Not My Daughter

Chapter 12

Susan was up late Thursday night crafting an e-mail to the faculty. After a final tweaking, she sent it out at dawn. She wanted her teachers to start the day with the facts-the nature of the pact, the names of the girls, the involvement of the school psychologist and the nurse. The e-mail to parents was harder. It wasn't that the content was different, though she mentioned no names in this one. But with parents concerned on a more personal level than teachers, the stakes were higher. She wrote and rewrote in search of exactly the right tone. Then that e-mail was sent, too.

Following a difficult day filled with questions from all sides, she got home shortly after six. She wasn't surprised to find Lily; volleyball practice was over and Friday night plans not begun. Nor was she surprised that Lily had made dinner. She often did that when Susan ran late. She liked cooking.

What surprised Susan was her daughter's contrition, evident in the fresh flowers on the table, the crab and corn bisque, which was Susan's favorite but not Lily's, and the fact that Lily was waiting in the kitchen, not in her room phoning or texting.

Susan's cell rang. Ignoring it, she hung her jacket on a hook by the door, dropped her bag on the bench beneath it, and sat. "You've been busy."

Lily hovered near the table. "I just made a few stops after practice. Jess drove." The phone rang again. "Aren't you going to answer?"

"No. It's been ringing off the hook all day. Our land line will be starting soon."

The words were barely out when it did. Lily checked the caller ID panel. "Legere. Sara's mom?"

"Probably," Susan said with resignation. "I haven't heard from her yet." The woman was a royal pain. Everyone knew it. She decided not to answer.

"You sent out the e-mails," Lily deduced. "Was it bad?"

"Oh, the sending was fine. It's the replies that were bad."

"How bad is bad?"

Not rational or understanding, thought Susan-but then, since she hadn't mentioned the girls' names, some of the parents wouldn't have realized that Susan's own daughter was pregnant. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

It suddenly struck Susan then that if Lily was old enough to be a mother, she was old enough for this. "There was disbelief. There was curiosity-lots of questions for which I do not have answers. And there was criticism. One mother called it a pathetic stunt. Another used the word disgusting. A father who obviously knew you were one of the girls said it was shameless that I couldn't control my own child."

Lily gave a half blink, clearly struggling to be strong. "They knew it was me?"

"Some did."

"Who called me shameless?"

Susan smiled sadly. "I was the one being called shameless, and I doubt it'll be the last time. This does reflect on me."

"It wasn't supposed to."

"How could it not? I'm your mother."

The silence that followed was broken only by the soup bubbling on the stove. Lily turned off the gas. "I guess I didn't think through what you'd have to face."

"Oh, Lily. It isn't just me. You heard what Jacob did when he saw Mary Kate. This may kill their relationship, and what happens then to the father that Mary Kate assumed her baby would have? What do you think Jacob's weekend's going to be like? Or Adam's-at least I assume Adam was the one who fathered Jess's baby? And who fathered yours?"

Robbie, Lily mouthed.

Susan hadn't expected an answer. Startled, she sat straighter. "Robbie Boone? Are you sure?"

"Mom. I've been with one guy in my life. I think I know who the father is."

"But Robbie? He's-he's the boy next door."

"Not next door. Across the street."

The phone rang. They continued to ignore it.

Susan was having trouble picturing her daughter and Robbie together. "You've known him since you were six. He was your first trick-or-treat buddy. He taught you to ride a bike."

"Does that disqualify him?"

"No. I just didn't see the two of you that way." She grew guarded. "Does he know?"

"He suspects. But no one else does-and please, please, Mom, don't tell Kate or Sunny or-or least of all Dr. Correlli. How's he taking this?"

Susan might have asked more about Robbie if she knew where to begin, but she just said, "The superintendent is upset. He has a right to be."

"I'm sorry."

