The Favorite Daughter

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “Yesterday I left it upstairs in Shane’s apartment. I was afraid it would get lost in the chaos. But . . .” Hallie exhaled and fiddled with her ponytail. “You must go see it. It’s amazing. Shane did an incredible job, and so did you with the stories.” Hallie nodded toward the ceiling. “Go read it.”

  “I wrote most of it; I know what it says.”

  Hallie shook her head, strands of hair falling into her face. “But it’s different when you see it all in one place like that—his whole life in words and photos. Birth to now. There are pictures of us as babies. Of Mother when she was young. Of this pub and our house and the river, which is the only thing that doesn’t change. There’s a continuity you can only see when you look at the larger picture.”

  “Then I’ll go look at it.” Colleen rose and then stopped. It hit her: the secret love story that had shaped all their lives was now on paper, not secret at all. “What did Shane do with the love story? Did he include it or leave it out?”

  “He left it out . . .” Hallie shrank back. “I asked him to leave it out because of Mother. Other people will one day read that book.”

  “No.” Colleen shook her head. “He’ll know, Hallie. Somewhere deep inside, Dad will know that the story isn’t complete. Just like I always knew.” Inside Colleen’s chest a galloping began, a herd of horses.

  “What do you mean just like you knew?”

  “I always knew something wasn’t right between Mother and me. But no one told me what that something was. No one told me the truth. Dad might be losing his memory, but when he looks at that life story, there’ll be an aching absence. He might not know in the way you’d define it, but he’ll know.”

  “What do you want me to do, then?” Hallie asked, spreading her hands wide and lifting her eyebrows above her glasses.

  Colleen leaned down, her hands spread wide on the table. “I want that story included, that’s exactly what I want. Because, Hallie, it’s the truth.” Colleen stood and placed her hand on her chest, over her heart. “By erasing that truth to make a prettier story, you erase part of who I am, part of who Dad is. And”—she spread her arms wide—“part of why this place exists at all.”

  “But we need to protect Mother.”

  Colleen shook her head. “What the hell are we protecting her from? Because you know, and I know, that making the story sound sweeter doesn’t make it better. We can try and put all kinds of frosting and sugar on our lives, but I’m putting Dad’s love story back into that book.”

  “His love story?” Hallie asked. “Of course you’re part of that love story. Of course you are.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It’s why you want it in the book. Because you are part of it. You aren’t thinking of Dad’s reputation. Or Mother’s wishes. Or Dad’s promises to her.”

  “I’m thinking of all that and more. I’m thinking of Dad’s life story. I’m thinking of how he is losing that life by the minute. I am thinking of . . . us. How we’re half sisters.” She took a breath. “You know, when I first came home, Dad said he knew about betrayal and about forgiveness. I didn’t understand at the time. I thought he was talking about you and me, but he was talking about Mother. About how he betrayed her and she forgave him. Somehow he won back her trust. I want the same for us. I want to trust you again.”

  Hallie nodded. “I want that, too, more than I can say. But the memory book isn’t about us.”

  “Hallie, it’s always about us.” Colleen turned and walked outside to breathe.

  It was Shane who saw her leave and followed her out. Colleen spun around to face him on the sidewalk, the river running behind them, and took him by the shoulders. “You must put that story back in, Shane. You must. It’s a choice between revealing Dad’s life or hiding it.” She paused and said, “Remember when we were talking about the interviews and you told me we don’t get to choose which memories to give back to him? It’s the same now.”

  Shane placed his own hands on top of hers and smiled at her. “Are you talking about yourself or Dad’s memory book?”

  Colleen didn’t have to ask him what he meant. She had chosen to live her life by omitting part of her story, the painful part. And what had that done for her? She stared at her brother and answered his question. “Both; for both of us.”

  “I’ll put it back in, Lena. I will include the love story, but you have to include all of your story, too.”

