Pictures of the Past (2 page)
“I
know you’re tired. I know you’re hungry. But don’t even think of settling at the table yet. I have a strange story to tell you.” As Jason Stone entered his lakefront condominium after a stressful day at his law office, his wife, Lara, greeted him, anxiously, with these words. His young son, his little clone, came running into his arms, a “My Name is Marcus” sticker clinging to his shirt.
“Am I allowed to first hug Marcus, my new kindergartener?” he teasingly asked, as he grabbed and tickled his son. Then he reached to raise Lara’s face to his. She smiled at him. She would never deny him his welcome home kiss, but she was intent on telling her story.
“OK, now listen to this,” she said, grasping each of his hands with hers as they rested at the small of her back, and she looked into his eyes. “The craziest thing happened today at Marcus’ first day of school.” She was conscious that her husband was anticipating a light-hearted story. He began walking toward the stack of mail on the hall table as she spoke. She backed up slightly and placed herself in front of the pile so that he would have to focus only on her words. “Jason, just listen. It was really strange.” Finally, she had his attention. “There was this lady, another mom—never saw her before. But when she saw Marcus, this woman literally left her own daughter with one jacket sleeve on and one off, and turned to Marcus with what seemed to be tears in her eyes. She bent down and then grabbed his arms and began to either embrace or examine him—I swear I was a moment away from calling security.” Lara could tell that her husband wanted to interject a comment, but she raised her hand in a halting motion and continued.
“And then, as if in a trance, this woman said, ‘Rusty—my God, Rusty, I have been looking for you for so long.’ I thought she was insane—I thought—oh, my God, maybe her child was kidnapped and I’m going to have to prove that Marcus wasn’t adopted and that I gave birth to him. Then the mom backed off and seemed to be in deep thought for a moment and then she simply introduced herself. But I swear it was more so that she would hear our name. When I said I was Lara, she quickly asked…‘and his dad is?’—But then she just retreated when I said your name was Jason. I guess she finally remembered she had her own child to tend to.”
As Lara finished telling her story she didn’t see the peculiar narrowing of Jason’s eyes as the name “Rusty” registered on her husband’s face. If it weren’t for his trained self-control practiced in the courtroom, he would have shown that he was shaken. He spoke so softly when he composed himself that she could barely hear him ask his question and so he cleared his throat and repeated a second time, “And what was her name?”
“I only remember her first name, Sylvie.”
Then it began, once again—the memory that had followed him most of his life. It would waft from soothing daydreams to tormenting nightmares. It was always the same—the image of a mansion and a winding staircase with a thick black and beige carpet runner. And a picture on the curve of the wall, an oil painting he realized later. And the girl, younger than he was, saying, “Hi, I’m Sylvie"—then following her up the stairs to a playroom. And then, a short time later, him responding to the words, adult words, “Rusty—we’re leaving—now.”
The next memories were vivid ones, déjà vu moments at the Art Institute of Chicago. The painting again—knowing he has seen it or it is part of his history, but always dismissing it. It began first on a class field trip when he was twelve years old. He simply had a double take when he passed it, and returned quickly to clowning around in the gallery with his friends, not paying attention to the teacher and docent—almost embarrassed within his clique that art had drawn him in.
He saw the same painting again, this time at the age of sixteen, actually proud to be with his beautiful, intelligent mother, Rachel, who was whisper-narrating the history of paintings. She too stopped at the same painting, first pointing out its beauty, with no recognition like he had, but then halting when she read aloud the adjacent plaque and then the donor nameplate, finishing in midsentence—moving on quickly, pulling him as if he were five again.
L
oosely curling masses of hair cascading over her eyes, Sylvie had no free hand to hook them back behind her ears, as was her habit. Although at the moment she was walking with a slightly bent posture and with a less than graceful step, it was still obvious that she had the tall, slim, long-legged physique, and certainly the face, of a fashion model, the radiant hues of her hair apparent even in the dim light of the office corridor. But she was not reaching for the door to one of the many advertising agencies that populated the building; rather, she was turning the knob beneath the elegantly etched glass panel that read, Dr. Sylvie Woodmere Hunt, Clinical Psychologist.
Sylvie had left her daughter’s new classroom dazed. Even she didn’t understand the tears in her own eyes, but she knew that they were not for her daughter’s first day of school. She was unsettled and disturbed on the one hand, yet some sense of happiness also enveloped her. Something about her young life, one that was privileged, but tormented, was resurfacing, some isolated happy memory that she stored among the frequent recurring sad ones of a dysfunctional father and absent mother.
And now, she could barely remember boarding, riding, and disembarking from the city bus, when suddenly she was opening the door to her Michigan Avenue office.
“Lisa, is my first patient here yet?” she asked her receptionist.
