Pictures of the Past Read online

  The young woman, who worked part-time while completing her own degree work in the field, was taken aback at her boss’ appearance. Immediately, she moved from behind her desk, seeing that Dr. Hunt needed assistance at the door, her jacket, briefcase, purse, and some pink object all almost falling to the floor.

  “Well, I thought you might be irritated to hear that Mrs. Aronson just cancelled, but now I am thinking this news may be welcome.” She was helping her with the door now, catching what appeared to be the fleece jacket of a young girl. “Don’t they have hooks in the classrooms these days?” Lisa teased, knowing that somehow Dr. Hunt was still inadvertently holding onto her daughter’s coat.

  “Oh, no. One more problem. I can’t run back now— but she’ll be cold at recess.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s early September,” Lisa reminded her. “An hour from now, it will be warmer.”

  Instead of proceeding to her inner office as was her custom, Sylvie sank into the single waiting room chair, one that she remembered carefully selecting for color, size, and texture when she had decorated her new office three years ago, yet she had never actually sat in once since it was delivered. Now she found, as she had anticipated, that it did, in fact, present the perfect balance of comfort and firmness to ease her anxiety-ridden patients as they waited.

  “Can I get you something?” Lisa offered, confused at Sylvie’s uncharacteristic actions.

  “No—no. You stay where you are—we’re role-playing now. I am the patient.”

  With barely a hesitation, Lisa played along. “But you don’t even know my fees.”

  “Fair enough,” Sylvie responded. “I treat you for lunch today.”

  “But you always do,” Lisa said, slightly laughing.

  “But not at the 95th.” Sylvie was referring to the pricey panoramic venue down the street at the top of the John Hancock Building.

  “That sounds good. I am Dr. Lisa at your service.”

  They each settled into their positions—Sylvie leaning back in the comfortable chair, and Lisa, seated at the receptionist’s desk, but leaning forward, posing with pencil and pad in hand, like a television psychologist.

  “Lisa, do you see me as organized and controlled?”

  “Anal—oh, sorry—I’m just supposed to be listening and nodding, not judging.”

  “I lost control today.”

  “Welcome to the real world.”

  “Lisa, I did something crazy today. Out of character. Out of control.”

  “Go on.”

  “At the school today… I saw this little boy, and I had the strongest sense of recognition in my life. I felt that I knew him. I felt that I knew him from the past, from when I was his age.” She was honest in describing her actions now. She couldn’t let go of the episode, her almost accosting the child. She didn’t even know what had overcome her that she would act out like that. She knew she must have seemed like “stranger danger,” if not to him, then certainly to his mother.

  She had been staring blankly, slowly shaking her head, but now she focused on her listener. “You know that right after my mother died, we moved in with my grandparents and they really raised me.”

  “Yes, I know, ‘poor little rich girl,’” Lisa blurted out and then had a sickened look on her face, fearing she had antagonized her mentor.

  Sylvie, realizing her distress, lightened the moment. “I know, don’t worry. It seems ridiculous to complain, but I was an extremely lonely child.” Sylvie had shared pieces of her history with Lisa, as she probably spent more waking time with her than anyone else, even her husband. In fact, Lisa knew to address her simply as Sylvie when there were no patients around.

  There was no need at this point for Sylvie to elaborate. Her story was known not only to Lisa, but was well documented for all those familiar with Chicago’s society circles. Sylvie’s grandfather, Taylor Woodmere, the wealthy industrialist from exclusive suburban Kenilworth, had been her one savior; even now she worked with him at the charitable Woodmere Foundation. Her grandmother’s depression, though she was aware that she only knew pieces of the story, was intensified by a remote husband, and a son, her father, who had spent much of his life in one rehabilitation facility or another. So Sylvie tried so hard as a child to be sunshine in a grand mansion of gloom.

  She had worked her whole life to be dependable, responsible, and controlled—all those things her father was not…all of those things that would bind her to her grandparents so at least they would not reject her as her parents had.

