Not My Daughter

by Barbara Delinsky

  Parking, she turned off the engine. There were already four cars in the driveway, though she had no way of knowing to whom they belonged. Her parents had always loved Chevys, but seventeen years later, who knew what they drove?

  "The porch is new," she told Lily. "And the basketball net. That must be for Jack's son."

  "Thomas," Lily droned. "Age ten. Big brother of Emily, who is eight, and Ava, who is five. The mom is Lauren, who never sends thank-yous."

  The last thing Susan needed just then was lip--and, oh boy, there was an expression from the past. I don't want lip, her father used to say, mostly to Jack.

  "Aunt Lauren and Uncle Jackson," Susan corrected.

  "This is really weird."

  Susan didn't comment, simply watched another car pull in front of her and park. A couple emerged from either door. "LeRoy and Martha Barnes. LeRoy played poker with your grandfather. Martha loves to bake." Sure enough, foil-covered plates were emerging from the backseat. Straightening to adjust her load, Martha glimpsed Susan. She stared a moment too long.

  "Foiled," Lily whispered dramatically.

  "This isn't funny."

  "I know, Mom, but these are only people, and they have very little to do with who you are. You have a life. You own a house that's nicer than this one. You have great friends and a great job. Let that lady stare."

  She was right, of course. By the time Susan had given Lily's hand an appreciative squeeze, Martha Barnes was heading into the house with her husband in tow.

  Susan took a deep breath. "Let's go." Heart pounding, she slid out of the car, pocketed the keys, and, holding Lily's hand, went up the walk. Once inside, she heard voices coming from the kitchen, but her eyes quickly went to the living room. She saw no people, just a large coffin. It was open, as she had known it would be. John Tate was as close to royalty as this town got. His minions would want to see him one last time.

  So did Susan, which was why she'd come all this way. But suddenly she couldn't move. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered brokenly.

  Lily linked their arms tightly. "You can," she whispered back. "You're a survivor, Mom. This is a piece of cake compared to some of the things you've done."

  It wasn't, but having Lily there was a help.

  Removing her dark glasses, Susan approached the coffin. Her father looked amazingly well--dark hair thinner than it had been when she'd left, but skin attractively tanned. He was a handsome man.

  What to tell him? Susan couldn't think of a thing. Wrapping an arm around Lily's waist, she drew her closer to the coffin. He would know who the girl was.

  "Is this how he looked?" Lily whispered.

  "Yes. Always in a suit. He said it added dignity to the job of mayor. He took great pride in that."

  Lily reached out, but inches shy of touching his hand, she pulled back. Susan completed the gesture herself. Her father never had the roughened skin of a cattle farmer, but his hands were strong. Even now, fingers linked lifelessly over his middle, they had that commanding quality.

  Not once, though, had he raised a hand to Susan. There had been many sweet times between father and daughter, but they were forgotten when Susan was sent away. Remembering them now, she felt a searing pain. So much was lost.

  Her eyes filled with tears, which was why she didn't notice a nearby movement until Lily's elbow tightened around hers. At the foot of the coffin stood Ellen Tate. She looked smaller than Susan remembered, though not as much in height as in an odd inner quality. Her eyes were filled with exhaustion and grief, but not surprise--no, not that. She gripped the edge of the coffin, seemingly for support, but Susan imagined a certain possessiveness and, caught trespassing, released her father's hand.

  "Mom," she said softly.

  Ellen just stared at her.

  "I couldn't not come," Susan explained. "He was my father."

  Ellen said nothing.

  "I wanted Lily to see him. This is the only chance she'll have."

  Ellen's eyes skittered to Lily--reluctantly, even involuntarily, Susan thought. Of course, Ellen had seen pictures of the girl. Susan had sent plenty over the years, and though there had never been any acknowledgment, she had to believe her parents had looked at them.

  "Lily, this is your grandmother."

  "Hi," Lily said in a small voice. There was no "Nana," but Susan couldn't fault Lily on that. Nothing about Ellen right now was warm and fuzzy--or welcoming, for that matter.