Susan couldn't stop thinking of Robbie. He was the youngest of three, which made his parents significantly older than Susan, but they had always been unfailingly kind. When she had bought the house twelve years before and, mortgaged to the hilt, had struggled with things like a burst water heater and hurricane damage to the roof, Robbie's father had directed her to men who helped for a nominal fee. To this day, after every snowstorm, Bill Boone was outside with his shovel, digging out what the town plow had piled at the end of her driveway.

Susan was thinking that Robbie had never been publicly paired with a girl and seemed as innocent as Lily, and that if Lily had truly seduced him, Susan might be on her own after the next storm, when there was another call, this one on her cell. "I'm not answering," she murmured, wondering how Robbie's parents might feel about their son fathering a child at seventeen. Livid, she feared. Both parents were affiliated with Percy State, his dad in the treasurer's office, his mom in the art history department. Talk about responsibility? They lived and breathed it.

When the cell rang a third time, Lily fished it from Susan's bag and glanced at the caller ID. Eyeing Susan apprehensively, she opened it and, mouthing My dad, handed it over.

Had it been anyone else, Susan would have passed it right back. But Rick was her consort. "Hey," she said softly.

"How's it going?"

She sighed, releasing a little tension. "You don't want to know."

"I do. I talked with Lily earlier. She said word is out about the pact."

"Only we're not supposed to use that word."

"Correlli? He's afraid of panic."

"Clearly."

"I take it this is all falling on your shoulders."

"If not now, soon," Susan said. Rising from the bench, she left the kitchen. "One girl, and people would blame her for being careless. Three girls makes it deliberate. People start off blaming the girls, but, after all, they are only girls." Just past the front door were the stairs leading to the second floor. She climbed three and sat against the banister. "If one of those girls has a mother who was pregnant and unmarried at seventeen herself-and who is in a position of responsibility for hundreds of impressionable teens-how easy is it to blame her?"

"You'll have allies. There must be others who had babies in their teens, and there are certainly other single parents out there. They'll identify. As for the rest, eventually they'll look at the good job you've done. Tell me, would you do anything different as principal now if this didn't involve girls you love?"

"No. But I'd probably be blaming the parents, too, so I can't entirely fault Correlli."

"He's blaming you?"

"Oh yeah." When Lily appeared, Susan turned away so that she wouldn't hear. "We had a pretty heated argument. I really do have good control, Rick, but when he attacked me, I had to defend myself. I mean, really, are these girls pregnant at seventeen just because I was?"

"Did Correlli suggest that?"

"He kept repeating, 'You were seventeen.' Like I set a bad example? No matter. I may have lost him as an ally."

"Give him time. You're his protege, so the situation is personal right now. Are you feeling any better about the baby?"

"No," she confessed softly. "I'm not ready to bond. Is that an awful thing to say?"

"No. You're human. How are Sunny and Kate?"

Susan turned back. Lily needed to hear this. "Kate e-mailed before I left to say that Mary Kate is hysterical at the prospect of losing Jacob, and Dan is grilling Sunny over why she allowed me to send my e-mail to every parent in the school. But should I have sent it to senior parents only? Seniors and juniors but not sophomores? If the goal is to minimize rumor, what I did was right."

"What's happening with Abby and Pam?"

"Now, there's an interesting question. What's happening with Abby?" Susan asked Lily.

"We're not talking," the girl said. "She hasn't been much of a friend."

"Maybe she's just smart," Susan replied and said to Rick, "There's no way she'll keep trying to get pregnant now."

"She was pregnant," Lily cried.

"Excuse me?"

"Before any of us. It was right after we conceived that she lost it. And who helped her through that?"

Susan bowed her head and said into the phone, "Did you hear? Abby got pregnant first. How far along was she?" she asked Lily, who shrugged. "Does Pam know?"

"No, and please don't tell her. It's Abby's place to tell her mom."

"What about the boy?" Rick asked Susan. "Lily wouldn't tell me about him. Any ID yet?"

"Uh-huh."

There was a silence, then a wise, "But you can't tell me. She's right there."

"Yup."

"Please don't mention Robbie," Lily whispered.

"Did you hear his name?" Susan shook her own head in reply.

