—
I was as lost outdoors as I was inside, but I had to put some physical distance between my husband and me.
We were no strangers to alcohol at home, but he and Hank were now drinking outrageous amounts—dangerous amounts—and I wondered, again, what might happen if they never did find the monster.
Hank would be fine, of course, but Ellis had lost everything. Even if he somehow managed to redeem himself socially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of that life anymore, not knowing that my whole marriage—what I’d always thought of as my salvation—was nothing but a pretty, pretty fraud.
And pretty it was: I’d lived in fabulous houses, been driven around in fancy cars, and drunk only the finest champagne. I had a closet of designer gowns and furs. My life consisted of waking at noon, meeting up with Hank and Ellis, and then bouncing from eye-opener to pick-me-up to cocktail to nightcap, and staying out all night at dances or parties before starting all over again the next day. It was full of luxurious trappings and shiny baubles, and that had blinded me to the fact that nothing about it was real.
Growing up as I had, how had I not seen that it was all posturing?
—
Society’s love affair with my fragile, martyred mother came to an abrupt end just after I turned thirteen, when she left a note on my father’s desk, secured by a glass paperweight, that informed him she was running off with a man named Arthur.
Seven weeks later, when Arthur was persuaded to return to his wife by means of social shunning and a few solid turns of the financial screw, my mother also slunk home. She had no choice. Although the money had come from her side, my grandfather hadn’t left her in control of it.
My father retreated on an almost permanent basis into his study, even taking his meals there, which left me to deal with her entirely by myself.
She took to her bed, and her weeping became more than I could bear. She was sure that she was the one who’d been wronged, and her indignation was huge—Arthur’s lack of chivalry and bravery were incomprehensible. She’d have been happy to live with him in a cave, so passionate was her love, and he’d simply tossed her aside.
When she discovered that the thick letters she sent every day were being returned by the postman and then burned, unopened, by my father, she went off her rocker.
She was furious that Arthur couldn’t even be bothered to read the words that pained her so to write. She was furious at my father, for his complete and utter lack of understanding, and also, incredibly, because he, too, couldn’t be bothered to read the letters, which she was convinced would move any human being with a soul to forgive her. And she was especially furious at June, Arthur’s wife, for allowing my mother’s former friends to surround and comfort her.
When none of this worked, she began writing to June instead, warning her that Arthur was feckless and unfaithful—he’d lured my mother in and was responsible for her ruin. She and June had been equally deceived. Couldn’t June see how similar their situations were? Those letters were also returned unopened.
In the blink of an eye, my mother had gone from social darling to pariah. It was irrevocable, but she was incapable of accepting that. She showed up at public venues, presumably in a bid to convince people she was still the brave, stoic, tragic Vivian, but no woman would talk to her, and not one man was allowed to.
The injustice of it, particularly when she found out that Arthur was being accepted back into society, pushed her entirely over the edge. She wished my father dead, and cursed her own, consigning him to hell for locking her away from what was rightfully hers. She cursed the servants and fired the housekeeper, whom she suspected of being my father’s spy, and whom he immediately rehired. She even cursed me, because if I was going to ruin her figure and keep her trapped in a loveless marriage, I could at least have been a boy.
My mother became essentially housebound, and I became an unwilling confidante. She sought constant reassurance. Was she losing her looks? Was her neck still tight? Because there was a surgery, a thing called a “skin flap,” that was supposed to turn back the clock. Did I think she needed one? I did not, but she went to New York and got one anyway. She came back with her face pulled taut and, more alarmingly, full of ideas for the improvement of me.
It was a shame I had not inherited her nose, but there was a surgery that could fix that. I was contrary and worried too much—there was a surgery to fix that, too. It was an easy thing, a simple adjustment of the front part of the brain. I’d be in and out in an hour, and I’d be so much happier. All the best families were having it done. And if somehow that didn’t do the trick, there was a promising new treatment in France that involved electricity. It was just that she hated seeing me so unhappy, particularly when a cure was available.
I did not take enough care with my hair, but a permanent wave would fix that. I was not thin enough, but for that, alas, there was no quick fix. I should never put more than the equivalent of three peas on my fork at a time, or one small disk of carrot. I should always leave two thirds of my meal on my plate, and was never to eat in public.
She weighed me regularly, and hugged me if I was lighter. These fleeting moments of affection were enough to keep me drinking my morning “tonic” of apple cider vinegar and eating as little as possible, although occasionally I got so ravenous I would sneak down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and eat an entire loaf of bread. I once ate a pound of cheddar while standing at the sink.
