Family Pictures (2 page)

As a result, they have started squabbling in a way they never had before.

After years of knowing exactly where she stood, Sylvie finds that insecurity has pushed its way in the door. Who is she supposed to be if not a mother? If Mark didn’t travel all the time, she would be fine, because she would have the role of wife. It didn’t matter before, because she held the role of full-time mother. With Eve leaving, and no job, how is she supposed to define herself?

Sylvie needs her husband, but he is away more than ever. Sylvie is starting to wonder if her mother’s right: if Mark is having an affair.

2

Sylvie

Until very recently, Sylvie would always joke that Mark didn’t even know how to flirt, let alone conduct a full-blown affair.

Despite his looks, his obvious charisma, the fact that women flocked to him, he never seemed to realize it, which is why Sylvie noticed him in the first place.

Her cart got away from her in the parking lot of the grocery store. This tall, good-looking, athletic man caught it before it reached the traffic. A laughing thank you, where you couldn’t not gaze a little at his boy-next-door looks, his gleaming teeth, the dimples that gave him a cuteness that made his looks accessible rather than intimidating.

She didn’t think about him again until two days later, standing behind him at Starbucks. He turned to see her, and laughed. They chatted briefly, about nothing in particular.
What a small world it is! Had she any more runaway vehicles she needed help with?

Once coffee was ordered and collected, they stood awkwardly, before wishing each other a great day and walking off in different directions. This time, he left an impression. Could it mean anything, running into him again? If it did, surely they would have ended up having coffee together, or perhaps him asking for her phone number.

He was not, physically, what she thought she liked, although objectively Sylvie knew he was the type of man most women would swoon over. She had never liked the big, blond jock-type. She was drawn to thin men, dark, olive skinned. Intense and funny. Like Jonathan.

Classic good looks had always intimidated her. As pretty as people tell Sylvie she is, she has never
felt
pretty, nor worthy of the men everyone else wants. She has instead been drawn to interesting rather than handsome, flawed rather than perfect. The men she dated in high school were artists, and poets, and musicians. The Starbucks man, whom her mind kept coming back to, looked like the quintessential football star.

She was struck by his comfort in his skin, and his lack of arrogance. He seemed open and easy, and hadn’t attempted to flirt, which she appreciated.

After the Starbucks meeting, she thought of him sporadically throughout the day, each time finding herself smiling. She had never seen him before, and would likely not see him again. She knew nothing about him, other than—now—his name.

Mark.

Ships that pass in the night.

Later that week, she and Angie were having lunch at Nine-Ten, both chatting animatedly, Sylvie vaguely noticing three men, besuited, at the table next to them, awaiting a fourth to fill the empty chair.

She didn’t see the fourth arrive, but she heard him, heard a familiar voice. Faltering, she wasn’t going to disturb his lunch, until he looked up and caught her eye, stopping his “hellos” in midflow before apologizing to his colleagues, explaining there was someone he had to say hello to.

This time he left with her phone number.

Their first date—Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure it
was
a date—was a hike from the cove to the shore. They talked nonstop, accidentally brushing hands as they walked, with an obvious chemistry that didn’t explain why Mark was so reticent.

He didn’t call for a few days after their walk. Just as Sylvie decided she wouldn’t hear from him again, he phoned. They met for coffee, and this time he told her his story.

He was divorced. No children. No serious relationships since. At first he threw himself into work as a welcome distraction, which then became a habit, swiftly taking over his life. He was still finding his way when it came to women, and he wasn’t at all sure he was ready for dating, let alone a relationship.

He hadn’t expected to feel this way.

It explained why he was holding back. Sylvie, who hadn’t been looking for anything or anyone either, suggested they become friends.

For five months they were friends, each attempting to ignore growing feelings, neither willing to confess, until Mark showed up at her house at lunchtime, a carton of chicken soup in hand because she was getting over a cold.

He sat on the bed to chat, bending his head to kiss her during the heavy silence, with a tenderness and sweetness that reminded Sylvie of Jonathan.

That was all that reminded Sylvie of Jonathan.