The young woman, who worked part-time while completing her own degree work in the field, was taken aback at her boss’ appearance. Immediately, she moved from behind her desk, seeing that Dr. Hunt needed assistance at the door, her jacket, briefcase, purse, and some pink object all almost falling to the floor.
“Well, I thought you might be irritated to hear that Mrs. Aronson just cancelled, but now I am thinking this news may be welcome.” She was helping her with the door now, catching what appeared to be the fleece jacket of a young girl. “Don’t they have hooks in the classrooms these days?” Lisa teased, knowing that somehow Dr. Hunt was still inadvertently holding onto her daughter’s coat.
“Oh, no. One more problem. I can’t run back now— but she’ll be cold at recess.”
“Don’t worry. It’s early September,” Lisa reminded her. “An hour from now, it will be warmer.”
Instead of proceeding to her inner office as was her custom, Sylvie sank into the single waiting room chair, one that she remembered carefully selecting for color, size, and texture when she had decorated her new office three years ago, yet she had never actually sat in once since it was delivered. Now she found, as she had anticipated, that it did, in fact, present the perfect balance of comfort and firmness to ease her anxiety-ridden patients as they waited.
“Can I get you something?” Lisa offered, confused at Sylvie’s uncharacteristic actions.
“No—no. You stay where you are—we’re role-playing now. I am the patient.”
With barely a hesitation, Lisa played along. “But you don’t even know my fees.”
“Fair enough,” Sylvie responded. “I treat you for lunch today.”
“But you always do,” Lisa said, slightly laughing.
“But not at the 95th.” Sylvie was referring to the pricey panoramic venue down the street at the top of the John Hancock Building.
“That sounds good. I am Dr. Lisa at your service.”
They each settled into their positions—Sylvie leaning back in the comfortable chair, and Lisa, seated at the receptionist’s desk, but leaning forward, posing with pencil and pad in hand, like a television psychologist.
“Lisa, do you see me as organized and controlled?”
“Anal—oh, sorry—I’m just supposed to be listening and nodding, not judging.”
“I lost control today.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
“Lisa, I did something crazy today. Out of character. Out of control.”
“Go on.”
“At the school today… I saw this little boy, and I had the strongest sense of recognition in my life. I felt that I knew him. I felt that I knew him from the past, from when I was his age.” She was honest in describing her actions now. She couldn’t let go of the episode, her almost accosting the child. She didn’t even know what had overcome her that she would act out like that. She knew she must have seemed like “stranger danger,” if not to him, then certainly to his mother.
She had been staring blankly, slowly shaking her head, but now she focused on her listener. “You know that right after my mother died, we moved in with my grandparents and they really raised me.”
“Yes, I know, ‘poor little rich girl,’” Lisa blurted out and then had a sickened look on her face, fearing she had antagonized her mentor.
Sylvie, realizing her distress, lightened the moment. “I know, don’t worry. It seems ridiculous to complain, but I was an extremely lonely child.” Sylvie had shared pieces of her history with Lisa, as she probably spent more waking time with her than anyone else, even her husband. In fact, Lisa knew to address her simply as Sylvie when there were no patients around.
There was no need at this point for Sylvie to elaborate. Her story was known not only to Lisa, but was well documented for all those familiar with Chicago’s society circles. Sylvie’s grandfather, Taylor Woodmere, the wealthy industrialist from exclusive suburban Kenilworth, had been her one savior; even now she worked with him at the charitable Woodmere Foundation. Her grandmother’s depression, though she was aware that she only knew pieces of the story, was intensified by a remote husband, and a son, her father, who had spent much of his life in one rehabilitation facility or another. So Sylvie tried so hard as a child to be sunshine in a grand mansion of gloom.
She had worked her whole life to be dependable, responsible, and controlled—all those things her father was not…all of those things that would bind her to her grandparents so at least they would not reject her as her parents had.
“Reject” was a strong word and truly the wrong word—years of her own therapy had clarified that. As is often the case, Sylvie had become a psychologist to understand the complexities of those closest to her and of her own life. And she did understand them better now. She understood that after her mother died in the car accident, her father was incapable of handling the responsibility of a child.