  “I’m trying, Shane. I am damn sure trying.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That night, she sat alone in her childhood room with her dad’s memory book and the sounds of a house she knew as well as the murmur of the river. Yes, she wanted to be alone with the book and the memories and the clanging of the past a constant din in her ears, but she also felt the warning pricks of desire that told her to move on. She wanted to hang out with Beckett. She wanted to tell him what she’d seen and heard that day. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and listen to his stories while he listened to hers. And that right there was enough reason to turn down the date. She could not and would not disappoint one more man, one more person, with her inability to go any further than where she was right then. With skill, after much adroit practice, she pushed aside the thoughts of Beckett and turned the pages of the book, reading the stories Hallie and she had written and gazing at the accompanying photos.

  The heavy leather book with the hand-sewn crisscross stitching on the spine sat heavy on her lap. Dangling loose was the leather tie that had bound it all together with a seashell clasp. It was a work of art, just as her dad’s life had been. But not even this book and its elegant appearance could in any way give her dad’s life its due. It couldn’t give him back his laugh or his way of moving through the world with a grin and a saunter. It couldn’t show the twinkle in his eye or the quick wit that could conjure up a perfect retort when it was needed. It couldn’t offer solace when loss knocked her over with a punch of grief.

  So what was its purpose? What Shane had said from the beginning—to give their dad memories when they’d been erased, to fill in the blanks if only for the moment he read it or looked at it. At best, it would return him to himself. At worse, it would be just a pretty book.

  Colleen heard the sounds of family: Hallie came home and put her children to bed. Shane dropped off Dad, and the swish of water in the pipes echoed as each one of her family readied for bed. There was the creak of floorboards, the called-out good nights. Colleen didn’t leave her room for any of this. She stayed put, Dad’s life book in her hands, and began to wonder—what would be in her book? Would someone have to skip over the last ten years, or merely put in the articles she’d written? Because the truth was, by the heart’s standard she’d barely lived at all. She’d been perpetually busy and she’d done good work, but maybe she hadn’t lived fully because she hadn’t let her heart define her life. She’d let pain and avoidance shape her days and hours.

  Finally she closed the book and her eyes and turned out the lights. She slept so lightly that she heard footsteps in the middle of the night, and the quick double sound of the screen door. Colleen smiled in her half-awake state. Just as they’d done when they were kids, Hallie was still sneaking outside to stare at the stars. It had always been the way Hallie calmed herself when she was struggling with hard times or decisions. The ritual settled her and she’d tiptoe back inside before anyone knew she’d been gone.

  With the smile of memory, Colleen drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty

  If you want to keep a memory pristine, you must not call upon it too often.

  Sally Mann, Hold Still

  TWO DAYS UNTIL THE PARTY . . .

  Colleen’s computer screen glowed in the bedroom’s almost-morning light. She’d woken early and checked her e-mail.

  Dear Ms. Donohue,

  We are ready for further discussions regarding your travel memoi
r. When will you return to New York so we may schedule a time to meet?

  The letter had gone on from there, with a request for a prompt response.

  She returned the e-mail with a note that she would be home within the week and yes, she would like to schedule a meeting.

  She was wrong last night in thinking that her life book was empty. These past ten years of her memory book would overflow with travel and interesting people and landscapes as exotic as any in the world. They hadn’t been a waste. They’d merely been a different way of living from her siblings’ and her dad’s.

  There were negotiations to be done, conversations to be had, but Colleen rose from bed with a smile and news she wanted to share.

  Who would she tell first? Who would celebrate with her?

  Her group of friends who had been texting her for ten days despite her failure to reply? Maybe, but probably not. Her family might see the memoir as a new preoccupation when she was supposed to be focused on them. Colleen clicked on the lights one by one as she made her way to the dawn-lit kitchen. With a Nina Simone record chosen, she turned the volume to low and began to assemble breakfast fixings.