Mark’s body was smooth, and golden, and strong. It was like having a Greek god in her bed. Everything about him was solid and reliable, golden and good. So very different from anything and anyone she had ever experienced before.

When he suggested Eve have a sleepover elsewhere on Saturday night, Sylvie arranged it, luxuriating in the entire night with Mark. The next day, he disappeared briefly only to return with a toolbox, putting up all the paintings that had been propped up against the wall since Sylvie moved in.

He was too good to be true. Except he wasn’t. Everyone loved him. Women wanted to be around him—oh, how they wanted to be around him!—men wanted to
be
him. Sylvie, not the jealous type, teased him about the effect he had on women, who did indeed appear to simper when he was around.

All these years, Sylvie thought she was fine on her own. An independent woman and single mother who not only
could
do it all, but
did
it all. She had had brief relationships, but never allowed herself to fall for anyone. The men she had been involved with were all poor facsimiles of Jonathan. None were
right.
None
permanent.

Here, suddenly, was the very opposite of Jonathan, the only similarity being that people reacted to Mark in much the same way as they had to Jonathan, but for different reasons. Jonathan made people feel special by listening to them, drawing them out. Strangers were surprised at how good he made them feel, found themselves telling Jonathan their most intimate secrets.

Mark made people feel good just by his presence. People were drawn to him, vied for his attention, while he quietly stood at the edge of the party, waiting for the crowds to gather, as they always did.

Trite to say it was simply because of his looks, but his looks were impossible to ignore. Admirers were drawn to him, like moths to a flame, with the hope that some of his magic would rub off on them.

In 2000, almost a year after they met, Sylvie, Mark and Eve, Sylvie’s mother, Angie and Simon as witnesses, stood before a judge and were married, going home to a luncheon in the garden that Angie had prepared, under a white canopy with gardenias at each corner and mock orange spiraling up the pillars.

Eve, then seven, danced around the table in a froth of organza and tulle as the grown-ups watched her adoringly. She alternated between Sylvie and Mark, covering both with kisses, climbing on each of their laps, sitting on one and taking the hand of the other. Simon made an impromptu speech commenting on the fact that Eve was perhaps the happiest person in the garden today, which brought much laughter.

It was true. They were a family. Meant to be. Eve adored him from the outset, and had been calling him Papa Mark long before they discussed marriage, refusing to listen to an embarrassed Sylvie when she tried to suggest another name.

*   *   *

Eve may have been happiest, but Sylvie too was happy. She loved Mark, was content with Mark. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having a partner until she had one again.

This wasn’t the life she’d thought she was going to have, but it was, nevertheless, a wonderful life. She and Jonathan had plans to travel, to see the world, to live in Thailand, Australia, India; to bring Eve with them and squeeze every last drop out of life.

Her life with Mark includes little travel, and little seeking, on any level. She had loved that Jonathan was a seeker, but loves, now, that Mark is not: he may travel coast-to-coast for work, but his lack of adventure makes her think of him as grounded, steady, secure. She knows where she is with him, is grateful for the security—even sameness—at this stage in her life.

In many ways they have a perfect relationship. The amount of time Mark travels hasn’t, until recently, worried her. Sylvie kept busy. A part-time job, until a demanding and unwell mother forced her to give that up.

They had all thought life would be easier once Clothilde, Sylvie’s high-maintenance French mother, entered the assisted living facility after rehab, but her mother had never been easy, and the car accident was hardly going to change that.

Clothilde’s constant phone calls to Sylvie at work, her requests that Sylvie drop everything to bring her Band-Aids, or a spare key, or … anything, became too much of an imposition on Sylvie’s colleagues. As much as she loved the bookstore, she had to leave.

Since then, she has wondered if it is boredom that is unsettling her so? That, combined with an impending empty nest and too much time on her hands; could it be she has inherited her mother’s tiresome and restless inclination to create drama where none exists?

When she asked Angie if she thought Mark was having an affair, Angie spat—actually
spat
—her coffee out. It put Sylvie’s mind at rest. Temporarily.

