Family Pictures by Jane Green

abandoned, how appalling it is that her so-called friends are so self-absorbed, they cannot even come to see her once a week.
    As her bitterness has grown, the only person she has to take it out on, other than the nurses, is Sylvie.
    *   *   *
    As Sylvie turns toward the elevators, she stops. In the corner, their backs toward Sylvie, are two people. A man with thin wisps of white hair, his cane resting against the table, and next to him, entertaining him with her stories as he looks on rapt, Clothilde.
    “Mom?” Sylvie bends down and kisses her mother on both cheeks as her mother stares up at her, almost dazed. “You look beautiful. I’m so happy to find you downstairs.”
    “I do get out of bed from time to time,” Clothilde says. “I have friends to see and things to do. I’m not quite the cabbage you think I am.” She rolls her eyes at her friend with a laugh.
    “I don’t, Mom. I’m glad.”
    The man stands up awkwardly, wobbling slightly as he reaches his feet. “I’ll let you ladies spend some time together,” he says as Sylvie instinctively puts a hand out to help steady him, her mother snorting derisively.
    “He’s fine, Sylvie. Don’t patronize him by trying to help.”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “She wasn’t,” the man reassures Clothilde, who just sucks her teeth and looks away. “Shall we have tea together today?”
    Clothilde then smiles in her most seductive manner. “That would be lovely,” she murmurs.
    “Charles Fielding.” The man extends a hand to Sylvie. “A pleasure to meet you. Your mother has told me wonderful things about you.”
    Sylvie knows this is unlikely, but she merely nods as he leaves them to be alone.
    “You have an admirer!” she teases lightly, sitting in the seat Charles Fielding has just vacated, as her mother scowls.
    “Yes. And he’s very nice, so don’t you start getting any ideas. I saw the way you smiled at him.” From anyone else, Sylvie would know they are joking, but not her mother.
    “Mom! He’s old enough to be my grandfather. Not to mention the fact that I’m happily married.”
    “Still. Being happily married never stopped anyone before.” She narrows her eyes at Sylvie. “You stay away from Charles.”
    Sylvie sighs. “Sure, Mom. He’s all yours. Oh! I brought something for you.” Sylvie digs into the bag and brings out the candle, now wrapped in brown paper and cellophane, tied with a raffia bow. She hands it proudly to Clothilde, who frowns as she turns it over in her hands.
    “What is it? La confiture? Jam?”
    “No. It’s a candle. I thought you might like to try something other than the Diptyque.”
    Sylvie watches her mother attempt to unwrap the raffia. Any offers of help will be silenced, even though she is struggling; eventually she lifts the candle up and bites through the cellophane, tearing it off with her teeth; then, with the large wad of cellophane still in her teeth, she catches Sylvie’s eye, and curling her good hand like a claw, she growls unexpectedly, like a tiger, before letting the cellophane fall from her mouth with a laugh as she sees Sylvie’s shocked expression.
    “Let the crazy old lady have a little fun.” Clothilde winks before bringing the candle up to her nose, closing her eyes to inhale deeply before letting out a small murmur of pleasure. “La figue.” She nods approvingly. “ Et tubéreuse . And amber! This is nice. I like this.”
    A warm glow of pleasure floods Sylvie. Even after all these years, all the therapy that helps her think she has detached from her mother, this joy at having done something right, having done something to please her mother, takes her straight back to childhood. This cord will never be cut.
    Her mother is now reading the label as Sylvie sits motionless, itching to tell her mother but wanting her mother to figure it out, waiting to see her mother’s delight when she realizes.
    “By Sylvie?” her mother asks. “How funny. What a coincidence. Where did you find