"Is he a decent guy, at least?" Rick asked.

"Very decent. It's actually a relief. Of course, I may not think so once he finds out."

"Want me back there?"

"No," she said, turning away from Lily again. "I can handle this. It isn't cholera, only scandal." She sputtered. "How pathetic is that? No communicable disease, no third world country, but it'll get dirty. My phone is just starting to ring."

"They love you in town."

"They did before this. I'm a good principal. I communicate with them, something they haven't had before. Do you think my predecessor would have opened up about a problem like I did today? No way. Wardell Dickinson would have taken himself off to a conference somewhere until the uproar died down. Of course, he couldn't have e-mailed parents, because he was computer illiterate. Technologically, our high school was behind every other one in the area. Now we're ahead. With one click, I was able to send out an e-mail that could directly impact my job. How ironic is that?"

There was a pause, then, "I think I should come."

"No," she said, quieting. "I'm just venting. You're the only one who goes way back with me."

"Speaking of which, my father called. Your dad's not well." Susan's heart skipped a beat. "What does 'not well' mean?"

"'Feeling poorly' was how my father put it. He's in touch with a couple of people from back home. Your dad canceled his annual golf trip."

That didn't sound good. John Tate loved his golf nearly as much as he loved fishing.

"My mother would call me if it was really bad, wouldn't she?"

Susan asked, but she didn't blame Rick for not responding. "I'd better call them."

It took several hours for her to drum up the courage. First, she blamed the hour's time difference. Couldn't phone during dinner. Then she had to finish the row she was knitting, then the next. By way of penance, she answered several incoming calls-half expecting Robbie's parents to be calling in a furor. As it happened, most of the calls were from friends who expressed support, even when their voices held disappointment.

Finally, she dialed her parents. Her mother was always up late, but not her father, and it wouldn't do for the phone to wake him. He liked his sleep. At least, he used to. Susan really didn't know what either of her parents enjoyed now.

Ellen Tate picked up after a single ring, her voice fragile in a way that pricked Susan's heart. The woman was only fifty-nine, but sounded much older.

"It's me, Mom. Susan."

There was a pause, then a low "Yes."

How are you, Mom? I didn't wake you, did I? Were you watching TV? Knitting? It's getting cold here, what's it like there?

So many possible questions, ones that were conversational and caring, but Susan had been down this road many times, always trying to smooth out the contact, to pretend that their relationship was a typical one. After one answer too many that was either short or silent, she had come to rethink asking. Her questions only seemed to make Ellen tense.

So she got to the point. "I heard Dad wasn't well."

"Who told you that?"

"Rick. His dad told him. What's wrong?"

"Nothing much."

"It was enough to keep him from golfing."

"Oh, that," Ellen said offhandedly. "He just doesn't like to fly anymore."

"Not even for golf?"

"Flying tires him out." There was a tiny pause. "He tires easily."

"Has he seen a doctor?"

"Every year. Faithfully. But your father isn't young anymore. He'll be sixty-five in the spring."

Susan was well aware of that. She guessed that there would be a party, but was afraid to ask. She wouldn't want to know that she wouldn't be invited.

"Sixty-five is not old, Mom. Does Dr. Littlefield do blood tests and EKGs?"

"Of course he does," she said. "Our medical care is just fine."

"I know. But I worry."

"You shouldn't. You have your own life."

"He is my father."

"You haven't seen him in years."

There was an edge to her mother's voice that caught Susan the wrong way. "Is that my fault?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Well, I used to think so, but I'm not sure anymore. I was careless one night, and I happen to have an amazing daughter to show for it." An amazing pregnant daughter, she thought but didn't say. This conversation was less about Lily than Susan, and her fuchsia heart was beating fast. "Dad's pride was wounded. At what point does he realize that he's turning his back on his flesh and blood? I mean, what does Reverend Withers sermonize about every Sunday, if not forgiveness?"

Ellen didn't answer.

"Mom?"

