Not My Daughter

Chapter 13

Saturday mornings were for dyeing yarn, and if ever Susan needed a distraction, it was now. Wearing her wool jacket over an old shirt and paint-splotched jeans, she took her time entering the barn. The old boards sang of history, with the echo of hooves pawing the straw-strewn earth, a soft snort, the whisper of a whinny. No matter that the inner wood walls were new and insulated and the sounds strictly human, even mechanical when tape was being whipped around boxes of yarn, the original spirit remained.

Now, with the front stalls dim where computers and cartons stood idle, Susan headed toward the light at the back. Halfway there, she smelled fresh-brewed coffee, followed seconds later by the ageless odor of wet wool.

Kate was at a large tub filled with skeins soaking in water to open their pores. "I put these in last night," she said, repositioning them with a stick. "It was a good thing. I just got here five minutes ago."

Susan draped her jacket on the back of a chair. Her friend looked worn out. "Bad night?"

Kate shrugged and kept working.

After helping herself to coffee, Susan joined her at the tub, but Kate remained focused on the wool, either lost in thought or angry.

Fearing the latter and feeling the blame, Susan said, "I really am sorry, Kate. It was a choice between letting word dribble out on its own or setting the record straight with an e-mail. This way we're hit with the reaction all at once, and then it'll be done."

Kate smiled sadly. "Until our girls start to show. Until one of them goes into labor at school. Until the three of them share a bench at the harbor wearing their kids in BabyBjorns."

Susan rubbed her friend's arm. "Tell me about last night."

"Oh, Susie. Either it was my phone ringing or the girls running in to tell me who else had just called."

"People knew it was Mary Kate?"

"And Jess." A punishing look here. "Lily was the tip-off. By the way, you won't have to worry about imitators. The consensus is that the three of them are idiots."

"Your friends said that, too?"

"You mean, the people who called me?" Kate replied, giving the wool another stir. "I'm not sure they're friends. Funny how people come out of the woodwork when they want information." Her voice rose in imitation. "'Oh, Kate, it's been sooo long since we've talked, but did Mary Kate really plan to get pregnant, will she marry Jacob, and what does Will say about this?' It was horrible. Mary Kate is now angry at Jacob for being angry at her, and the tension is probably not good for the baby." She reached into the tub to separate two skeins. "She wanted to come with me this morning, and I told her no. I need time away. If that makes me a terrible mother, I'm a terrible mother." She looked around. "Do you have your colors?"

Susan produced her notebook. "Where's Sunny?"

"Not coming. She says she has too much to do."

It was an excuse. Sunny didn't want to be seen with Susan and Kate, whose daughters were her own daughter's cohorts. "Maybe I should call. She's having trouble with this."

"And we're not?"

"We aren't married to Dan." Easier to blame Sunny's absence on him than on not wanting to work with Susan and Kate. Saturday mornings were a ritual-a reward at the end of the week-an excuse to be with friends, reminiscent of Thursday nights at Susan's garage. When they were caught up in work, they could go on until Susan had to head to school for an afternoon game. When there was little work, a long cup of coffee sufficed. They knitted then, and if they weren't discussing the vagaries of a pattern, they discussed a book, a movie, even a town rumor.

It didn't feel right without Sunny. But that was only part of the problem.

"Has Pam called?" Susan asked.

"No. Haven't you heard from her?"

"Not since yesterday. She was supposed to get back to me about the school board." Not a comforting thought, that one. The unease Susan had felt leaving Tanner's office was as strong now as then.

Putting her cell on the worktable, she opened her notebook and crossed to the far wall, where shelves were neatly lined with bottles of powdered dye. She removed Scarlet, Sun, and Spruce. Liking her colors intense, she measured double the suggested amount into wide-mouthed jugs, added water to each to form a paste, and, after stirring, poured in enough water to make a gallon of stock solution. She would use this straight, diluted, or mixed for variations in hue. Taking a stack of measuring cups and a pair of rubber gloves from the supply shelf, she returned to the dye.

Behind her she heard trickling as Kate removed one skein at a time and squeezed each to remove water. Above the sound came a quiet "Jacob's parents called."

Susan looked back. Kate's expression said the news wasn't good.

"They're upset. I knew they would be. They say Mary Kate used Jacob." Hands filled with wet skeins, she swore softly. "I forgot to lay out the plastic."

