There was also a photo of an older Sylvie sitting on a couch holding a baby—Alice wondered if the baby was her. But perhaps Sylvie had a baby of her own; Alice didn’t know. And the final photo must have been from a party—perhaps thirty people were turned toward the camera. Grandpa Charlie was in the photo, his arms outstretched, his face beaming at his daughters. Rose must have been shaking her head, because her face was slightly blurred. A younger Julia was in the photo, wearing blue jeans, with her hair down. Her sisters were so close she could reach out and touch them. Someone must have just told a joke, because the people in the photo looked both startled and mid-laugh. Alice scanned the photo, looking for a man who resembled her; she’d never seen a photograph of her father, but she knew she had his hair color and blue eyes. Everyone in the photo, though, looked like a Padavano.
After she put the photos back in the envelope and in the drawer, Alice stayed on the floor next to her mother’s bed. The discovery of the photographs had somehow confirmed Alice’s sense that there was something she needed to find or, in this case, remember. She rarely thought about the fact that she had aunts, living in another city. Grandma Rose told Alice stories about her four daughters when they were young, about Grandpa Charlie, and about their house on 18th Place, but her mother behaved as if her life had started when she and Alice moved to New York City. Why were the only photos from that before-time hidden and not up on their walls? If she had more family in her life, Alice would be safer. This tactile proof that she had family but no connection to them made the fuzz of panic rise inside her, and she had to press down on her legs to stop them aching.
That night, while she and her mother were making dinner, Alice said, “Why don’t you speak to your sisters?”
Julia had already taken out all the ingredients for the meatloaf, but she opened the refrigerator door and looked inside anyway. There were a few beats of silence, and Alice knew, for the first time, in her tall body, that her mother was wielding that quiet at her intentionally. It was designed to make Alice stop asking these kinds of questions. Alice could see these pockets of heavy quiet scattered back through her childhood, whenever she brought up topics her mother didn’t want to discuss. Alice’s father and his death, Julia’s childhood, her sisters.
Julia said, “I’m in touch with Emeline and Cecelia sometimes, but we live in different cities. And we have busy lives. When you have siblings, you’re close when you’re young, because you live in the same house. But when you grow up, you go your separate ways.”
In the past, Alice had obeyed her mother’s hints and changed the subject. But now she needed to know what was behind the quiet. This was why she had gone through her mother’s drawers, in case there was knowledge she might need to take care of herself. “Are the other three—Sylvie, Emeline, and Cecelia—still close?”
Julia looked at her, her face expressionless. “I don’t know. They live in the same city, so maybe.” She paused, and then said, “I’m a self-sufficient adult, Alice. That’s rare for a woman, and I’m proud of that fact. If I raise you right, you won’t need anyone either.”
Alice pictured her mother on one small deserted island and herself on a different island, within waving distance.
Julia said, “Why are you asking me these questions now?”
Alice wanted to say, Because I think it’s strange that the only family photos we have are in an envelope in a drawer, and I think it’s strange that the only family we ever see is Grandma Rose and we spend holidays alone or down the hall with Mrs. Laven and her relatives. And because you have three sisters and I wish I had a sister to share a bedroom with and to talk to in the dark at night.
“We have a wonderful life,” Julia said. “Don’t we?”
“Yes,” Alice said, because her mother clearly expected an answer, and because it was true. For now, she thought. But what if something goes wrong?
The next time Julia left the apartment to run errands, Alice phoned Grandma Rose. She said, “Did my mom have a fight with her sisters?”
She knew the question would surprise her grandmother, but she also thought there was a good chance Rose would answer. Traces of her mother’s pre–New York life existed all over Grandma Rose’s condo: Four framed photos of Rose’s daughters hung over the couch, and portraits of female saints from their Chicago home—which her mother always rolled her eyes at—sat on the wall above her kitchen table. And Rose was a talker; there were no pockets of quiet in her company.
“Of course Julia had fights with them. All sisters fight, you know. It’s part of being in a family.”
“My mom and I never fight,” Alice said. “And I’ve never fought with you.”
“Well,” Rose said, “that’s true. Maybe each generation is better than the one before. But what happened between your mom and her sisters is their business—do you think they told me anything? I’m their mother.”
“It just seems odd that I’ve never even spoken to any of my aunts. I know Emeline visited us, but I was too little to remember. My friend Carrie sees her aunts and uncles all the time. I feel like”—Alice hesitated—“something’s missing. My mom never talks about anything she doesn’t want to.”
“That is the ever-loving truth,” Rose said. “And I’m not going to get in trouble by telling you anything without her approval.”
“I don’t know my father’s last name. Can you tell me that?”
“Ask your mother,” Rose said, and hung up.
Alice tried to get information about her mother from Mrs. Laven, but the older woman was indignant to be asked. “Your mother is gorgeous and brilliant, and she’s worked her derrière off to run her own business,” Mrs. Laven said. “You are, bar none, the luckiest little girl in the world.” Alice sighed and changed the subject. She knew that her mother had given an internship to Mrs. Laven’s troubled nephew one summer and that Julia gave Mrs. Laven an expensive purse from a fancy store every Christmas; it was clear that if this was the last road Alice had access to, it was closed. She considered, as a final resort, writing a letter to one of her aunts, but she didn’t know their addresses or what to say. Hi, I’m your niece. How are you? She knew it was possible that her mother was right, that sisters grew apart when they hit adulthood and no longer had a home in common. How would Alice know? Perhaps they barely thought of one another anymore.
She stopped asking her mother questions. There seemed to be no point, and the practice agitated Julia, which Alice couldn’t risk. Stress could contribute to high blood pressure, which could lead to a heart attack or a stroke, and Julia’s health needed to be prioritized. Alice told herself: If I stop asking questions, I’ll stop growing. She’d been making these kinds of bets with herself since the growth spurt began. If I stop chewing my nails, I’ll stop growing. If I give up candy. If I put my hand up in class when the teacher wants me to. None of these trade-offs had panned out, though, and this one didn’t either. Alice went quiet on the subject of her mother’s past, and yet she continued to rise.
Sylvie
SEPTEMBER 1989–DECEMBER 2003