  “Reject” was a strong word and truly the wrong word—years of her own therapy had clarified that. As is often the case, Sylvie had become a psychologist to understand the complexities of those closest to her and of her own life. And she did understand them better now. She understood that after her mother died in the car accident, her father was incapable of handling the responsibility of a child.

  “So at the school today,” Sylvie continued explaining, “when I saw that little boy, I became around four years old again, reliving a wonderful childhood memory in my solitary upbringing. I remember a special afternoon with my grandfather, spinning the globe in his study, when the doorbell rang and then a woman entered with a child about my age.” At this point she glanced up to see that Lisa was intrigued and was nodding for her to continue. “I remember an instant connection to an auburn-haired little boy. I think I grabbed his hand and I pulled him up the stairs to the playroom. But he stopped me on the steps—pointing to a painting on our stairwell, a picture that I had never noticed before. He said he could see a little girl in the picture—wanted to know if it was me.” She stopped her narrative without looking up and almost closed her eyes, as if she were intently concentrating to relive the specific moment. “I remember Grandfather’s houseman, Reed, saying, in his very British accent, something like, ‘My goodness, young man, that is not Sylvie.’ Whatever else he said, I couldn’t understand.” She raised her head to Lisa once more. “It’s crazy, I know, such a vivid memory,” but then she continued without allowing her to respond. “And although he may have said the name of the artist at the time, it was only through the following years when I actually focused on it, that I knew it as Jeune Fille à la Plage, by Henri Lebasque.”

  She finished the story slowly, not for dramatic impact, but wanting to hold on to the memory even for a brief time. “Before long, the mom was calling out ‘Rusty’ and the two of them were down the stairs and out of the house.”

  Once again she settled back in the chair giving Lisa more time to digest the scenario. “You know I’ve discovered, Lisa, that those children who spend their lives surrounded by many other young family members and friends actually have diminished memories of specific childhood encounters. But to me, they were isolated and therefore paramount.” At this point, Sylvie slowly left the chair and walked over to Lisa’s desk. “Let me ask you something,” she said, establishing this more intimate distance. “What is your earliest real memory?”

  “OK…Let me think…Yes, that’s easy,” Lisa responded after only ten seconds of contemplation. “I’m five and in kindergarten and dancing with a cute little boy, Barry, at the graduation party.”

  Sylvie prodded her further. “OK, now I ask you to really think. Is that a true memory—or a recollection when looking at a photograph of the event?”

  “Well—no—I remember it—I think—or maybe I only do remember the photo.” Now Lisa took the time to transport herself back in years, leaning slightly on her elbow, her eyes in the upward, distant glare of contemplation, her closed fist, still encircling the pencil, momentarily covering her mouth. “Sylvie, you are so perceptive. You know—I think my real memory is of sitting on the living room couch with my mom. I am about ten years old and we are looking at albums and pointing to that picture. You may be right.” And she focused once more on Sylvie, allowing her to continue.

  “Well, this morning I had such a strong feeling of familiarity with the little boy at my daughter’s school. When I came to my senses�
�barely—I thought that maybe the little boy I remembered, named Rusty, could have been his father—this little boy’s father. I guess it’s laughable now—how ridiculous that reach was. But the father’s name was Jason, not Rusty.” She started to turn away from her listener and now spoke only to the air. “Perhaps I should apologize and try to explain …if only I could explain it to myself.”

  As Lisa moved in her seat, she seemed to gesture with her pencil that she was ready to interject a comment, but Sylvie, facing the opposite direction, did not take her cue, and continued with her own thoughts.