  Susan might have been angry, if she hadn't been juggling so many other emotions. She had seen newspaper snaps of her parents at events here in town, but it wasn't the same as real life.

  "You're looking well, Mom." Exhaustion and grief aside, she actually did. Her hair, Susan's sandy shade laced with silver, was stylishly cut to the chin. She wore a black sweater and slacks not entirely unlike the ones Susan wore, and though she was a bit too thin, she held herself well. She was only fifty-nine. Had her face not been drawn, she would have looked younger than that.

  Ellen still made no response. From the archway, though, came a grating, "What the hell?"

  It was Jackson, four years older than Susan, a head taller, and scowling darkly. "What are you doing here?" he asked, coming to stand beside Ellen, her protector now that John was gone. As preordained, he had taken over as mayor when his father decided not to run again. Susan had followed that in the paper as well.

  Now she was angry. Her mother not welcoming her was one thing. But Jack? He had basked in his father's love. It wouldn't have hurt him to show a little compassion to Susan, who had not.

  Granted, they had never been close. Jack had always been the heir apparent and way too arrogant for Susan's taste. Through the trauma of her final weeks here, he hadn't offered a word of support, though in his own twenty-one years, he had broken every rule except impregnating a girl. And now he was head of the house? How pathetic was that?

  She raised her chin. "I've come for Dad's funeral."

  "He would not want you here."

  "How do you know? Did you ask?"

  "I didn't have to," he said smugly. "I was here. I saw what he did when he was alive. He didn't ask for you even when his health started to fail."

  Ellen shot him a glance, but if it was a warning, she let it go and looked at Susan again.

  Susan was on her own and uncowed. "Thanks for telling me that, Jack. I might not have known."

  "I'm Lily," came a surprisingly strong voice from her side.

  Jack spared the girl a brief glance before returning to Susan. "I want you to leave."

  Lily replied before Susan could. "We just got here, and we had to spend all of yesterday traveling to do it. Mom left town at a time that was really, really bad for her, that's how much she wanted to be here. And I've never been to Oklahoma before."

  She wasn't entirely on her own, Susan realized with a glimmer of pride.

  Jack stared at the girl. "Then I'm sorry the trip will be so short. You'd be better off back in school anyway."

  "Actually, I wouldn't," Lily said, and Susan did nothing to stop her. "I brought books with me and can get my assignments online. That was one of the first things Mom did when she became principal. You know that's her job, don't you?" Jack didn't answer. "She's the youngest person ever to hold the position, and she's the best. I mean, like, everyone loves her--the kids, the parents."

  "Then it won't be hard for her to turn around and go back," Jack said.

  "No," Lily argued calmly. "You don't understand. She's good at what she does because she cares, and that's why she's here. I know all about you. You're married to Lauren, my cousins are Thomas, Emily, and Ava, and you live in a big yellow house in town that was owned by the Farrows when my mom lived here. See, even with none of you giving her an ounce of encouragement, she taught me to care."

  "But she didn't teach you not to talk back."

  "I'm not talking back. We're having a discussion."

  "What about respect for your elders?"

  "When they earn it," Lily said.
>
  Susan nearly clapped. Had it not been for the coffin and Ellen, she would have been enjoying herself. Jack had met his match.

  So he turned on Susan. "You think she's cute, but wait. That kind of lip causes trouble. She must inherit waywardness from you."

  "Either that or sensibility," Susan said. "And for the record, I wouldn't call what she said cute. I'd call it true."

  He sighed. "Okay. Look. It's been a trying few days here, so let's cut to the chase. You want money."

  That took Susan by surprise. "Excuse me?"

  "But why would he leave you any? You weren't a part of his life."

  "Excuse me." Susan was indignant. "I'm his daughter--but the fact is that money never crossed my mind. He paid me to leave town, and I haven't asked for a nickel since, and, believe me, there were times when I could have used it. But I have money enough of my own now. I have a wonderful daughter. I have friends. There's not a lot I'm wanting except maybe some closure with my mother. I'm wondering what she would say if you weren't standing guard."

