French Braid

“This was all because of her cousin, really. Running into him had sent a kind of jagged feeling down the center of her chest, a split between the two parts of her world. On the one side James’s mother, so intimate and confiding; on the other side Nicholas, standing alone at the train station. It was like taking a glass bowl from a hot oven and plunging it into ice water: the snapping sound as it shattered.”

The author implies that Serena’s inner dream of belonging to a gregarious, inclusive family like James’s belies the lurking, undeniable reality that she comes from a family that is totally different in its way of relating. Seeing her cousin shocks her back to the real world, in which she might long to be part of James’s family but cannot find a home there, just as she could not bring herself to sleep with James in his parents’ home. When Serena reappears in Chapter 7, she has married someone named Jeff, indicating her relationship with James does not endure.

“The difference between this scene and the ones in French paintings, Alice thought, was that the paintings all showed people interacting—picnickers and boating parties. But here everybody was separate. Even her father, a few yards away from her, was swimming now towards shore. A passerby would never guess that Garretts even knew one another. They looked so scattered, and so lonesome.”

Alice recognizes the pervasive lack of intimacy that clings to her family. As much as the family members recognize they belong to one another, there is an abiding emotional distance between them. That Alice sees the scene as a painting is the author’s play upon the motif of painting as a form of freedom—the ability to stand apart from the scene itself—and of deep perception. When Mercy goes into the woods to sketch and paint, she finds it overwhelming. Instead, she focuses on one part of one room and only paints realistic details of one aspect of what she sees. The reality of the whole room—or house, or family—is too much to take in and perfect.

“You would think, judging from Mercy’s fondness for her book of blurry French paintings, that her own paintings would be equally blurred—less scenery than a shorthand for scenery. The fact was, though, that they were not that way; or not entirely, at least. Take the one she was working on when the three of them got back to the cabin. Her pine trees were vague green pyramids, her forest floor was an expanse of brownish wash, but then in the foreground, at the lower left corner, her cast-off pompom sandals were as sharply defined as if they were sitting under a magnifying glass. [...] Alice found the contrast disturbing; the abrupt transition from hazy to specific made her eyeballs feel tight. Were the sandals meant to be a message? A clue to something? A symbol? Oh, she just didn’t get it!”

Alice’s dislike of and lack of insight into her mother’s painting endures throughout the narrative. When Mercy asks her opinion, Alice responds courteously but always deceptively. Mercy eventually becomes an accomplished painter of interior images. Yet, when Alice’s daughter’s art teacher asks if Mercy is an artist, Alice replies, “In a way” (177). The daughter’s lack of appreciation for the mother is indicative of a universal lack of appreciation that pervades the Garrett family.

“Then a pair of headlights swung across the dimly lit room, and a moment later she heard footsteps crossing the porch and Lily walked in the door. ‘You still up?’ she asked Alice. ‘What time is it?’

‘You’re asking me that?’ Alice said. But when she heard her own tone, more a mother’s tone than a sister’s, she covered it quickly with ‘Have a good evening?’”

Alice and her sister Lily are only two years apart in age, yet diametrically opposite one another in personalities, interests, and expectations. Alice worries that her mother is oblivious to the risky relationship 15-year-old Lily has with 21-year-old Trent, with long, unchaperoned dates. Just as Alice steps into the cooking void—providing all the meals for the family during their vacation—so is she the one who tries to monitor Alice’s behavior. Lily is a purely emotional creature, who vacillates between extremes of despair and elation as she dwells in grandiose romantic fantasies that Alice finds ridiculous.

“Alice tossed a glance into the bedroom—Lily sitting on the very edge of her bed, buttoning her blouse, not looking in her direction. Then she spun around and strode after Trent. She arrived on the porch just as he was getting into his car, and she reached him before he could close the driver’s-side door. ‘Stop,’ she told him.

[…] ‘You will leave this place and not come back,’ she said. ‘You will never see Lily again. My uncle is a policeman, and my family will have him arrest you if we ever catch you anywhere near her.’”