  “I’ve played this memory game with others before— friends I made at camp or my first year at college out East,” Sylvie said. “Those were times that I lived for. I loved that sibling-like camaraderie that you’ve always had with your sisters.” Now she turned back to Lisa as she spoke. “When I asked those friends the same question, it was never day-to-day moments that were the childhood memories. Usually it was vacations, occasions that were out of the ordinary routine—swimming with cousins on the beach in Florida—visiting grandmas and drenching themselves with their perfume bottle collections. But for me—a seasoned world traveler by high school—I was not a stranger to the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris and the Villa d’Este in Lake Como—my most cherished early memory was bonding with a little boy, playing hide-and-seek in my playroom. And there is no photograph of that, only the picture in my mind.”

  In an almost unconscious move, Sylvie simply left the reception area with her briefcase and entered her private office. She no longer felt the need to verbalize her thoughts; now she just wanted some time alone to collect them. For one more memory of the painting filled her personal history. She was around ten years old and her grandfather was beginning to have problems with his eyesight. Sylvie remembered even the tone of Grandmother’s words. “Then, as long as you can’t see it well anyway, it is off as a donation to the Art Institute of Chicago. They have been approaching me recently about securing more of our collection and I will be happy, finally, to have this one out.”

  Sylvie had looked at her grandfather after the exchange and could sense his emotion was resignation. Normally, any charitable donations, she knew, roused only positive reflections of pride in his demeanor. But something was different with this one, she recalled thinking.

  And now Sylvie, all grown up and a young mother, understood that this boy might be nothing to her, but his appearance had triggered memories in her that she finally needed to understand. “Closure.” As a psychologist, she often used that word with her patients. And now she knew that she needed closure. But how could that come about?

  She had no recollection of her father, Court Woodmere, ever interacting with that little boy, and anyway, her father had passed away years ago, his body finally failing from years of drug abuse. Her grandfather, Taylor Woodmere, was present that day in the 1970s, but he was, after all, ninety now. Though he was still an amazing man, she doubted that he would have any memory of this small episode.

  Taylor Woodmere

  Kenilworth

  June 1937

  “Mother, you look as fresh and sweet as our morning pastries.” Taylor Woodmere almost sang his greeting, stopping as he kissed his mother’s cheek. Then he moved around the long mahogany table to his girlfriend, Emily, who was already seated. Coming up behind her, he gave a lighter peck on the top of her head, adding, “And you…you are strawberry jam on scones.”

  Emily lowered her head and blushed slightly. Louise Woodmere smiled at her only son. “You are an incorrigible flirt,” she said, using her fork to direct him to the chair closest to her. “I’m not sure your father will be joining us this morning. He seems quite preoccupied. So that means I can have you both to myself for a while. Emily and I were just discussing activities for this beautiful day ahead.”

  She raised her eyes and her index finger, motioning to the uniformed butler who approached with the tea service and refilled her cup before presenting Taylor with his customary coffee. Emily cleared her throat with a slight cough so that she might catch the server’s eye.

  “A fresh cup for me, if you don’t mind—mine has cooled,” she said, and then turned to Taylor. “Your mother and I have already had a long walk in the garden, partway down to the lake.”

  At this point, the butler returned, briskly wheeling a silver domed cart in their direction. A maid, keeping up behind him, brought them fresh plates, removing the used silverware and straightening the remaining assortment of utensils. Just as the butler raised the lid to reveal poached and lightly scrambled eggs, beautifully garnished with fresh slices of cantaloupe and honeydew melon and green grapes dipped in sugar, Taylor’s father entered the dining room.

  Addison Woodmere was an imposing figure by any standards. Even at this early hour, he was elegantly dressed for the day. His three-piece, dark gray, pinstriped suit, the contrasting stark white, crisply starched shirt, and the wide navy cravat were in bold contrast to the muted, casual summer attire of the others. He acknowledged the women first, with a “Good morning, ladies,” then stood next to Taylor, his arm resting heavily on the young man’s shoulder, making it evident that he had been looking for him and had no intention of seating himself at the table.

  “Good morning, Father,” Taylor said. “I just sat down myself and I was about to explain to the ladies that I was busy with the material you gave me last night. I was going to be coming to you as soon as I finished breakfast.” Taylor felt comfortable with his father, but he also did not want to appear to have neglected any of his directives.

