FAYE
It was while Faye was gathering donations for the
community tag sale that she realized, with a shock, that
any stranger going through her house would think she was
obsessive, anal-retentive, or, at the very least,
eccentric.
Although, if the stranger were a female around Faye’s age—
fifty-five—she would probably understand what could appear
to others as an unhealthy mania for clothes.
Naturally, Faye’s clothing hung in the large walk-in
closet of her bedroom.
Also, in the guest bedroom closet.
And in the closet of her daughter’s bedroom, for Laura was
twenty-eight, married, and had left only a few of her
favorite childhood things at home.
Faye’s clothes did not hang in the attic, because when she
and Jack bought the house thirty years ago, they converted
the attic into a studio where Faye painted. But more of
Faye’s clothes were hung, folded, or bundled in plastic
wardrobes in the spacious linen closet at the end of the
hall.
So much clothing!
She felt appalled, and slightly guilty.
It wasn’t just that Faye, like most women, changed her
wardrobe for summer and winter and fall, or that, like
many other women, she had casual clothes for daily life
and some elegant suits for the various committees she sat
on, and a few gorgeous dresses for the events she had
attended with Jack, a corporate lawyer and head of his own
prestigious Boston firm. It wasn’t only that she had
Christmas sweaters and tennis skirts and the black velvet
evening cloak that had been her mother’s, so how could she
possibly part with it? Or that she’d kept the
expensive,elegant raincoat she’d bought on a trip to
London with Jack, where she’d torn the hem, stepping out
of a black cab on the way home from the theater. She
intended to mend it, but she hadn’t yet found time to do
so. In the meantime, she’d bought another raincoat or two,
to serve until she mended the London one. It wasn’t that
during this long, gloomy spring, she’d bought, on an
impulse, another raincoat, a rain slicker of cheery,
cherry red.
It was that she had so many clothes for so many seasons
and reasons in so many different sizes.
The size 12s were in Laura’s bedroom.
The size 14s were in the guest bedroom.
The size 16s were in the linen closet.
The size 18s were in her own closet, right next to her
husband’s clothing. It was his clothing that had gotten
her started on this spree in the first place.
One long year ago, Jack, her darling Jack, had died of a
sudden heart attack, at the age of sixty-four.
In the middle of the night, Jack had sat up in bed, turned
on the light, and said to Faye, “Don’t forget—” then
clutched his chest and fell on the floor.
Don’t forget what? Faye wondered. It kept her awake at
night, it made her walk right past her townhouse, it bit
at her thoughts like a tack in her shoe. Don’t forget I
love you? Don’t forget to tell Laura I love her? Don’t
forget to look in the secret door in the Chippendale
cabinet? (She’d looked there and found nothing.)
“He was sleeping,” her son-in-law Lars assured her. “He
might have been dreaming. He might have been thinking
something nonsensical, the ways dreams can be, like don’t
forget to feed the giraffe.”
Now, a year after his death, her friends, and Laura, too,
insisted that it really was time to part with his things.
Laura and Lars had taken what they wanted. The rest, they
reminded her, should not languish in her house when they
could be useful to so many others. So Faye was diligently
preparing to donate his clothes to the community fair.
Most of them, anyway. She would keep a few items: his old
robe, worn at the elbows, no good to anyone else, and so
comforting to her, and the blue Brooks Brothers shirt he
looked so handsome in. The rest she really would give away.
And she absolutely would give away some of her own
clothing, too. At least the size 10s.
Although, Faye wondered, collapsing on the carpet and
leaning against the bedpost—because her bedroom chairs and
the bed were covered with clothing she’d sorted through—
would giving away the size 10s be admitting she’d never be
that size again? Would it be like giving up?
All her life, her weight had gone up and down more than
the scales of a Tchaikovsky concerto.
Well, more up than down.
Faye loved to eat and never lost weight without fierce
determination and control. Usually she weighed the most in
early January, after the ounces and inches from the feasts
and celebrations of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New
Year’s had accumulated, like a confetti of cellulite, onto
her hips. She weighed the least in the summer, when the
combination of dread of appearing in public in a bathing
suit, and anticipation of light, floaty summer dresses,
had driven her to diet down a size or two.
But three years ago, she’d had a hysterectomy for fibroid
tumors—that had been wonderful, she’d lost several pounds
while lying down! On doctor’s advice, she took the hormone
replacement therapy that had been touted as a wonder drug
until, a year ago, the same HRT was suddenly reviled as
toxic by a hysterical press. She stopped using it, and now
she weighed as much as she had when she was nine months’
pregnant.
