Not My Daughter

Chapter 22

Susan woke on Christmas morning wondering the same thing about her mother. They hadn't talked since the funeral, and barely then. But Christmas was Christmas, and Ellen was alone. Though Susan had sent a gift, she wanted to call.

But first, there was hot French toast, the traditional holiday breakfast she and Lily shared, then their own little ritual of gifts-small things for each other, collected one per month through the year, along with the complete set of rosewood knitting needles for which Lily had been not-so-subtly pining and the antique oak spinning wheel Susan had craved as an inspiration to learn how to spin.

Lily didn't mention the baby, though Susan saw her touching her stomach from time to time, communicating with her child in a way it would feel, looking soulful and mature. Susan would have done anything to give her back a piece of her childhood for Christmas. But the best she could do was try to cheer her up.

"Have you thought of a name?" she asked.

Lily looked surprised by the question-coming from Susan, who hadn't wanted this baby to be real. "Chloe."

Susan smiled. "Try again."

"I haven't thought of boys' names."

"You will." She added a soft, "He'll be here with us next year. Won't that be something?"

It would be something, she realized. Her first Christmas away from home had been lonely. Same with the second and third. Then Lily grew, and Susan made friends, and Christmas at Kate's came to be. And still Susan dreamed of the day when she and Lily would have more.

Next year they might.

"Hi, Mom, it's Susan. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you," Ellen said with her usual reserve.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I went to church last night."

"You did?" Historically, her parents went in the afternoon. "Good for you. Will you be going to Jack's later?"

"Yes. For lunch. At one, I believe."

"That should be nice."

"And you?"

Had the question been specific, Susan might have shared some of what was happening. But Ellen didn't want details. Her tone was more polite than interested.

So Susan said, "We'll be at my friend Kate's. I've told you about Kate. She's our head dyer. By the way, did you get the package I sent?" It held yarn, packed in project bags that were all the rage-though Susan had been careful to choose ones in the most muted colors. No fuchsia heart in Ellen. Hot pink wouldn't do.

"Yes," her mother said. "Thank you. I have to finish what I'm working on before I start something else, though."

"I know. I just thought you'd like to see our newest yarns. They won't go on sale for another few months."

"You said that in your note. They're very pretty."

Very pretty. Susan took the compliment as the best Ellen could give. "We're rushing out samples to shoot for the catalogue. You're the best knitter I know. Want to make a scarf?"

"Oh, well, I'm not quite finished with the other."

"Okay. Maybe another time." Susan paused, but there were no questions about Lily, Susan's work, or even vacation plans, any of which might have offered an opening to share the news. Finally, Susan just said, "So, I'll let you go, Mom. Have a good time at Jack's."

"Thank you, Susan. Bye."

Despite years of unsatisfying communication, Susan always hoped for more. This time she had hoped that with no one in the background monitoring Ellen's end of the conversation, there might be a change-had hoped that if, deep down inside, Ellen did love her daughter, there would be some small display of interest in Susan or Lily. After all, Ellen was alone, perhaps lonely, and surely more attuned to mortality than she had been in the past.

And Susan was as needy as she had ever been. She would have liked to share what was happening with Lily, so that her mother would put on a bright face for her. Indeed, the one person whose approval might counter the disapproval of the town was Ellen Tate. A word of encouragement from Ellen would go a long way.

That said, Susan was actually feeling heartened. The Gazette's Christmas Eve edition was skimpy, with only a handful of letters to the editor and none about the pact. Zaganackians, bless their souls, were in holiday mode.

She and Lily went ahead and had Christmas dinner with Kate's family, all of whom did a masterful job of ignoring the upcoming amnio, and on Saturday, to distract themselves, Susan took Lily to the barn.

Kate wasn't there. She and her family had piled into the car for a last-minute trip to New York City, and though Kate invited them to come along, Susan declined. She wasn't in the mood to share a hotel room with a crowd, and besides, it had started to snow.

Which was lucky for Sunny and Dan, who had taken the kids skiing.

And lucky for Pam and Tanner, who had taken theirs to Hilton Head.