Lily and Alice live in two separate worlds, and when those worlds intersect they typically become rivals or adversaries, giving the impression that they really do not like each other. When something threatens Lily, however, as when Trent attempts to take advantage of her innocent infatuation, Alice rises up with authority to protect her sister. She shields both Lily and her parents by keeping the incident secret, perhaps the narrative’s best example of the theme of Love, Not Like. David overhears, while Alice pretends what he heard is insignificant and does not speak to him about it.

“Mercy said, ‘Lily, honey. Lily. Stop. We need to think this through. We need to think calmly and collectedly. Have you told him about the baby?’

‘He’s married,’ Lily said.

[…] It was Mercy’s turn to say, ‘Oh, God.’

‘Of course you’d have to act all scandalized,’ Lily said.

Mercy let this pass. She waited while Lily blew her nose. Then, ‘So,’ she said finally. ‘Just to consider this from every angle... Does B.J. really need to know that he is not the father? […] Not lie, exactly. Just fail to tell the truth. It might be a...kindness to him.’”

This passage is from a cryptic conversation between Mercy and Lily in which Lily reveals she is pregnant by Morris, an already married former coworker, and that she has not told her husband, BJ. The conversation reveals Lily’s tendency toward hysterics. She claims her mother overreacts regardless of what Mercy says. The dialogue also reveals the sort of survival tactics that Mercy knows women of her generation might resort to: concealing truths to maintain peace in important relationships. Several times in the narrative, the author notes the tendency of families to project faux wholesomeness.

“‘I’d show them that and I’d say, “What would be special in your house? Wouldn’t you like me to paint it?” And I’m thinking it would mean more to them if I was the one to pick it. If I was to read their house, like reading their horoscope or their palms, if I was to say, “Here’s your house’s soul. Its defining feature. Its essence.”’

‘Okay,’ Robin said. His forehead cleared. He nodded. ‘Yeah sure, honey. You should go ahead and do that.’”

Mercy here explains her unique take on painting portraits of houses. Here and elsewhere, Mercy claims an almost spiritual awareness of what is precious to homeowners about their dwellings. Readers may consider this as her clearest bid for intimacy, an expression of her desire for understanding as an artist. She already knows that Robin will not grasp the essence of what she explains or its importance to her. His response reveals his patronizing attitude toward nuanced artisanship he does not understand. Decades of living with Robin’s obliviousness is the reason she has already begun to implement her plan to move out of their home in favor of spending most of her time in the freedom and solitude of her art studio.

“So. Morris came for Thanksgiving.

He wore a brown suit and a tie, and Lily wore a brand-new maternity smock. Alice gave Lily a lecture on natural childbirth. Kevin told Morris and Robin about the advantages of enclosed shopping malls. Little Robbie refused to sit in her high chair and staggered around the dining room with both fists high in the air, practicing her walking. And Mercy sat at the end of the table smiling, smiling at all of them.”

Readers may consider Chapter 3 as the epitome of Mercy’s triumph. Apart from losing continual contact with David, her favorite child, she manages to move out of the stifling hindrance of her husband’s shadow, create a sacred space to practice her art, sell commissioned works done in her unique style of painting, steer her husband into acceptance of Lily’s pregnancy and married fiancé, and draw everyone together for an eclectic Thanksgiving—everyone’s personality shining forth unhindered and accepted. The other gathering recorded by the author that compares in its success is Robin’s surprise anniversary party.

“But occasionally, for no particular reason, she used to entertain fantasies of leaving home. Oh, not seriously, of course. They were no more than the idle, he’ll-be-sorry fantasies that she assumed must flit through all women’s minds on those days when they felt particularly taken for granted. [...]

Still, she dreamed now that she lived in some sort of police state and she was walking down a gray street in a gigantic black fur coat. A man in uniform stopped her and said her coat looked to him like the coat belonging to X, a well-known revolutionary […]

She said, ‘Well, let’s just say it would be very, very difficult to get in touch with X these days.’”