She hadn’t been eating more than usual or exercising less.
Just the opposite: Determined not to go creakily into old
age, she exercised regularly. In general, she led an
active life. In spite of that, and her increasing
attention to what she ate, fat collected around her arms
and thighs, under her chin, on her bottom and hips, and
rose on her stomach, warm and rounded, like a freshly
baked loaf of bread.
Long ago, Faye had vowed not to compare her physique to
the skeletal models in magazines—her healthy body provided
her with so many pleasures, why should she criticize it?
She decided she’d try to cut down on fats and eat more
veggies.
And she was trying.
But another loss had struck her, hard. Faye hadn’t told
anyone about this, not Laura or her closest friends,
because speaking of it might make it real, might make it
lasting.
For thirty years, Faye had been a talented, respected
artist whose contemporary Impressionist still lifes sold
as fast as she could fin- ish them, making her quite well
off, which she didn’t even need to be, since Jack, a
successful corporate attorney, made more than enough
money. It wasn’t the money that mattered anyway, it was
the work, it was the daily mix of discipline, inspiration,
knowledge, and risk that made painting so important to
her. Through her painting, she interpreted the world.
Through her painting, she expressed her gratitude for the
luminous mysteries of any normal day.
Nine months after Jack’s death, Faye decided she must put
an end to her grieving and try to paint again. After all,
painting was one of the joys of her life. Jack would want
her to paint. So she climbed the stairs to her third floor
studio, set up a still life of red pears in a silver bowl,
pulled on her smock, readied her paints, and lifted her
brush. Several hours later, she stood perplexed and more
than a little frightened by what she saw on the canvas. It
was muddy, thick, dull.
She waited a few days, then tried again. But for the first
time ever, painting was work, and at the end of the day,
what she’d accomplished was not even mediocre.
Have patience, she told herself. Her mind needed time to
remember its talents.
But time didn’t help, nor did patience. Playing
Rachmaninoff in her studio didn’t help, nor did so many
infusions of ginseng and other helpful herbs that she
expected little green twigs to curl out her ears. The gift
of painting, which had sustained her all her life, had
simply vanished, and she had no idea whether it would ever
return.
She refused to believe this loss was connected to Jack’s
death. Her love for Jack had been the main catalyst for
her work. Even though he was gone, her love for him
remained as constant as it had when he was alive, and she
believed that somewhere he knew this and continued to love
her, too.
No. She was certain the loss was connected to her age, to
her failing hormones, to the same physiological changes
that added weight to her body and blotted her memory like
random whiteouts of Liquid Paper.
Because she believed that happiness was at least in some
part simply a choice, she refused to mope about it, she
didn’t mention it to anyone, and she kept trying, climbing
up to her studio, stand- ing in front of a canvas with her
paints. She could joke about the changes in her appearance—
the increasingly white hair, thinning lips, and her weight—
but her inability to paint was a real source of concern.
Was her artistic talent shrinking, shriveling, curling up
and dying, like a brilliant older friend of theirs
crippled with Parkinson’s? If she couldn’t paint, she
couldn’t be herself, Faye. It was a terrifying thought.
Shortly after she stopped hormone replacement therapy, a
new torment appeared in her life. Hot flashes. At
unexpected times of the day, an invisible match slashed up
her body, igniting her into such incandescence she was
always surprised smoke didn’t come out her ears. It also
fried her brain, disconnecting reason from emotion. No
matter how firmly her mind assured her it would pass, her
instincts told her she would detonate unless she ripped
all her clothes off now. During the day she dressed in
loose layers of cotton she could tear off in a moment, and
in the winter, she often stepped out on her back porch in
her cotton tank top, luxuriating in the freezing air.
It happened at night, too. She’d awake in a panic of heat,
and after she’d thrown off the covers and flung off her
nightgown, she’d lie there panting, waiting to explode.
Later, when she’d cooled off, she’d lie staring at the
other side of the bed, where Jack had lain, his reliable
bulk rising before her like a shield against the dark
night. She’d pull his pillow to her and fall asleep,
hugging it tight.
Perhaps that explained her sudden inability to paint.
Perhaps her mind was overwhelmed from loneliness, lack of
sleep, and a general hormonal storm.
She wished she could talk this over with her husband. Jack
had loved her passionately, no matter what she weighed.
