered fascinator exploding from the side of her head. A Chanel bag is over one shoulder; under the other arm a Havapoo, or Peekapoo, or Maltipeke. I never can tell one from the other.

“I hope it’s okay to bring dogs.” Kim air-kisses both of us as she puts the dog down. “Although she’s not really a dog. She thinks she’s my baby! I have to take her to the groomers after, so it saves me going home.”

“Of course!” I lie, watching as the dog chooses just that moment to squat and pee. Great.

Kim makes a big show of pulling her sunglasses down and peering over the top of them, looking around at everything as Lara kicks me.

“Look what a beautiful job you’ve done!” Kim enthuses, and I am about to thank her, genuinely thrilled at her genuine compliment, when she ruins it by continuing. “It’s so …
country
! How cute! You must have done those sweet flowers yourself!”

I am speechless. Lara reaches a hand, unseen, behind my back and gently pokes me as I try to maintain the falsest smile I’ve ever had to fake, not knowing what to say next. What I want to say, in my best Astoria accent, is,
Fuck you, bitch. Bring it on.
But of course, I wouldn’t do that.

Lara to the rescue. “She’s the most talented woman I know!” she enthuses. “Wait till you taste the food. The almond tart is
ridiculous
! And she made everything herself! I hate her.”

“I’m impressed.” Kim turns as someone walks past with a plate of petits fours. “You made
those
yourself?”

Shit. Trust Kim to point out the only things I didn’t make. I’m not giving her the satisfaction, though. No way. I nod.

“That’s so weird,” she says, reaching out for one. “They look exactly like the ones I always get from Great Cakes.” Kim takes a bite. “And they taste exactly the same! But
exactly
! How on earth do you make those?”

“With great difficulty,” I lie, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. “It took me days to get them right. I’m so glad they look professional!”

“I’m telling you,” Lara jumps in. “She should have her own TV show. Maggie, you’re needed in the pool house,” and thankfully she drags me away.

*   *   *

“Am I going crazy, or is she the biggest bitch ever?” We’re huddled behind the pool house with Heather, the newest addition to the group, who is still trying to discover the lay of the land, and is reluctant to cast an opinon, no matter how hard we push her.

“She seems pretty nice to me,” Heather says tentatively. “But I don’t really know her.”

“You really don’t.” I shake my head. “I suppose you should be grateful she’s being nice to you. She’s a bitch with me. Always has been, and honestly? I don’t see her being that bad with anyone else.”

Lara drains her glass. “She’s threatened by you. She was the queen bee in Richmond, or Charlotte, or wherever the hell she lived before, and she moved here expecting to be the same. Why else do you think they built the biggest and ugliest house in town? She’s desperate to be what she can never be.

“She doesn’t realize that however much money she has, however much she gives to charity, however many events she goes to, it can never buy her class. You’re old money, Maggie. You were born with class. And the jealousy is killing her.”

I shrug as if to say,
I guess you’re right,
but I don’t look her in the eye. A snapshot of my parents flashes into my mind. My father in a stained vest, mother in apron and house slippers, permanent sounds of shouting and television. Oh, if only you knew.

If only you knew.

*   *   *

It is traditional for last year’s chair to introduce this year’s, and I will confess to a hint of dread as Kim chinks her glass with a spoon until silence descends on the gathered women.

She announces the money raised thus far to polite applause before encouraging everyone to sell more tickets and make this the best year ever, although I know she doesn’t mean it; I know she wants last year to remain the best year ever.

“Finally, I want to introduce, and thank this year’s chair, someone you all know: Maggie. I’m sure you all know that Maggie made all this delicious food herself, which I’m so jealous of.” She laughs. “I had to pay a small fortune to Cinnamon Catering!” Everyone laughs, for Cinnamon Catering is indeed a small fortune.

“Next time, I’m paying Maggie!” Kim jokes. The crowd laughs again, a little more nervously this time, the guests turning to gauge my reaction, but I refuse to react right now. I’m saving this to discuss with Lara later. Did Kim really just publicly declare that she thinks of me as her damned staff?

I grit my teeth as I run my familiar mantra through my head. What would Jackie do? What would Grace do? What would Katharine, Babe, Brooke do? They would be gracious and polite. They wouldn’t react.

“But seriously, the pool house is adorable, and everything’s so pretty. You’ve done a wonderful job.” I continue to smile through the condescension, finally stepping up to say the few requisite words of my own.

I am about to take a deep breath to speak, when I pause. Did I just hear a shout from the house? I start again, but there it is. Definitely a shout. I stop as the door from the main house opens and Grace tears across the lawn toward me, Chris following fast behind her.

She is sobbing out loud, distraught, and my blood runs cold as I run to her, knowing that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Chris catches her and grabs her arm, trying to pull her back, but she shakes him off and screams at him. “I have to tell her!”

My heart pounds so loudly, it is all I can do not to scream. What? Who? An accident? Visions of skewed limbs on highways flash through my mind as nausea rises.

“Grace,” I manage, my own voice on the verge of hysteria, no longer caring that everyone I ever cared about impressing is now standing in my garden watching me in astonished, mesmerized silence. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Dad,” she sobs, collapsing on her knees on the grass, dissolving into tears. “He has another family.”

No accident. No one is dead. I have no idea what she is talking about. I have no idea what those words mean. I blink.

“Mom!” she cries, her voice that of a little girl, filled with pain. “Those times he’s in California on business? He isn’t. He’s with his other wife. And daughter. I met her. She was here.”