The author reveals the longing for a different, freer, more exciting life that Mercy has fantasized about since she was a young woman. Tyler precedes the description of these fantasies with a recitation of what Mercy initially saw in Robin that resulted in her acceptance of his romantic interest in her. Her decisions all along have been ones considered proper by society and have resulted in an apparently successful family. Yet she has led an unfulfilled life. She imagines that most women in her position feel just the same, that at times they all felt the desire to escape.

“Alice and Lily didn’t talk very often—only when there was an issue involving their parents or some such. And they almost never got together. Now Lily was remembering why. (Mostly they just saw each other when David came to town. In fact it seemed ironic that he, of all people should serve as the family’s connector. David, who was the very opposite of connected!)

‘I could do it buffet style,’ she said.

Alice made a laughing sound that wasn’t actually a laugh. ‘No-ho-ho,’ she said. ‘Lily. Never serve buffet style when children are involved.’”

In Chapter 4, the author relates the emergence of Greta, David’s eventual spouse, as seen through the eyes of Lily, the chapter’s protagonist. Here she recognizes the irony that David, who remains virtually cut off from everyone else in the family, is the one person whose presence brings everyone together. Robin uses this fact to usher his unknowing wife to a surprise anniversary party. Though estranged, David still wants everyone to meet and approve of his mysterious fiancée—despite having told them almost nothing about her and her child. While Lily and Alice are not intentionally estranged from each other, each clearly dislikes and avoids the other whenever possible.

“‘Robin is not just a boy’s name,’ Alice had said. ‘In fact, it’s more often a girl’s name.’

‘In this case, though, our father’s a Robin!'

‘And besides,’ Alice said, ‘I’m older. […] The oldest sibling is the one who gets dibs on the family names.’

‘That’s news to me,’ Lily told her, then Mercy had broken in to say, ‘Goodness! Listen to you two! I’m the one who should feel hurt. Two different grandchildren named for your father and none for me.’”

This emotional exchange between Alice and Lily, overheard by their mother, reveals the distinction in the way they view the world. Alice invariably chooses to be the authority as the eldest child. Lily, who named her son Robin after Alice already named her daughter Robin, invariably comes from an emotional, illogical place. Mercy, the parent who has been much more engaged in her children’s lives than their father, points out the irony of their name choices. Her worldview becomes clear as well: even the most dutiful family servant becomes discounted and overlooked.

“I’m talking about the principle of the thing. You know? I mean, larking about with this theater bunch like some rich kid, then heading to college in the fall all expenses paid and not a care in the world. I said, ‘No, sir. No, you’re going to have to do something this summer to pull your own weight,’ I said. […] How else was he going to learn, I ask you. How else would he ever learn how the actual world operates?”

This quote from Robin is part of a conversation between the adults in the family after David introduces them to Greta and Emily over lunch, then quickly departs. As the Garretts discuss why David withdraws from the family, Robin offers that David is still angry over the “summer of the plumber,” the period between David’s graduation and his departure for college. Readers know by this point in the narrative that Robin has done many things that would prompt David to remove himself from the family. One irony of this passage is that Robin achieved financial success by assuming his father-in-law’s business, not by his own “actual-world” efforts.

“‘Did you call David?’

‘David?’

‘Did you call him to congratulate him?’

‘Are you nuts? Honestly, Lily. I know you’re not as invested as I am; you were always jealous of him because up till he came along you’d been the youngest. But don’t you see how hurtful this is? I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same way about him.’”

This conversation takes place when Alice, feeling outraged and betrayed, calls Lily to report that David and Greta have quietly gotten married. Even though Alice is the first to find out, she expresses fury because David did not consult her. Again, she assumes the role of a mother toward her siblings, matter-of-factly judging Lily for not understanding why Alice feels such hostility and condemning David for not giving her any participation in the marital process. One irony of this is Alice’s overly emotional response, as she has always criticized Lily for being emotional.