  Jack turned to Ellen, who murmured, "I'll be in the kitchen," and left.

  Pleased, he faced Susan again. "There's your answer, I believe." Before she could say anything more, he followed his mother.

  Susan refused to leave, if for no other reason than to annoy Jack. She introduced herself to people who might have forgotten her, introduced Lily to some who wanted to forget them both. And when the issue of money came up again, this time from Jack's wife, Lauren, Susan was cool. "It isn't about money."

  "Jack said you'd claim that," Lauren argued, her nasal voice a perpetual whine, "but if that isn't it, why are you back? You've never come before."

  "I never felt welcome." Nor did she now. When she walked into the kitchen to replenish a plate of cookies, talk stopped. Old family friends watched her every move, not a one asking about Zaganack or Susan's work.

  "Y'know," Lauren confided, "I probably shouldn't say this, but there really isn't much money. Well, there may be a small bequest, but most of what's left is going to Ellen." She seemed to wake up. "That's why you're here? To get in good with Ellen?"

  Susan felt no fondness for Lauren Tate. For all the gifts she had sent that had gone unacknowledged, she said, "The only ones obsessed with money are you and Jack. It makes me wonder whether you have that bequest already spent and are terrified you'll lose some of it to me."

  "Why! No!"

  Susan took her arm. "Please, Lauren, listen to me. I don't want money from anyone here. If someone offered it, I'd donate it to the church."

  Lauren just pulled her arm free and walked off in a huff.

  And so it went, not a happy day. But despite Lily's pleading looks, Susan stayed. She had let herself be driven away once. When she left this time, it would be her choice.

  She chose to leave at eight, after dinner and dessert were done, the coffee urn was washed and set up for the next day, and Jack and his family were gone. Only a few of Ellen's friends remained when Susan finally ushered Lily to the car. The girl was silent until they pulled away from the house, when all she had swallowed came back up.

  "Okay, Mom. I understand that my cousins have never met me before, but for a five-year-old not to warm to me means that there's been some serious brainwashing. Every time I tried to talk with them, they ran away. I did not try to talk with my uncle Jackson, nor did he try to talk to me, probably because he was too busy talking for your mother. He acts like she doesn't have a brain. Why does she put up with it?"

  Susan could only rationalize. "It's how she's always been. My father made all the decisions."

  "That's sad."

  "It works for some women."

  "I couldn't live like that." Lily's profile was tense against the diner lights as they passed back through the center of town.

  "Nor could I," Susan said, "but that doesn't mean it's wrong."

  "But she's your mother. Doesn't she realize what it took for you to come here? Doesn't she have any feelings?"

  "She's tired right now, probably numb."

  Lily persisted. "But aren't you hurt?"

  Looking back on the day, Susan tried to decide how she felt. From the moment she decided to return, she had been dreading the confrontation, but it could have been worse. Silence was better than name-calling. "Hurt? After all these years, I'm immune. But I did hope that there'd be something warmer. So I'm disappointed."

  "Disappointed that your mother wouldn't talk to you? I'd be furious."

  "My mother was never a big talker."

  "But you're her daughter, whom she hasn't seen in years!"

  "She just lost her husband."

  "Fine," Lily granted, "but that is not how a good mother behaves--and see, that's what I mean, Mom. I may be only seventeen, but I know this. A good mother is sensitive to what her child is feeling."

  Susan had a striking thought. In a shame-filled voice, she said, "By that standard, I've failed."

  "Are you kidding? You taught me this. You totally understood what I was feeling when the Zaganotes voted me out, and when Robbie's parents came over? You knew then, too. We were absolutely on the same page."

  "Not about the baby."

  Lily took a quick breath but said nothing.

  Susan tried to explain. "It's hard sometimes. I do understand what you're feeling, but my own feelings get in the way."

  They were silent. On the outskirts of town, now, the car sliced through the dark with only the headlights to mark the road.

