Family Pictures Read Free Page B

days, offering to see Eve and talk to her about it.
    She was hopeless. Sylvie wasn’t sure what else she could do without Eve’s permission, and so she did nothing, hoping that Eve would turn a corner and, if not put on weight, at least stop losing.
    She does, in many ways, seem happier, more confident. She has a busy social life, and perhaps it is just Sylvie worrying too much. Clothilde is delighted with Eve’s new tiny frame, giving her a pile of French designer dresses from the sixties that she had never thrown out, which Eve had leaped on delightedly, pronouncing them “so Mad Men !”
    The house is silent but for the sounds of cicadas outside, as Sylvie stares disconsolately out the window, desperately missing the nights when all Eve wanted to do was snuggle on the sofa with her mother, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn as they watched a movie.
    Now it is just Sylvie. Sighing, she moves to the family room and pushes the sofa to one side with her hip, moving the armchairs until she is breathless with the exertion, standing back to admire the results.
    She goes to the living room and picks up pillows, a throw, some candleholders, moving back to the family room to accessorize, wishing Mark were here to see it. Or Eve. Or … anyone.
    She has already had a glass of wine, and refuses to have another by herself—a self-imposed discipline from which she will not waver—and wanders through the house blankly, thinking of people to call, dismissing them almost as quickly as she thinks of them.
    Sitting on the sofa, she turns on the television, hoping for a movie, but instead flicks, resting for only a few seconds, always convinced there will be something better, not finding anything she particularly wants to watch.
    She spends two or three minutes watching bored housewives rail at one another, knowing that these petty catfights amongst women are almost always the result of conniving directors.
    Sylvie is bored. Not bored enough to have a catfight with one of the neighbors—not yet—but she can understand how your mind focuses on all the wrong things when there aren’t enough of the right.
    It is time for her to do something. She can’t sit around doing nothing for the rest of her life; she can’t end up like one of these women. She has an idea, one she hasn’t shared with Mark. It’s 7:45 P.M. here; 10:45 P.M. there. If not out with colleagues at a work event, he is almost certainly asleep, but she wants to hear his voice, needs him to ease her loneliness, wants to talk to him about this business she has been thinking about.
    She moves to the “Favorites” screen on the iPhone and taps his name, settling in for a long chat.
    No answer. She sends a text. Nothing. She tries to forget about it, for this is not abnormal, but tonight she wants to talk to him. She reads on the porch, despite her difficulty in concentrating—she cannot stop wondering where he is, determining not to call him again.
    Upstairs in bed, she calls again. And again. And again.
    She falls asleep, but awakes in the early hours.
    She calls again. It is beginning to feel like a compulsion, and even though she attempts to tell herself he must have left his phone in the office, which he so often does, the possibility of going back to sleep is now out of the question.

4
    Sylvie
    “Where were you?” Sylvie’s voice is a whine. She immediately corrects it, hating herself for sounding needy. For being needy. For being up half the night thinking the worst.
    “Honey!” Mark’s laughing voice is instantly reassuring. “I forgot to charge the phone and it ran out of juice. I had no idea you were calling until I left for work this morning. Is everything okay?”
    “No. I mean, yes,” Sylvie says. “What if it wasn’t? What if it was an emergency?”
    “But it wasn’t. I’m sorry, sweetie. Were you having a bad night?”
    Sylvie, curled up in bed like a little girl, says yes in a quiet voice.
    “My poor love. Were you feeling lonely?” Mark’s