She rarely speaks to Mark at night, for the apartment he rents in New York has no landline, and if he has no work events, he usually goes to bed early because of the time difference.

Tonight she wants to speak to him, wants to alleviate some of the loneliness that has started descending on these nights when Eve is out with friends. Sylvie has always declined invitations to join other couples for dinner on her own, aware of being a third wheel, yet with Eve out, the house is unbearably quiet.

When Eve goes off to college in September, leaving Sylvie mostly on her own, Sylvie knows she wants something to change.

3

Sylvie

“I love you, Mom!” Eve puts her arms around her mom, as Sylvie squeezes her hard, grateful she has a daughter who still hugs her, is not embarrassed by her or suddenly hating her in preparation of the imminent separation.

Eve steps back, twirling. “How do I look?”

“You look beautiful,” Sylvie says, which is true. At seventeen, Eve has her mother’s petite features and dark hair, her father’s olive skin, and somewhat startlingly, his bright green eyes.

Sylvie imagines all mothers think their daughters beautiful, but Sylvie, schooled by her mother to be nothing if not objective, knows that were she to pass Eve as a stranger on the street, she would still gaze at her prettiness.

Eve turns to the side and looks down, rubbing her hands over her stomach. “Do I look fat?” she asks, frowning. “My stomach is huge. I think this top makes me look really fat.”

“Eve!” Sylvie admonishes, staring at her daughter’s tiny frame. “You’re tiny. You couldn’t look fat even if you tried.”

“I do.” Eve attempts to grab a love handle, which is in fact merely skin, to demonstrate the weight she needs to lose. “I look enormous. I ate so much chocolate yesterday.”

“Evie, I promise you, you’re tiny.” Sylvie frowns. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried that you keep thinking you look fat when you’re so, so thin.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Eve says. “I’d just like to lose ten pounds. Then I’d be perfect.”

“If you lost ten pounds, you’d look skeletal.” Sylvie
is
worried. “Don’t lose any more. Please. You’ve already lost so much weight.”

Eve gives her mother an exasperated look. “Mom. I needed to. I was huge before, an elephant.”

“Eve, you were never huge. It was baby fat.”

“Well. I have ten more pounds of baby fat and then I’ll be perfect,” Eve says, grabbing her jacket. “Don’t be such a worrier.” And with that, she’s gone.

*   *   *

Sylvie is worried.

Eve, such a chubby, gorgeous baby, grew into a skinny toddler; then, at around ten, like so many of the young girls at that same age, went through a plump phase before growing taller and slimmer.

She was normal until around sixteen, when she announced she was turning vegetarian. This was interesting only because Eve was not a big lover of vegetables, and her version of vegetarian involved copious amounts of macaroni and cheese, French bread, and cookies.

Her weight climbed, Sylvie saying nothing, attempting to guide Eve to a healthier way of eating without actually saying anything about her weight, but Clothilde was shockingly vocal each time she saw Eve.

“What is this?” Clothilde would lean forward in her chair, grabbing the excess flesh sitting on the top of Eve’s jeans. “All this fat? Eve! You are eating too much. All this American bad food. No boy will like you with … this.”

Sylvie begged Clothilde to stop saying anything, knowing how much this upset Eve, but Clothilde just pursed her lips. “I don’t want a fat granddaughter any more than she wants to be fat, and if you won’t tell her, I have to.”

“Do you have any idea how upset she is?”

Clothilde merely shrugged. “Good. Perhaps she will stop eating.”

It wasn’t until Eve had her first major crush that she stopped eating. He had told a friend that Eve had a “pretty face,” but was “too big for him.”

It changed everything.

At first she announced she was no longer eating carbs. Then no dairy. She seemed to exist on bowls of miso soup and fruit, and Sylvie, deeply concerned, had been in to see the school counselor.

She told Sylvie it was common at this age, that the girls were experimenting with their sexuality, their appeal to boys, and faddy diets were all the rage, and would pass.

Sylvie was not reassured in the slightest. When she brought up the possibility of an eating disorder, the counselor had dismissed it as everything having to be a “disorder” these days, offering to see Eve and talk to her about it.