“So at the school today,” Sylvie continued explaining, “when I saw that little boy, I became around four years old again, reliving a wonderful childhood memory in my solitary upbringing. I remember a special afternoon with my grandfather, spinning the globe in his study, when the doorbell rang and then a woman entered with a child about my age.” At this point she glanced up to see that Lisa was intrigued and was nodding for her to continue. “I remember an instant connection to an auburn-haired little boy. I think I grabbed his hand and I pulled him up the stairs to the playroom. But he stopped me on the steps—pointing to a painting on our stairwell, a picture that I had never noticed before. He said he could see a little girl in the picture—wanted to know if it was me.” She stopped her narrative without looking up and almost closed her eyes, as if she were intently concentrating to relive the specific moment. “I remember Grandfather’s houseman, Reed, saying, in his very British accent, something like, ‘My goodness, young man, that is not Sylvie.’ Whatever else he said, I couldn’t understand.” She raised her head to Lisa once more. “It’s crazy, I know, such a vivid memory,” but then she continued without allowing her to respond. “And although he may have said the name of the artist at the time, it was only through the following years when I actually focused on it, that I knew it as
Jeune Fille à la Plage,
by Henri Lebasque.”
She finished the story slowly, not for dramatic impact, but wanting to hold on to the memory even for a brief time. “Before long, the mom was calling out ‘Rusty’ and the two of them were down the stairs and out of the house.”
Once again she settled back in the chair giving Lisa more time to digest the scenario. “You know I’ve discovered, Lisa, that those children who spend their lives surrounded by many other young family members and friends actually have diminished memories of specific childhood encounters. But to me, they were isolated and therefore paramount.” At this point, Sylvie slowly left the chair and walked over to Lisa’s desk. “Let me ask you something,” she said, establishing this more intimate distance. “What is your earliest real memory?”
“OK…Let me think…Yes, that’s easy,” Lisa responded after only ten seconds of contemplation. “I’m five and in kindergarten and dancing with a cute little boy, Barry, at the graduation party.”
Sylvie prodded her further. “OK, now I ask you to really think. Is that a true memory—or a recollection when looking at a photograph of the event?”
“Well—no—I remember it—I think—or maybe I only do remember the photo.” Now Lisa took the time to transport herself back in years, leaning slightly on her elbow, her eyes in the upward, distant glare of contemplation, her closed fist, still encircling the pencil, momentarily covering her mouth. “Sylvie, you are so perceptive. You know—I think my real memory is of sitting on the living room couch with my mom. I am about ten years old and we are looking at albums and pointing to that picture. You may be right.” And she focused once more on Sylvie, allowing her to continue.
“Well, this morning I had such a strong feeling of familiarity with the little boy at my daughter’s school. When I came to my senses—barely—I thought that maybe the little boy I remembered, named Rusty, could have been his father—this little boy’s father. I guess it’s laughable now—how ridiculous that reach was. But the father’s name was Jason, not Rusty.” She started to turn away from her listener and now spoke only to the air. “Perhaps I should apologize and try to explain …if only I could explain it to myself.”
As Lisa moved in her seat, she seemed to gesture with her pencil that she was ready to interject a comment, but Sylvie, facing the opposite direction, did not take her cue, and continued with her own thoughts.
“I’ve played this memory game with others before— friends I made at camp or my first year at college out East,” Sylvie said. “Those were times that I lived for. I loved that sibling-like camaraderie that you’ve always had with your sisters.” Now she turned back to Lisa as she spoke. “When I asked those friends the same question, it was never day-to-day moments that were the childhood memories. Usually it was vacations, occasions that were out of the ordinary routine—swimming with cousins on the beach in Florida—visiting grandmas and drenching themselves with their perfume bottle collections. But for me—a seasoned world traveler by high school—I was not a stranger to the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris and the Villa d’Este in Lake Como—my most cherished early memory was bonding with a little boy, playing hide-and-seek in my playroom. And there is no photograph of that, only the picture in my mind.”
In an almost unconscious move, Sylvie simply left the reception area with her briefcase and entered her private office. She no longer felt the need to verbalize her thoughts; now she just wanted some time alone to collect them. For one more memory of the painting filled her personal history. She was around ten years old and her grandfather was beginning to have problems with his eyesight. Sylvie remembered even the tone of Grandmother’s words. “Then, as long as you can’t see it well anyway, it is off as a donation to the Art Institute of Chicago. They have been approaching me recently about securing more of our collection and I will be happy, finally, to have this one out.”
Sylvie had looked at her grandfather after the exchange and could sense his emotion was resignation. Normally, any charitable donations, she knew, roused only positive reflections of pride in his demeanor. But something was different with this one, she recalled thinking.
And now Sylvie, all grown up and a young mother, understood that this boy might be nothing to her, but his appearance had triggered memories in her that she finally needed to understand. “Closure.” As a psychologist, she often used that word with her patients. And now she knew that she needed closure. But how could that come about?
She had no recollection of her father, Court Woodmere, ever interacting with that little boy, and anyway, her father had passed away years ago, his body finally failing from years of drug abuse. Her grandfather, Taylor Woodmere, was present that day in the 1970s, but he was, after all, ninety now. Though he was still an amazing man, she doubted that he would have any memory of this small episode.