Jack had been Faye’s best friend, her favorite companion.
He’d made her think. He’d made her laugh. After thirty-
five years of marriage, he’d still been able to make her
breathless in bed. He’d made her want to paint. He’d
supported—he’d championed her painting.
In her grief after his death, weight had fallen from Faye
like her tears. But over the past long, brutally severe,
winter, she’d gained it all back, and more. The nights
were lonely, and a box of chocolates, or a plate of
buttery cinnamon toast, were good company. The coldest
days were warmed by a bowl of homemade clam chowder and a
piece, or two, of apple pie, or a cheese omelet with
bacon, hash browns, biscuits, and honey.
So here she was, at the end of March, wearing her largest
size—and finding it too tight.
Still, no self-pity! Faye ordered herself. She had so much
to be thankful for. Her health, her friends, and
especially, above all, her lovely daughter, wonderful son-
in-law, and adorable granddaughter. She knew she was
fortunate to be so close to them.
So she pulled herself to her feet, turned her attention to
her bed, and diligently, mercilessly, sorted through her
clothes.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a pounding. She hurried
down the stairs, smoothing her white hair back into its
low ponytail, and opened the front door.
Her daughter stood there, with Megan in her arms and tears
pouring down her face.
“Laura!” Faye exclaimed. “What’s happened? Is Megan all
right?”
Laura reeled into the front hall, the diaper bag swinging
from her arm, her thick dark hair tumbling around her
shoulders, her nose bright red. Baby Megan’s knitted cap
had slipped down, covering one eye and part of her face.
Her lower lip was quivering.
“Laura!” Faye said. “Tell me! What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lars!” Laura cried. “I think he’s having an affair!
Oh, Mommy, I just want to die!”
A powerful punch of emotions—relief, anger, sympathy—
knocked the wind right out of Faye. When she could get her
breath, she said, “Let me have Megan.” Lifting her
granddaughter into her arms, she led the way into the
living room and, settling on a sofa, began unwrapping the
baby from her fleecy snowsuit.
Laura collapsed on the other side of the coffee table,
slender shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “It hurts so
much, Mommy!”
Faye made Megan a safe little nest in the corner of the
sofa, surrounded by cushions, handed her the TV remote
control to play with, then rose and poured her daughter a
glass of sherry.
“Drink this.”
“I don’t want—”
“Drink it, Laura. You’ve got to calm down. You’ll frighten
Megan.”
Laura took a sip and choked.
“Take a deep breath,” Faye suggested, making her voice
nursery-stern even though she felt like weeping herself.
Her poor daughter looked absolutely wretched, her eyes and
nose swollen, her skin blotchy.
Lars, having an affair? Faye couldn’t believe it. Lars was
wonderful. Jack had loved Lars, and Jack had been an acute
judge of character. Jack would be pleased to know how
helpful and patient and understanding Lars had been over
the past year. Holding Laura in his arms as she wept and
wept. Standing strong and silent between Faye and Laura at
the funeral, a ready shoulder for either woman. Never once
complaining when Laura’s visits to her mother turned into
overnight stays in those early weeks when Faye couldn’t
bear to be alone in an empty home. Welcoming Faye into
their house so she could help cook and keep things running
the first week after Megan’s birth. Oh, how Faye wished
Jack had lived long enough to see his beautiful baby
granddaughter.
“Take another sip of sherry,” Faye said. Pulling an
armchair close to the sofa, she sat at right angles to
Laura and took her hand. “Sweetie. Why do you think he’s
having an affair?”
“For weeks, when I called his office or his cell phone, he
hasn’t picked up. He’s had to ‘work late’ almost every
night. He sneaks in when he thinks I’m asleep and takes a
shower before getting into bed. He always used to shower
in the morning!”
This didn’t sound good, Faye silently agreed. She made
cooing noises at Megan, who was deep in baby-fierce
concentration, attempting to get the remote control to her
mouth.
“Sometimes I can smell perfume on him.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
“Once. A week ago. He denied it. But if he is—oh, Mommy,”
Laura cried. “What am I going to do?”
“Sweetie.” Faye moved across to wrap her lovely daughter
in her arms. “You haven’t been getting much sleep lately,
being up all hours with Megan. Maybe you’re overreacting.”
“I just found this,” Laura said. From her purse, she took
out what looked like a plastic playing card.
“What is it?”
“A ‘key’ to a hotel room.” Laura handed it to her.