  For that brief moment, all was well with the world. Warm sun filtering through the checkered curtains and falling in dusty cones of light onto the linoleum counters made the kitchen hauntingly beautiful. Colleen was smiling when Hallie entered in her long leftover-from-high-school T-shirt with Hello Kitty on it, fluffy slippers and a question that changed everything. “Where’s Dad?”

  “In bed.” Colleen smiled at her sister, bleary-eyed and looking so young.

  “No. His bedroom door is open and he isn’t there.”

  A tidal wave crashed through the morning’s peace and brought with it the flotsam-memory of something in the middle of the night. Footsteps. The squeak of the screen door. Hallie and the stars.

  “Did you go outside last night? You know, like we used to . . . to see the stars.” Colleen whispered the question, her pulse slamming against the bottom of her throat.

  “No. What are you talking about?”

  “Did you go out in the middle of the night to look at the stars?”

  “No, Lena.” Hallie’s voice rose, and she burst into a run through the kitchen, out the door and into the backyard.

  Colleen dropped the carton of eggs she held in her hand, perfectly oval blue eggs she’d bought from a roadside farmer just yesterday. They crashed to the floor, the shells shattering in a noise so soft it couldn’t be heard over Nina’s voice. The yokes broke, spreading yellow across the hardwood floor, but Colleen ignored the mess, running into the backyard, following her sister to the dock where they both saw what wasn’t there—Dad’s johnboat.

  “God. No.” Hallie fell to her knees on the wood and picked up the dangling ropes. Then she spun to Colleen. “What time was it? What time did you hear someone get up?”

  Colleen’s thoughts spun back through time. Before she awoke and checked her e-mail but after she heard Dad say good night to Hallie.

  “When did you hear him?” Hallie stood and grabbed Colleen by the arms and shook her as if to wake her.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I was half-asleep. I thought it was you . . .”

  Hallie went running for the house. Her slippers had fallen off, one left on the grass halfway to the river and the other on the dock. Her hair flew behind her, tangled and matted with sleep. Colleen fled after her and they both burst through the kitchen door to find Rosie and Sadie standing in the kitchen, gazing at the broken eggs on the floor.

  Colleen grabbed her phone and dialed 911. It took two rings, two eternal rings before someone answered, the voice nonchalant, casual as though Colleen were calling to report a lost stuffed animal. “Send help. My dad, Gavin Donohue, disappeared in the middle of the night in his boat on the river. He has Alzheimer’s . . . he’s lost.”

  “Can you give me your address?” the voice asked so robotically that Colleen wanted to reach through the line and shake the woman.

  Colleen rattled off the address and added, “Send someone now. And the Coast Guard needs to be notified. There’s no time to waste. He might have been out there all night.”

  “All night?” It was Sadie’s voice wailing so loudly that Hallie dropped to her knees and pulled her daughter close.

  “It’s okay. We’ll find him. He knows these waters better than anyone. He can’t be . . .” Hallie looked at Colleen, just realizing the most important part. “You heard him.”

  “What?” Colleen took one step toward Hallie, oblivious that she’d stepped into the broken eggs, lurching forward as her bare feet slid along the slick egg whites. She wavered, trying to catch her balance, then lost it and fell hard on her bottom, her hip grazing the corner of the cabinet with searing pain. She landed on the floor, her legs askew and her left wrist catching the fall. Another sharper pain shot through her wrist and arm.

  Colleen let out a cry, drew her knees to her chest and dropped her head. She wouldn’t scream in front of the girls. And it didn’t matter, her silly klutzy fall; all that mattered was finding Dad.

  “Are you okay, Aunt Lena?” Rosie rested her hand on Colleen’s head, wiggled her little fingers on her scalp. “Are you hurt?”

  Colleen looked at her niece and nodded. “I’m okay. I’m fine.” She crouched before she stood and ignored the dull ache in her left hip, the knife pain in her wrist. “Hallie, call Shane.” Then she ran outside as police sirens sounded in the distance, drawing near.