“And his greatest fear was: Mercy might come right out someday and tell them the truth. ‘Your father and I live separately, needless to say,’ she might tell them—letting it drop just offhandedly, just by the by, as if she assumed they already knew. It would kill them. They would be devastated. Just the thought of her doing that could almost make him mad at her, although in fact she’d never spill a word on the subject. He had nothing to be mad at her for.”

Chronologically, this passage appears 20 years after Mercy moved out of their house, away from Robin, and into her art studio. All three children have long been aware of where their mother lives, regardless of how uninvested they may be in the lives of their parents. The only unaware person in the narrative is Robin, in that—out of kindness—his children have never broached the subject of Mercy’s true residence with him.

“Oh, maybe they should have hidden themselves after all. Because what Robin had not foreseen was that the sight of them sitting so motionless, completely silent, hands very still in their laps, seemed to distress her. She opened her mouth to say something, but said nothing. Neither did they, for some reason. Were they waiting for Robin? He drew in a breath to speak, but then Greta said, calmly, ‘Happy anniversary, Mercy.’”

This poignant, awkward moment is Robin’s greatest triumph. Against the advice of his children, he plans and carries off a surprise 50th-anniversary party, saying nothing to Mercy. The lack of spontaneity reflects the anxiety felt by all the adults as they sit in the living room, waiting for Mercy to walk home from the studio. As the surprise unfolds and the party begins, everyone turns out to be correct: Robin knew he could bring her home if he told her David was there, and his daughters knew that Mercy would not have allowed the party had she known about it.

“Wasn’t it surprising how the sight of Lily brought little Candle to Robin’s mind! And yet Candle was Alice’s daughter, not Lily’s. It almost seemed his two granddaughters had been issued to the wrong mothers—impish Candle to staid Alice, docile Serena to Lily, who had always been such a handful. And then Alice’s Eddie, son of Mr. Country Club, as Robin liked to call Ken, had turned out to be the one grandkid who enjoyed helping Robin with his carpentry projects. So maybe parenthood was meant to be educational, Robin thought—a lesson for the parents on totally other styles of being.”

Watching movies of his adult children in their youth allows Robin to compare his children to his grandchildren and observe that they have handed down their characteristics to new generations but in unexpected ways. Recognizing the distinct personal pathways established for each child reveals a new awareness in Robin, who previously in the narrative sought to dictate proper ways of thinking and acting for his children.

“‘First,’ Candle said, ‘I’m getting my haircut. Ponytails are for kids. I’m thinking of a kind of a feathered look, a kind of a wing look at the sides. [...] Second, I’m getting my ears pierced. You said I could; you’ve been saying for years that I could do it when I turned 12.’

‘I said maybe when you turn 12.’

‘And third, I want to be called by my actual name from now on. Kendall.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ Alice said. ‘You were the one who started pronouncing it Candle.’”

A third-generation member of the Garrett family, Candle embodies characteristics of several others. Here she shows Alice’s bossiness, Lily’s impetuousness, and David’s and Mercy’s reluctance to be defined by others. For Mercy, Candle turns out to be a sort of chosen child. In the brief time they work together, Mercy instills in her the primacy of listening to one’s own muse and not allowing others to define one’s artistic work or ascribe their value to it. When Mercy, sitting alongside Candle, dies on the train coming back to Baltimore, Candle feels abandoned by the one person who empowers her. Symbolically, however, Mercy has handed off to her the mantle of the family artist.

“Not only were they littlies and biggies in this family; there were the sensible ones and the wacko ones. Or—as Aunt Lily put it—the difficult ones and the easy ones. According to Aunt Lily, Alice was a difficult one while Lily herself was easy, meaning carefree and relaxed.

The good ones versus the bad ones, was what they were secretly talking about. By which each of them meant something different. […]

Hard to believe that Candle’s mother considered herself to be one of the sensible ones.”