  "At least you're telling me that," Lily finally said. Her voice lowered. "Do you still not want the baby?"

  "I want the baby," Susan said.

  "You don't sound convinced."

  "I'm working on that."

  Back at the hotel, Susan's BlackBerry was dinging with e-mail sent during the day but only just arriving. There must have been a connectivity problem at her parents' house--how ironic was that?

  She read condolence notes from Kate and Sunny, and a brief e-mail from Pam saying she had been in touch with the school board. More urgently, there were notes from Evan Brewer. Three disciplinary problems had arisen, one involving a boy accused of cheating. Susan's heart sank when she read that one. Michael Murray had recurring problems; she'd been working closely with the family. Evan complained that Susan's assistant wouldn't give him access to the boy's full file.

  Susan kept certain reports under lock and key--namely, those that contained sensitive information from parent conferences--and the Murray file was one. Husband and wife were struggling to hold their marriage together. The home situation was occasionally violent.

  As reluctant as Susan was to give Evan access to that file, she felt he had to see the full picture. So she instructed Rebecca to show him what she had, but asked Evan not to act on the case. She would be at school Thursday morning. It could wait.

  Well after sending the e-mail, though, she was bothered. She wasn't convinced Evan truly needed the file. She was still the principal; her word should have been enough. And yes, she was being hypersensitive, but it had been that kind of day.

  Trying to relax, Susan began to knit. It helped clear her mind of Zaganack, but not of Lily. The girl had fallen asleep after changing into pajamas, at which time Susan had noted a definite bulge. The image stuck with her.

  In time, though, another image took its place. Her father's face. In this instance, the clock was not so much ticking as turned back. Good memories were returning--of being five and going with her father to Oklahoma City, of riding beside him in an open convertible for the Fourth of July parade when she was nine, of being hugged at eleven when she had tripped over Jack's outstretched leg and broken her arm.

  Revisiting these memories, she found John's death all the more tragic. It was as if she was losing her father all over again.

  The funeral was set for noon so that townsfolk who worked could attend during their lunch hour. In reality, though, much of the town was closed for the day, which meant that there were more people than ever at the house when
Susan and Lily arrived. Some were actually friendly. Most left the living room, though, when the hearse pulled up outside to take John to the cemetery.

  Susan waited, keeping her distance, while her mother stood by the coffin for a final goodbye before it was closed. Pallbearers carried it to the hearse. Ellen and the Jackson Tates followed in a black limousine.

  Lost in the long line of cars, by the time Susan and Lily reached the cemetery, the crowds were twenty deep. Buttoning her coat to the throat and triple-wrapping her scarf, Susan told herself that standing in back was for the best. But the mass of humanity did nothing to cut the wind, which blew brutally cold across the bare land, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the crowd was intentionally keeping her away.

  Listening to hymns sung by the church choir's soprano, Susan choked up at the intense sense of loss. She didn't realize she was trembling until Lily wrapped both arms around her. And then there was another arm. Through tears, she looked up at Rick. He kissed her forehead.

  The wind wasn't as bothersome then. With Rick's warmth on her left and Lily's on her right, she listened to the prayers and the eulogies. By the time the soprano sang again, Susan was feeling loved, at least.

  They didn't see her mother leave. Ellen would have been flanked by Jack and his family, anyway, and Susan was focused forward, working her way through the departing crowd toward the grave. Refusing to remember the bad now, only the good--how many times had her father succumbed to her pleading and reread Amelia Bedelia--she watched while two grave diggers shoveled dirt over the coffin, watched closely, making sure they were doing it right, until there was no mahogany left to see.

  Finally, she took a shuddering breath. She held Lily for a minute, but it was only when she turned to Rick with clear eyes now that she saw the man who stood not far from his shoulder.

  She gasped and, teary again, reached for him. She had seen Big Rick several times over the years, but always on the West Coast. Knowing that he was here for the first time in nearly as long as it had been for her, she began to weep.

  "Thank you for coming," she finally managed. She had said the words dozens of times at the house, but truly felt them now.