Returning to the supply shelf herself, Susan wondered what Robbie's parents would think. Likely the same thing, she decided, which was why she tried not to even look at their house when she drove down the street and pulled into her driveway. She tore a length of wide plastic wrap from the spindle and flattened it on the table. Taking one skein from Kate, she arranged it in an oval.

Oh, yes, she was sorry that Sunny and Pam weren't there. But this part of PC Wool production was really up to Susan and Kate. Susan conceived the colors and worked out the formula, while Kate did the dyeing. The process had evolved from the early days in Susan's garage, growing more nuanced as they took courses and studied under experts. Though they had added implements like the skeining machine, the basic technique remained the same. Susan worked the dye, adding more or less and squeezing it through the fiber.

It wasn't an exact science. Much as Kate would take notes on dye proportions, the replication was never exact. But that was the beauty of hand-painted yarn. Each skein was unique.

Now, Susan filled a cup with eight ounces of Spruce stock and dipped in a paper towel to test the color. Even before comparing it to her notebook, she knew it was too cool. After adding a half cup of Sun, she did another test, but it was only after adding two more tablespoons that she was pleased.

Kate wrote down the measurements, then picked up where they had left off. "Jacob's parents are right. She did use him."

"They'll come around," Susan said. "They've always loved Mary Kate."

"They love her because Jacob loves her. If he stops, they stop. It isn't a visceral thing, like the way Will and I love her."

Susan considered the term visceral. "Do all parents love that way?"

"I think so. Don't you?" Kate asked in surprise.

"I used to. Now I'm not so sure." She told Kate about talking with her mother.

"They still love you," Kate assured her. "They just never got past the anger. When they sent you away, they stopped the clock. They never worked it out."

"Do you think I should go back-y'know, just show up one day and force the issue?"

"Now? No. You have enough on your plate. Get through this stuff with Lily. You didn't tell your mom about her, did you?"

Susan shook her head.

They fell silent. Wearing disposable gloves, Susan poured dye directly from the plastic cup onto the wool at three different spots in the oval, then studied the result. "More, I think," she said aloud. "This is my major color." She added more dye to deepen the saturation, then, while Kate turned the wool, applied dye to the underside. The dye didn't have to be perfectly even; one of the beauties of PC Wool was a fine subtlety in saturation. That said, there was nothing beautiful about a large patch of white in a colorway called Vernal Tide. Coral, yes. Pale green, yes. Even sand. But not white. A missed underside wouldn't do.

She shifted the wool to help it absorb the color, and squeezed dye to the ends of each swath, and all the while, she was thinking about what Kate had said.

"Working out the anger, huh? Then the little squabbles I have with Lily have a purpose?"

Kate snorted. "I put the same question to Will. He says yes. The anger will fade. It takes time."

"I feel like I'm still paying my dues. Like this is another challenge that goes right back to my own pregnancy."

"That's ancient history."

"Then you don't blame me for what our girls did?"

"No. Only for being who you are now and having to make it public."

"I had no other choice, Kate. Please believe that. I'm suffering the fallout, too. Sunny and Pam may be angry, but I need your support."

Kate shot her a helpless look. "You have it. That's one of the reasons I'm so pissed. I need a scapegoat, and you'd be a perfect one, only you're my best friend. I was so proud of you when you got this position. Now I resent it."

"There's good and bad in every job. This is the bad."

"Right." She studied Susan's book, then the three stock solutions. "We need turquoise."

While she mixed it, Susan readied the yellow dye and began to apply it. When she had poured the most concentrated shade in two small spots, she stood back to look, spread it around a little, looked again, added a diluted patch.

"Incredible how you do that," Kate said. "Look how the two colors shimmer where they meet."

"Mm," Susan said, but her mind was on work. "I wish Phil were as understanding as you. He forwarded me a sample of the e-mails he received. People are blaming the school clinic for offering pregnancy tests, blaming me for establishing the clinic, blaming Phil for allowing me to do it."

"He must have sent only the bad ones."

"He says this is how people feel. So if I defend the clinic, and Phil points out that the school board had the final say in allowing the clinic, do you think the board will shoulder the blame? No way. They'll put it right back on me."

"Not just you. Me, too. Mothers always get hit-like our kids are extensions of our bodies. They'll blame Sunny, too."