“Grace, you’ve made a mistake,” I say slowly, for this is not happening. This cannot be happening. My daughter is clearly having some kind of a nervous breakdown, or trying to humiliate me in front of everyone I know.

“Grace.” My voice is now steely. I will not let this happen. Someone, anyone, get my daughter out of here. “I have no idea what is happening to you, but get inside now. We will deal with whatever game you’re playing later.”

“It’s not a game!” she shrieks, and her eyes are filled with pain, and I have to give her credit: If there were Oscars for amateur acting, she’d be deserving. “Eve. My friend. She was here. She recognized him. He’s her father.”

I stand there, blinking. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“This is clearly a mistake.” I attempt a gracious laugh as I look around the gathered circle of fascinated, shocked women. “Will you please excuse me while I try to find out what’s going on,” and as I attempt to walk across the grass, I find my legs are shaking, and I am suddenly just a little bit numb to everything.

23

Sylvie

Of late, Eve has become secretive, locking her bedroom door, demanding privacy. Sylvie hasn’t ventured into Eve’s bedroom for a while, but Eve is in New York for the weekend, must surely be having a good time or she would have heard from her, and Sylvie can use the time to sort out her room.

Perhaps find out why her daughter is changing so drastically before her eyes, but that isn’t a conscious thought, at least not one she will recognize.

Thank God she doesn’t have what so many of the other mothers of teenage girls have. When they report finding bowls filled with mold under the bed, Sylvie breathes a sigh of relief. Eve is organized and tidy, even does her own laundry. She can’t bear mess of any kind.

Her room smells permanently of lavender, thanks to an organic room spray she keeps both next to her bed and in the bathroom, which she uses somewhat obsessively.

In the old days, Sylvie and Eve would go through her closet together, deciding what should stay, what should go, what could be gifted to friends. While risky to do this without Eve, Sylvie is fairly certain she can pull out the clothes Eve no longer wears.

But as soon as she opens the closet door, she finds herself unable to move, sadness sweeping over her. Here are all the beautiful clothes Eve can no longer wear. The cute white pants, the embroidered skirt, the lilac dress she wore to prom, all of which are now huge on her.

Eve was able to wear most until recently, cinching the waists in tighter and tighter, until even she had to concede the impossibility of the situation. Lately she has been living in leggings and layers of clothing to keep her warm.

Sylvie reaches for a pair of TOMS that are almost worn through, pulling out the shoe boxes they’re resting on. They should be empty, but something is in there. She opens the lid to find it stuffed with empty food wrappers. All the shoe boxes are filled with empty food wrappers. Oreos. Twixes. Empty cake boxes pulled apart and flattened. Cheetos. Doritos. Nutella. Chip bags. Family packs of chocolate.

Enough food to satisfy a family of many for a very long time.

It is exactly what Sylvie has been dreading. Eve cannot be as painfully thin as she is unless she is throwing up all this food she is eating.

The evidence can no longer be ignored. Eve is bulimic. Anorexic. Both, maybe. Either way, this is a fully fledged eating disorder. They can’t wait for Eve to grow out of it, can’t bury their heads in the sand any longer.

Eve may not agree, but she no longer has a choice. Sylvie gets her cell and pulls up a number she had programmed in a few weeks previously. UC San Diego’s Eating Disorders Center for Treatment and Research.

“Hello,” she says. “My name’s Sylvie Haydn. I think my daughter has an eating disorder, and I’d like to make an appointment to bring her in. Yes. Tuesday would be great.”

*   *   *

Making the appointment doesn’t make her feel better. She sorts out the rest of Eve’s closet, terrified of what else she may find, relieved there is nothing. Her mind is whirring, though, and she recognizes she needs to do something to calm herself down.

Yoga. Remembering how much yoga calmed her down on vacation, Sylvie googles “Prana Yoga,” for she has heard good things about the studio. There is a class in thirty minutes, and somewhere in the coat closet downstairs is a yoga mat.

Prana is offering a one-week Intro Special of thirty dollars, which is perfect. This is exactly what she needs.

*   *   *

Sylvie tries not to worry about Eve as she drives over to Prana. She breathes in deeply through her nose, jumping sharply as her cell snaps her back to reality. She pulls over to the side, hoping it’s Mark, who has gone AWOL.

It is not Mark. It is Clothilde. Hiccuping.

“Hi, Mom. Are you okay? Do you have the hiccups?”

“Obviously I do. Where are you?”

“On my way to a yoga class. Do you need something?”

“I feel sick.” Sylvie is dismayed to hear Clothilde slurring ever so slightly. She isn’t supposed to have alcohol, but various caregivers have been persuaded to sneak her in a bottle of good wine.

“Have you been drinking, Mom?”

Clothilde doesn’t answer. “They’re ignoring me,” she says.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll come over after my class.”

The phone goes dead as Sylvie shakes her head. No good-bye, no thank you, no appreciation. But there never is, she tells herself. It’s not her fault. She is the way she is. The problem lies with Sylvie expecting anything different.

At least, she realizes, parking the car close to the yoga place, Clothilde’s call managed to take her mind off a daughter with an eating disorder and a husband who has disappeared.

*   *   *

The calming energy washes over Sylvie as she turns to look at the women walking in, exchanging smiles as they walk past her, lithe and toned, exuding serenity.

“I’m sorry.” The long-haired girl behind the desk hands her credit card back with a sympathetic grimace. “It’s denied.”