  His father’s firm grip softened into a sweet paternal pat. “Ladies, enjoy your day. Taylor, I’ll see you in my study shortly.” He motioned to the maid to pour him some juice, and without further instruction, she took a serving tray from beneath the cart, placed the glass on it along with a pastry on a china dish, and followed him.

  Seated behind his oversized, gold-etched, wood grained desk, he cleared a space beyond the rectangle of his black blotter where the maid placed the breakfast tray, then made her exit. Addison Woodmere was a successful businessman. He and his father, the senior Addison, in his eighties in the year 1937, had made prudent investments, came through the crash relatively unscathed, and had actually built their company during the ensuing years with substantial government contracts. Not only an important manufacturer, Addison was also a prominent philanthropist, a well-respected figure both in his affluent suburban community of Kenilworth and in Chicago society.

  As promised, Taylor, appeared in the study just a short time later, straightening the stack of papers he carried, and anxious to be the first to speak. “Father,” he said, “I can only presume you have given me these documents because you are planning on my accompanying you to Paris. And pleased as I am to be presented with a European trip, I have to say that this is not a time for me to leave. I would prefer to stay at home for the summer.”

  It had always been understood that Taylor was being groomed to enter the family business. As a very young boy, he would accompany his father on his factory rounds, scribbling in his composition book as if he was taking the most meticulous notes. Later, when he was on school breaks, he was required to put in long hours to be exposed to each facet of Woodmere Industries, experiencing everything from janitorial work, where he devised a time-saving method for garbage removal, to time at the loading docks, heaving containers of corrugated boxes that would serve as packaging for a multitude of industries. Now he was hoping to delay assuming, for just a few months, his post as the heir apparent.

  Having recently graduated from Yale University, alma mater of the last two generations of Woodmeres, he was enjoying what he presumed would be his last summer vacation and was focused on entertaining his houseguest, his “almost fiancée,” Emily Kendall. Introduced by one of her brothers, a classmate of Taylor’s, he and Emily had been keeping company on and off for over two years. They had met at the first Yale football rally of the season, always well attended by the bright and pretty coeds from
Vassar. They soon became “an item,” hand in hand at many athletic events, and arm in arm for most of their school formals.

  “I understand your personal situation and I apologize for that,” his father said. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his clasped hands, forming a bobbing triangle to emphasize his points. “You have been a leader throughout your school years and I want you to continue to develop into a man of accomplishment, generosity, and open-mindedness.” Taylor’s anxiety was abating; perhaps he had misinterpreted his father’s purpose in giving him the thorough descriptions of each meeting on the European schedule. But Taylor was mistaken. Addison had, as always, skillfully manipulated the interaction to make his case. “I do understand the impact of timing. And that is why I need you to travel overseas now to be introduced to our European associates.” He purposely did not look up, not wanting to monitor his son’s reaction.

  “Herman Lester, our manager of operations, has already left for Paris, and he will have the greater organizational responsibilities.” He set before Taylor an array of business papers and personal correspondence with a range of international addresses and postmarks. “There is the possibility that we can align with our European counterparts and create a supply network and shipping chain that could win contracts for us whether nations are at peace or at war. In our uniform supply line, for instance, although we have materials for clothing and boots, we may use their labor or their resources for distribution. This next week I will fill you in completely on my goals, but you know the business, and I have a strong confidence in your abilities.”

  At this point, Taylor was recognizing the inevitable— that he would do whatever his father asked of him.

  “Will Grandfather go with us?” he asked, although he was certain that the senior Addison would never miss the opportunity to spend time abroad.

  “You need to realize, Taylor, you will be the only one representing the Woodmere family in Paris.” His father’s tone turned very serious and now he looked Taylor directly in his eyes. “Recent developments require your grandfather and me to deal with labor issues here. You read the papers. You know what has happened at U. S. Rubber. We want fair negotiations to forestall any problems at our locations.”