But they wouldn't blame Pam, Susan realized. Taking a fresh plastic cup, she filled it halfway with Scarlet, added measured increments of Sun, then turquoise to get coral, but all the while, the issue of blame niggled at her. When she was satisfied with the shade, she set down the cup. "Did you know that Abby was pregnant?"

Kate eyed her in surprise. "I did not! Was?"

"She lost it. Pam doesn't know."

"We should tell her."

"Abby needs to do that," Susan said, because betraying Abby would hurt friendships all around. "But it raises an interesting point about who'd be blaming who if the world knew." She had another niggling thought. "If you were to guess-just a guess, since neither of our daughters has said-who do you think first suggested the pact?"

Kate didn't blink. "I have a hunch."

"Me, too."

They were thinking the same thing, with neither of them wanting to say it because it felt disloyal, when the front door opened. Susan thought she heard Kate murmur something like Speak of the devil, before Pam reached the back room. She wasn't coming to work, likely not even to have coffee when she knew they were working with dyes. She wore wool slacks, a silk blouse, and a lambs-wool jacket, all top-of-the-line PC designs. Her freshly styled hair shimmered with some of the same blond shades Susan hoped to capture on her yarn.

"Hey," Pam said, her eyes on Susan. "Tomorrow at noon?"

The school board. "Perfect," Susan said. "Thanks, Pam. I appreciate this."

Pam was studying the wool they were dyeing. "I like it. Where's Sunny?"

"Home, I think," Susan said, but Pam was already turning to leave.

"Aren't you staying?" Kate asked.

"Nah. I'm not dressed for it. Besides, you don't need me for this."

"Actually, I do," Susan said. "I want to copy the color of your hair."

"Cute."

"Stay for coffee, at least?" Kate said.

"Can't do," Pam called back without stopping. "We're driving down to Boston. Tanner promised me a shopping trip, and we have theater tickets, so we're making a night of it. We'll have to leave early if I want to get back for the meeting, but if I'm late, Susan, you'll understand?" She didn't wait for an answer.

They watched until she reached the door.

"Theater tickets? How lovely," Kate remarked. "You should have told her about Abby. That would give her something to discuss with Tanner over martinis at the Four Seasons."

But Susan was skating on thin ice. With the prospect of facing the school board extraordinarily daunting and Pam a questionable ally, she couldn't risk it.

The board met in a conference room at the town hall. There was no harbor view here, only a glimpse of the church. It was an unassuming room, functionally appointed with a long table and fourteen spindle-back chairs. Narrower ladder-backs lined the walls to accommodate guests, and above them, compensating for the limited view, hung a collection of local seascapes.

Pam had not arrived when Hillary Dunn closed the door. Nor had Phil, though he hurried in seconds later. Taking one of the chairs that ringed the room, he stayed a comfortable distance from Susan. His message was clear; she was on her own.

Susan took a seat at the end of the table and thanked the six there for meeting on such short notice. She added a note of condolence to one of the men, who had just returned to town after his sister's funeral, and it wasn't mere gesture. Bald-headed Harold LaPierre was the library director. He was bookish and fair-minded, and while their paths never crossed socially, they had a good working relationship. Susan liked him. Aside from Hillary and Pam, he was her closest ally.

She began by distributing copies of the e-mail she had sent parents on Friday, trying not to be discouraged when several of the men quickly pushed the sheets aside. She explained her rationale for the mailing-that she wanted parents hearing directly from her about what had happened and what she was doing about it. She paused to invite reaction from board members. Getting none, she described the brainstorming she'd done with the nurse and the counselor, and the meetings they planned to hold on Monday with students. When she had finished, she paused again. No reaction this time, either.

"I'd like your feedback," she finally said. "My goal is to be direct. I don't want the grapevine turning this into something it isn't. Besides, tackling it head-on gives us an opportunity to discuss issues that are timely. National studies show that teenage pregnancy is on the rise."

"Is that s'posed to excuse these girls?" asked Duncan Haith, his Maine accent thick, his bushy white eyebrows pulled down. She knew him to be the curmudgeon of the group, but to start off this way was unnerving.