Faye studied it. A magnetic strip on one side, the Ritz-
Carlton logo on the other.
“The Ritz is close to his office,” Laura said. Grimly she
continued, “I know who it is. The receptionist. Jennifer
D’Annucio. I saw the way she looked at him at the office
Christmas and New Year’s parties. She gave him a Hermès
tie for Christmas.”
“How can you be sure it was she—?”
“I asked him! He said when everyone in the office
drew ‘Secret Santas, Jennifer D’Annucio got his name. He
said she has a cousin who works at Hermès, and she got a
discount.”
“That’s all possible, Laura.”
“Mom, I looked through his credit card receipts. In
December he charged a gold bracelet at Cartier. I didn’t
get a gold bracelet!” Laura pounded her fists on her
knees. “I hate him!” She jumped up and paced the
room. “I’ll show him! I’ll sleep with Joe Foster.”
“Joe Foster?”
“Another lawyer in his office. They hate each other.
They’re terrible rivals. Joe always flirts with me at
parties. He’s a slimy sleazy little weasel.”
“Then why would you want to sleep with him?”
“Because it’s the worst thing I can imagine doing to Lars.”
“Sounds like the worst thing you could do to yourself.”
Faye took a deep breath. “All right, now. Let’s be
sensible. You don’t want to have sex with a slimy sleazy
little weasel, Laura. You don’t want to do anything until
you’re sure that Lars is fooling around.”
“And when I get proof”—Laura’s eyes filled with tears—
“I’ll file for divorce.”
“Hold on a minute. Let’s take one step at a time. You’ve
got to think of Megan.”
Laura looked over at her baby, propped in the corner of
the sofa. Megan leaned forward, mouth open and drooling,
brought the remote control toward her mouth with both
hands and great concentration, and whacked herself on the
nose. Turning crimson, she wailed.
“Poor baby,” Faye cooed, gathering her grandchild in her
arms.
“She does this every night.” Laura sighed, and tossed back
the rest of her sherry.
“Hits herself in the face with a remote control?”
“No, goes into a two-hour tantrum.”
“This is the beginning of a two-hour tantrum?”
Laura nodded miserably. “I’ve called the pediatrician. He
said it might be colic, although at four months she’s a
little old for colic. She had a checkup just last week,
and she’s in perfect health. But every evening she does
this for two hours. Then she falls asleep, and I can’t
wake her. She sleeps until two or three in the morning,
then wakes up and is bright and chipper and won’t go back
to sleep until six, when Lars is waking up. I feel like a
zombie.”
“Oh, my poor darling,” Faye said. Rising, she brought the
scream- ing baby to her shoulder and walked her, patting
her back, an instinctive act that had undoubtedly been
passed down through the genes since primitive woman. “Why
didn’t you tell me about this before now, Laura?”
“Because you’ve already helped so much! I’m an adult! I
should be able to solve my problems myself!” She stamped
her foot, looking terribly young and vulnerable.
Faye moved Megan to the other shoulder. “Does Lars help
with Megan?”
“She screams even louder with Lars. I think she’s hurt his
feelings.”
“At least his eardrums,” Faye muttered wryly.
“What?”
“You slept through the night when you were a month old,”
Faye admitted, feeling irrationally guilty for having had
it so easy.
“I know! So what am I doing wrong?”
“It’s not a question of—”
“I shouldn’t blame Lars if he is having an affair.”
Laura’s tears started up again. “My breasts hang, I
haven’t had the time to shave my legs since Megan was
born, and all I can talk about is the color of her poop.
I’ve gotten all saggy and boring! Probably not even Joe
Foster would want me now.”
“Nonsense,” Faye said briskly. “You’re the same beautiful,
wonderful girl you’ve always been. All young mothers feel
this way, overwhelmed and exhausted. It will get better.
You’ll see.”
“How can it get better if Lars is having an affair?” Laura
wept.
“Darling,” Faye said, raising her voice to make herself
heard over Megan’s wailing, “you don’t know he’s having an
affair.” Her heart broke in half as she looked at her
daughter. Laura did look saggy—she sagged as she sat
there, weeping. Never had Laura looked so terrible, and
pity moved through Faye’s heart like a rumbling, rolling
boulder, weighing her down so heavily that she slumped
into an armchair, unable to stand.
Megan wailed even louder.
If only Jack were still alive. He would know exactly what
to do. Faye knew she had to do something. But what?
Copyright© 2003 by Nancy Thayer