"Reverend Withers retired six years ago. Reverend Baker took over, and she's a woman. Your father doesn't listen as closely as he used to."

Was that a subtle dig at her dad? If so, it would be a first. Ellen marched in lockstep with John, mainly because she adored him. And he adored her. He was home every day for lunch. Theirs was a very sweet romance that had lasted more than forty years, in part because they appeared to agree that John's way was the right way, the only way.

Adding insult to injury for Susan was her father's blindness toward his son. Jackson could do no wrong, even when he did-though, in fairness, his sins were petty. Then again, he had married a woman who had never acknowledged a note, a phone call, or a gift from Susan. In Susan's mind, that was a major sin. She wondered if Ellen, who did always write a note, would agree with that.

"I would like to have a relationship with you, Mom. We still have a lot in common."

"What, for example?"

Most immediately, a pregnant teenage daughter, but this was not the reason Susan had called. Or maybe, once past the excuse of her father's health, it was. She wished she could confide in Ellen, had truly ached for it at times. But Ellen's tone didn't invite that. And Susan couldn't bear a put-down on this.

What else did they have in common? Susan was thinking that they had different taste in books and food, and that Ellen had no idea what Susan's job was like, when, looking around, she spotted her yarn. "Knitting," she said, relieved to have found an answer. "What are you working on?"

"Why, a prayer shawl for the town clerk's mother," Ellen said on a lighter note. "She broke her hip two weeks ago, and she's doing well, but she'll be in rehab for a bit. I'm using a wonderfully soft alpaca that I picked up in Tulsa. It's beige."

Susan was familiar with the Tulsa store. It carried PC Wool-not that she would ever expect her mother to actually buy PC Wool. "I wish I'd known," she said. "We have alpaca. I'd have sent you some." Theirs was exquisitely soft, though not beige. Well, some colorways did have beige, but it would have been paired with celadon and orchid, navy or teal.

"I can afford to buy my own," Ellen said briskly. "Your father's income may have gone down, but that was because he voluntarily took a cut in his pension so that the town could avoid layoffs."

"I didn't mean-"

"Easterners tend to think they have the best restaurants, the best schools, the best doctors. They think anyone with any brains graduated from Harvard, but that is not true."

"I know that, Mom."

"Your father has done very well in his life, and that includes providing for his family. He's made arrangements for me. He's a good man that way, always concerned about me. We own this house, and our savings are safe in the bank. We live quite comfortably. I see no reason why that should change."

Susan was startled by the outburst. Reading into the words, she worried that her father might not be around much longer-or that Ellen feared it. Susan wanted to ask, but couldn't form the words. Here would be something Ellen might share with a daughter and not a son. But not even in the best of times had Susan had the kind of relationship with her mother that she had with Lily.

She regretted that now, when they both had deep concerns. "I would like us to be able to talk on the phone without this tension."

Ellen was quiet for a minute, clearly regrouping. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. "Notes are fine."

"Not for me."

"Phoning puts me in an awkward position."

"With Dad."

"You've never tried to see it from his side, Susan. You decided early on that he was the villain. That was how you saw it, so that was how it was. Maybe if you'd approached him and apologized-"

"I did, Mom."

"Not in years."

"Because the older my daughter gets, the more wonderful she is. I won't apologize for having her. Besides, I've sent cards and gifts. Didn't Dad see that I was reaching out?"

"You never visited."

"I was never invited!" Susan cried, heartsick. "I was told to leave, remember? I was made to feel that I wasn't welcome."

"Your father gave you money to start a new life, and look where you are now."

Susan thought of the struggle it had been, through many months of loneliness and fear. She thought of the latest with Lily, and vowed that, even in this, Lily would have it easier than she had. And she thought of Ellen, who was missing so much, now times two.

"Oh, Mom," she said sadly. "I didn't call to argue. I just wanted to see how Dad was."

"He's fine," Ellen responded. "Thank you for calling."

"Will you tell him I'm thinking of him?" Susan asked. But there was no answer. With the formal thank-you, her mother had hung up.