Though she is only 12 years old, Candle has deciphered the various systems of judgment that the grown members of her family use to evaluate other family members. She notes that her mother, Alice, and her aunt, Lily, divide the family into positive and negative groups using different criteria. Not only does Candle disagree with her mother’s negative diagnosis of others in the family—particularly Mercy—but she also detects her mother’s hypocrisy.

“‘Just run the race on your own, I say. Don’t fret about the others.’

This didn’t make sense, for a moment, but then it did. Kendall felt as if she’d had some burden lifted from her, and she gave Mercy a grateful smile and Mercy smiled back.”

Mercy makes these comments when Candle points out the disparity between what Magda charges for her paintings as opposed to what Mercy charges for hers. Along with telling Candle always to be the only judge of her art, with these words Mercy frees her granddaughter from financial and critical competition with other artists. Though these are not Mercy’s last words to Candle, they bring closure to the brief, empowering relationship between grandmother and granddaughter.

“You would think this realization would come as a relief to him and it did, in part. He felt a rush of love for his whole family, whom it had seemed he had underestimated. He had thought that guarding his secret was a kindness to them; he was protecting them from knowledge that would hurt them. But now he saw that not telling them had been more hurtful, and it was they who had been kind.

He stood gazing up the stairs in a sort of trance, overwhelmed with regret for all the time he had wasted.”

This passage describes a revelatory moment for Eddie, the son of Alice and Kevin. His partner, Claude, has expressed that his family has long known that Eddie is gay. Reflecting on this, Eddie recognizes the subtle grace exhibited to him by many family members over decades. The author here makes a counterpoint that stands against all the judgments the Garretts have made about one another throughout the narrative: Regardless of their opinions of one another, they have tended to treat each other deferentially.

“What nobody understood about David, with the possible exception of Greta, was that he had suffered a very serious loss in his life. Two losses, in fact. Two very dear children: Emily and Nicholas. It was true that these days there happened to be two very dear grown-ups who were also named Emily and Nicholas, but they weren’t the same people. It was just as if those children had died. He’d been in mourning ever since.”

There are a couple of ironies arising from this passage. First, David is the one person whose childhood experience was so bitter that he resisted not only interacting with his birth family but also creating his own nuclear family, something he did not start until he was in his thirties. Once he became a stepfather and father—and now grandfather—however, he relished those roles. Second, as a young child, David was described as happy-go-lucky, joyful, and playful. As the narrative progresses, however, that David disappears, replaced by a withdrawn, quiet person. Thus, David’s mourning of his own children mirrors the grief he causes his parents when he drew back from them.

“‘What is the name of that braid that starts high up on little girls’ heads?’ David asked Greta one night when they were getting ready for bed. […] ‘Emily used to have them. They would start with two skeins of hair high up near her temples, very skinny and tight, and then join into thicker braids lower down.’

‘Oh, a French braid,’ Greta said.

‘That’s it. And when she undid them, her hair would stay in ripples, little leftover squiggles for hours and hours afterward. […] Well,’ David said, ‘that’s how families work too. You think you’re free from them but you’re never really free; the ripples are crimped in forever.”

This awareness comes slowly to David, who sought to escape his family for most of his life. Now a retired grandfather, he recognizes that, regardless of one’s attempt to divest oneself of any semblance or reflection of one’s family, the formatting one’s family of origin places upon one remains perpetually. This is the only use of the title, French Braid, in the narrative.

“‘Still, though,’ David said, ‘you can never take it for granted that family members will like each other.’

‘Oh, David. Families love each other!’

‘“Love,” well, sure. I’m talking about “like,”’ he said.”

Now in his late sixties, David still remembers vividly the disappointment his father felt toward him when he was seven and did not want to swim in a lake. Due to his father’s inattentiveness, David nearly drowned, and the resulting criticism of his father by his mother deepened the emotional chasm between them. David posits that family members love one another by default but do not necessarily like one another.