The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“We’re going in the living room,” Maddie shouts. “Don’t bother us.”


“Oh!” the woman exclaims. “All right.”

Annie moseys by her with an arched eyebrow, but the woman doesn’t acknowledge her. She probably can’t see her. Then again, she didn’t acknowledge me, and I’m not a Rip van Winkle.

“I’ll have Etta bring in some sandwiches.” The woman’s voice follows us down the hall, uncertainly.

“God,” Maddie grumbles as we arrive at the end of the impossible hallway. She stomps around, slapping on lights.

“Is that your mom?” I ask, hesitating by the entryway. It’s flanked on both sides by Doric columns, and the entire opposite wall is casement windows with a staggering view of the tops of the trees along Park Avenue.

“Please,” Maddie says, rolling her eyes. “Step. Number two.”

Tyler and Annie and I file into the room as Maddie pulls light chains here and there. I’m taking in everything—the chintz, the Lalique, the claw feet, and polished wood. Her living room looks like a hotel lobby. Except way nicer. It feels as big as a hotel lobby, too. Tyler can’t contain himself, poking around, touching things. I’m afraid to even sit down. The couches look so deep and professionally fluffed that I might fall into them and never escape.

Finally, Maddie hits a light that floods a large portrait hanging over the fireplace.

“Annie,” she says, beckoning. “Come see.”

Annie’s rooted in place. I can’t tell if she’s as struck by the sumptuousness of it all as Tyler and I are, or what. But she’s frozen stock-still in front of the fireplace, staring up at the portrait with her rosebud mouth trembling.

It’s a family group, a man, a woman, two girls, and a boy, gathered around a table covered by maps of New York State. The man wears a dour expression, with a fat belly and gold watch chain, and he’s pointing at the maps on the table. His wife looks just as awful. She has a pinched face, and sits across from him in a red satin high-waisted dress, resting a proprietary hand on his coat sleeve. One of the girls is seated between them, younger than we are now, with her hair done up in a weird pointy arrangement. The other girl stands behind them, with her hand on the first girl’s shoulder. The little boy stands next to the seated man, dressed in forest-green velvet knee pants and a waistcoat, one foot crossed in front of the other, staring out at the artist with a challenging expression in his face. His elbow rests on his father’s back, with his fingers hanging down.

Annie just stares, her hands balled in fists at her sides.

Maddie stands below the painting, arms crossed over her chest, staring up at it, too. “I didn’t recognize you,” Maddie says.

I’m staring at Annie as she gazes at the painting, watching the minute expressions on her face change from surprise to confusion to mild wonder. I hear rather than see Tyler pull my video camera out of its bag and fire it up, making a record of the scene.

“That’s . . . ,” Annie starts to say, but she trails off. She turns to Maddie in wonder. “We had this done last year. The corporation paid. It was to hang in Papa’s office at the bank.” She steps nearer, reaching out as though to touch the canvas.

“Dude,” Tyler breathes from behind the camera.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Is that supposed to be you?”