Refusing to show fear, she said, "Absolutely not. I'm just citing a trend and suggesting that the timing of this can be turned to good use. My biggest worry is copycat behavior. I'm meeting with the faculty early tomorrow. We'll coordinate student discussions throughout the day." She looked around, waited. "Are you… comfortable with this? I'm open to other ideas."

"But it's too late," Duncan complained, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "You already told the world. That was not a good move." He shot Phil a look. "Did you approve this?"

Phil shrugged. "We couldn't sweep the problem under the rug."

"Why not?"

Phil gestured for Susan to go on.

"Rumors were already spreading," she said.

Duncan scowled. "So now, instead of a few people talking about it, everyone is? What's the point a' that?"

Not wanting to argue, Susan appealed to the others. Thankfully, Hillary Dunn came to her aid. Wife of the town meeting moderator and mother of three, she was originally from the Midwest, an outsider like Susan. "I see her point, Mr. Haith," she said now. "If people are going to talk, you want them to know the facts."

"But they didn't even get all the information," Duncan blustered. "This e-mail does not mention the names of the girls."

Susan suspected he knew the names, but she gave them anyway. If he wanted her to squirm, she would squirm. That was the easy part. The hard part was projecting command enough to make the board see her as the principal of the school, not the mother of one of the girls involved. She was wearing brown today--fuchsia heart, be still!-good solid earth tones, right down to her scarf.

"I didn't include names in the e-mail," she said respectfully, "because my priority is that the school community know what's happened, and that they know we're taking steps to make sure it doesn't happen again. The identity of the girls is secondary."

"Well, I'm sure you'd like that to be true," Carl Morgan remarked in a gravelly voice. He had headed the Perry & Cass accounting department before retiring and still prepared taxes for many Zaganackians. While he was known to be more reasonable than Duncan Haith, had it been April, he'd have been a bear. "We're talking about your daughter and her two closest friends, right?"

"Yes."

"No boys involved?"

Susan smiled politely. "Of course there were, but it's not my place to give out their names. We're focusing on the girls-in this case, on pact behavior."

"Bad word," muttered Thomas Zimmerman, a Realtor.

"Group behavior, then," Susan said.

"But explain it, please," Carl asked gruffly. "Why did they do this? You don't discuss that in your e-mail."

She hadn't felt it necessary there. Here she said, "They did it because they love children, and because, acting together, telling themselves that this was their thing, they were able to override what they'd been taught. That's what pact behavior is about."

"But why these girls?" Carl went on. "They're achievers."

"Maybe that's why," Susan reasoned. "Being achievers gave them the confidence to think they could pull this off."

Duncan sat forward. "So you'll confront this issue openly at school, and you'll keep your fingers crossed that your students listen, but what about these girls?"

"Oh, they'll be there."

"No." He laced his fingers. "I'm talking about punishment. Since you've gone public with this, don't we need a public response? They shouldn't get off scot-free."

Susan was startled. "They'll be living with the consequences of their behavior for the rest of their lives. But punishment? You mean, like detention? Community service?"

"I was thinking expulsion, or at the very least suspension."

"Expulsion would be illegal. And suspension? For getting pregnant?"

"Why not? My reading of the handbook says that the principal has the discretion to impose suspension. Or can't you do that he-ya because of your own involvement?"

Susan fought a rising anger. "Oh, I can do it, and I would, if it made sense. I've suspended students for bullying, for writing on the bathroom walls, for any number of infractions that involve harming someone or something, but there's nothing in the handbook that outlaws pregnancy. And who is the victim here? Their unborn babies? If that's the case, suspension is counterproductive. The idea is to let these girls finish their education so that they can make something of their lives. Wouldn't that be best for the babies?"

"But what's best for the rest of us?" Duncan asked, bushy brows raised. "We don't condone this kind of thing. Nathaniel Hawthorne had it right. They should wear a scarlet letter."

The remark was over the top. Susan couldn't let it go unanswered. "Nathaniel Hawthorne also came from Salem, which bowed to crowd hysteria and hanged innocent women." She tried to stay cool. "Singling girls out doesn't solve the problem. Communication does. That's why we're discussing this openly. We're putting the downside of teenage pregnancy front and center. We're giving parents reasons to carry on a dialogue with their kids."

"Like you did not?"

Susan took a tempering breath. "Oh, I did."

"Before or after your daughter became pregnant?"

"Mr. Haith," Hillary Dunn scolded softly, "you're being harsh."