  It took forever and only minutes for everyone to gather and work through the details. Kayaks and boats were sent out. Neighbors joined in and helped spread the word. Within thirty minutes, if there was a boat in Watersend, it was out looking for Gavin Donohue.

  Colleen had paced the backyard, to the dock and back again, but now stood with her sister and brother at the water’s edge, still in her drawstring-bottom and tank-top pajamas, her feet bare. Her wrist had swelled up to the size of a baseball, but she paid it no mind. She felt nothing but fear, an electric buzzing that filled her mind and body with panic. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

  “Yes, he could have,” Hallie said.

  “He knows these waters.” Shane ran his hands through his hair for the hundredth time. “He knows them better than anything in his life.”

  “He doesn’t know them anymore, Shane.” Colleen dug her toes into the dark soil, feeling the earth beneath her. “He doesn’t know what he used to know. The maze of these marshes, they aren’t like anything in the world. They change and shift. Dad has told us this a thousand times.”

  “But he’s also told us that he trusts the river. He trusts it . . .” Hallie shuddered with the words.

  “That’s the problem, Hallie.” Colleen’s voice sounded flat and uncaring even to her own ears; she knew she didn’t sound the way she felt. “He trusts the river, but the river, it can’t trust him anymore because he’s not Gavin. He’s not the same.”

  “That makes no sense.” Hallie dropped to a metal folding chair that someone had brought along with an untouched picnic basket loaded with snacks and water.

  They were all being taken care of, but there was no way anyone could make the situation better. The nieces were inside with Violet from next door. The Coast Guard was out. Food had been brought. Neighbors were on the water. A missing persons bulletin had been put out. They had fifteen hours of daylight—they would find him.

  “You blame me.” Colleen looked to her sister. “This morning, you blamed me. Like I could have prevented this.”

  “You could have.” Hallie stared out at the river, speaking to Colleen without looking at her. “You could have gotten out of bed and checked who was awake in the middle of the night instead of just rolling over and going to sleep.”

  “Hallie.” Shane’s voice was deeper, already years older than he had been moments before.

  “It�
�s true, though.” Hallie nodded, still not looking at them. “If she’d just gotten out of bed.”

  “I thought it was you. You always used to get up in the middle of the night and look at the stars. It actually made me happy, thinking of you outside, remembering those days. I didn’t once think it might be Dad. I wasn’t being lazy. I wasn’t . . . being anything.”

  “It’s not your fault, Lena.” Shane rested his hand on her shoulder. “Blame the cursed disease. And you, Hallie. Stop pointing fingers.”

  Hallie nodded. “I’m an awful person.” These words were said with such uncommon force that Colleen backed away, taking steps from her sister.

  “No, you aren’t. We’re all scared to death.” Shane exhaled and took two steps toward the dock before turning back to them both. “We will find him. He knows what to do. We will find him.”

  But they didn’t find him. Hours passed and no one discovered him in a creek or estuary or sandbar. Harry from next door. His best friend from the marina who knew his favorite fishing holes. His buddy from the pub who lollygagged with him on Saturday mornings through the tidal creeks pulling crab traps out of the river. The Coast Guard. The neighbors.

  Time stretched and collapsed. Minutes became hours. Hours were seconds. The sun moved across the sky and one sentence was repeated over and over by them all. “We’ll find him.”

  By midafternoon, Beckett arrived in a small motorboat, coming in too fast and slamming into the dock before calling out Colleen’s name. She ran to him. “Get in,” he said.

  Yes. At least she could be out on the same waters as her dad, looking instead of waiting. She would be doing something aside from walking into the house, walking out, walking to the water and then to the grass. She hadn’t had a single thing to eat. Egg whites had dried like sticky glue to the bottoms of her bare feet. Her thoughts flew everywhere—had her dad taken a thermos of water with him? A hat? Was he keeping out of the direct and glaring sun on this cloudless day?