Despite the occasional binge, over the next two years I grew four inches and lost five pounds. My backbone and hips protruded, and there was not—according to my mother—a more elegant neck in all of Philadelphia.
I was desperate to escape. Everyone else my age was already at boarding school, but my mother claimed she couldn’t bear to be apart from me, not for a single day, never mind that I hadn’t seen her the entire time she was off with Arthur. I had no friends at all. My father wouldn’t look at me, and my mother wouldn’t stop.
One day, I pulled out the yellow pages and looked up the address of a children’s home. In retrospect, stepping out of a hired car in expensive clothing and declaring myself an orphan to the mother superior was probably not the best-laid plan. Certainly I was returned forthwith, and after that was literally a prisoner in our house—the servants were under strict orders to prevent me from going out and to inform my mother if I tried. They had nothing to worry about. I had nowhere to go.
Shortly after my attempt to flee, my father and I met in the hallway, and instead of passing me by and grunting, he stopped. His eyes ran from the top of my head down to my feet and then back, dwelling for an uncomfortable period of time on my hips and chest. He frowned.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen next month,” I said.
“You look like a damned boy. Where is your mother?”
“In the drawing room, I think.”
He pushed past me and stormed away, bellowing, “Vivian? Where are you? Vivian!”
When he slammed the drawing room door so hard it shook the walls, I realized that something extraordinary was about to happen. I crept closer, eager to hear. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Huffman, was further down the hall, with her eyes wide and her hand pressed to her mouth. We exchanged a look, agreeing implicitly to eavesdrop. She came up behind me.
There were none of the usual weapons of war: no cool but caustic innuendos, no carefully crafted barbs, and there were certainly no devastating silences. My father’s opening salvo was a roar, and my mother’s response was to cry hysterically.
I expected her to dash out at any moment, her face buried in a handkerchief, but instead her weeping turned into furious shrieking, punctuated by the sound of things smashing. At the height of a primal scream came the biggest crash of them all—it sounded like a billiards table had come through the ceiling. Mrs. Huffman and I looked at each other in horror, but since the battle raged on, it seemed no one had been murdered.
From him: It wasn’t sufficient for her to destroy his reputation by running off with another man? Did her hatred of him really run so deep it now extended to ruining the health of his only child?
From her: She was only looking after my interests, because he certainly didn’t. He cared as little for me as he did for her—he’d never loved her, had only ever wanted her money. Was it her fault he was no husband at all? Was it so wrong to want to be loved?
From him: What money? If she was foolish enough to think the proceeds were worth tolerating her antics, she had a vastly inflated view of herself. The principal itself would not be worth the torment of being married to her.
A period of earsplitting cacophony followed, during which they each tried, unsuccessfully, to outshout the other. Finally, my father thundered for silence in a voice so unexpected and frightening he got his wish.
When he spoke again, his voice simmered with determination and quiet fury.
He may have been doomed, he said, but as yet I was not, and since it appeared I was going to be his only child, he would not stand idly by as she starved me to death. I was going to boarding school immediately, tomorrow, as soon as it could be arranged.
The door opened so suddenly both Mrs. Huffman and I had to flatten ourselves against the wall to avoid my mother, who streaked past, her face red and twisted, clutching a handkerchief.
My father emerged a split second later with bulging eyes and a glistening forehead. He stopped when he saw me, and for an awful moment I thought he might hit me.
He turned to Mrs. Huffman. “Pack Madeline’s things. All of them,” he said, before swiveling on his heels and marching to his study. When he slammed the door, another door, somewhere upstairs, slammed even harder.
Mrs. Huffman and I poked our heads into the drawing room.
It looked like a war zone. Every vase was smashed, every photograph shattered. The curio table was on its side and missing a leg, and, most spectacularly, the grandfather clock lay on its face, its casing exploded, surrounded by splinters of wood, shards of glass, springs, coils, and cogs.
As I surveyed the damage, an immeasurable thrill swelled up within me, the closest thing to ecstasy I’d ever experienced. If nobody smoothed this over, I might actually get out, perhaps even with my nose and frontal lobe intact. For the first time ever, I decided not to go up to my mother, and I prayed—actually prayed—that neither parent would yield.
I did get out. Four days later. But not before finding my mother submerged in the bathtub, her hair floating around her like Ophelia’s, and an empty bottle of nerve pills by her outstretched hand.
I had broken down and gone upstairs less than an hour after the argument. She had gambled that I would come sooner.