He looked around innocently. "Are none of you as upset as me? Cripes, what was the point of her school clinic if not to prevent this?"

Susan glanced at Phil. Legs sprawled, arms crossed, he didn't meet her gaze.

Fine. She faced Duncan. "The goal of the clinic is to give students an alternative when they can't get help at home-and yes, it's for education. Unfortunately, what happened with my daughter wasn't for lack of education. All these girls knew what they were doing."

"So who is to blame?"

Susan couldn't answer.

"Isn't it a mother's job to know when her daughter's headed for trouble?" he asked.

Of course, it was a personal attack. But if Phil's forwarded e-mails were any indication, she'd have to get used to that.

Refusing to blink, she said, "My daughter and I talk all the time. But when a seventeen-year-old wants to hide something, she can be pretty good at it."

"So we just"-he tossed a hand-"chalk off parental responsibility because that parent may not see something? What about drug use?"

"With drugs, there are physical signs a parent can look for," Susan said, "but intent to become pregnant? If I'd seen anything-guessed anything-I'd have done my best to stop it. Believe me, Mr. Haith, I know what these girls are in for, and, yes, that's on a personal level. I also know how bad this looks for the town."

The door opened and Pam slipped into the room. On her way to a seat, she touched the shoulders of several fellow board members. Barely looking at Susan, she shrugged out of her coat and sat.

Susan imagined she didn't want to be part of the discussion. But Hillary Dunn promptly turned to her. "What is your husband's take on this?"

Seeming surprised to be called on so soon, Pam took a minute to organize her thoughts. When she spoke, she was poised. "He's upset. The company stands for responsibility. He feels these girls were irresponsible."

"Do you agree?"

"Totally."

Susan agreed, too. No damage there.

But Hillary didn't let Pam off the hook. "You're the only one of us who has a daughter the same age as these girls. Are you comfortable with what Ms. Tate is doing to keep their behavior from spreading?"

"For now? Yes."

"How does your daughter feel about what these girls did?"

Pam remained composed. "She's as shocked as we are."

"Have you heard from other parents?"

"Some. They're worried. But they appreciated Susan's e-mail."

A new voice came then. Neal Lombard headed the Chamber of Commerce. A pleasant-looking man with a benign moon face, he had four children. All were in their twenties, which meant that Susan hadn't taught any of them. Mention drugs, though, and teachers talked. More than one of the Lombard sons were known users. Had that made Neal more compassionate? Apparently not.

"What Mr. Haith is saying," he offered quietly, "is that an e-mail may not be enough. We ought to consider stronger steps to let people know we don't condone this behavior. I may be speaking out of turn here, because I wasn't a member of the board that voted on your appointment, Ms. Tate, but there's an argument to be made that you ought to take a leave of absence until this all quiets down."

Susan hadn't expected that. It took her breath away-but only for a second. "With due respect, that would be my last option."

"I was just thinking of what happened in Gloucester," the man said.

"So am I," Susan assured him, "but Gloucester was different. There was a spike in teen pregnancy and the principal called it a pact when there was none. He resigned under pressure for jumping to conclusions and creating hysteria. I'm not doing that. These girls did form a pact. We have to address it. Parents trust that I'll give them straight talk."

"Can you do that, with your daughter involved?"

"Absolutely."

"Look," Duncan chided, "it's a matter of credibility. I was here when your appointment was first raised, Ms. Tate, so I know your history. Back then, it was a selling point: unmarried mother defeats the odds. Now it's a drawback. Mr. Lombard may have a point."

"Is it a drawback?" she asked quietly. "I can be honest. I can tell students firsthand the downside of being a teenage mother."

"You're missing the point, Ms. Tate. What kind of role model are you? Your daughter is following in your footsteps. Is that what we want the rest of our students to do? Unless you think what you did was okay?"

Susan was offended. "You wouldn't ask that if you'd heard some of the discussions I've had with my daughter this week, or last year, or the year before that. I don't approve of teenage pregnancies. That's one of the reasons I pushed for a school clinic-and, in fairness, we don't know the number of pregnancies the clinic has prevented."

"It didn't prevent three," said Neal Lombard, "one being your daughter's."

"Which puts me in a position of greater credibility with our kids. I can speak to them as one who's been there. I'd like to be given that chance."