But driving to New York in a nor'easter, with a daughter whose pregnancy might be troubled, was not Susan's idea of fun. Besides, she had promised Lily a rest, when, in fact, she needed one herself.

So they had the barn to themselves-at least, that was the plan. Ignoring the wail of the wind, they dyed wool for pure fun, playing with wild combinations of colors, and tested out a new yarn winder that a vendor had sent. They were getting ready to bundle up and go for lunch when the barn door opened and, in a snowy burst, Rick appeared.

Susan wasn't entirely surprised. He usually came unannounced, never quite knowing when breaking news would hijack his plans. His arrival today, though, with so much hanging over their heads, was a gift.

It was actually only the first of several. He brought lunch, which they ate there at the barn, and afterward he followed them during the slow drive home in the snow. Once in the house, he set up the Blu-ray player he had bought them for Christmas along with a boxful of movies, a popcorn maker, and bags of kernels.

As diversions went, he was a huge help.

On Monday morning, Rick insisted on driving. Having done his homework, he agreed with Susan's decision to have the amnio. Moreover, since he knew everything about the test itself, as well as the doctor involved, he could answer a lot of Lily's questions.

Susan could have managed without him-a good mother rose to the occasion-but with the worry shared, the load was less.

That said, she was the one who held Lily's hand through the procedure. She wouldn't have had it any other way.

Back home after the procedure, Lily settled in on the sofa. Two hours of rest, the doctor had advised, but with a foot of snow outside, a stack of good movies inside, and Rick eagerly waiting on his two women, there was little for Lily to do anyway. They watched movies; they played Scrabble; they kept an eye out for cramping, contractions, or fever, but Lily weathered the amnio well.

By the next morning, that particular fear was gone.

There were still the results to await and, of course, Susan's fate, but with school closed and the streets deserted, she could almost imagine that the attacks on her were over-that, like during a flu epidemic, snow cleared the air. She worked for a while on the midyear report she had to present to the school board in January, refusing to consider that the job might not be hers by then, and Rick worked beside her, a novel distraction.

When she closed her laptop, he closed his and suggested they drive to Boston. Since he rarely stayed for more than two or three days, it was a gift Susan couldn't refuse. In no time, he booked a hotel suite, made several nights' worth of dinner reservations, and, knowing that Susan and Lily adored the ballet, bought tickets to The Nutcracker. Once in Boston, they found so much else to do that they stayed until New Year's morning. They were packing to check out when Susan called her mother again.

"It's Susan. Happy New Year, Mom."

There was a cordial "And to you."

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I went to the Cummings' for dinner last night."

"You did?" It was an annual New Year's Eve event, but Susan hadn't been sure Ellen would go so soon after John's death. "I'm glad. Did they have a big crowd?"

"Not this year. I wouldn't have gone if they had. I don't love crowds."

"But they're all friends."

"Too many people," Ellen said and was quiet for a moment, before abruptly asking, "Is Rick with you?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Big Rick called. He said Rick was visiting him and left. Something about seeing Lily."

Susan caught Rick's eye. Does your dad know about Lily? she mouthed. Rick shook his head. "He's been here since Saturday," she told Ellen and might have comfortably segued into Lily's news, except that there was nothing comfortable about Lily's news. Telling Ellen would be testing a relationship that was shaky at best. She had no idea how her mother would react.

So she simply said, "We've had a great time."

"That's nice."

"Big Rick was sweet to call you."

"It was a short call. He's feeling bad that he didn't see your father before he died. He asked what I was doing with your father's fishing gear. He'd like to buy it."

"Do you have other plans for it?"

"No. But I can't think about disposing of things. It's too soon."

"I understand. It is. You must miss Dad."

"He was a good husband."

Susan wanted to add he was a good father, but couldn't get the words out. He had loved her once, but not when it really counted. As for being communicative, even in the best of times, they had never been confidants.

Was being a good father altogether different from being a good mother? The world would say yes, which meant that the bar was higher for mothers. That didn't seem fair.

"Well," Susan said. "I guess that's it for the holidays. If you ever feel like getting away, we have a spare room. I'd love you to come."

There was a pause, then a sharp, "Is that because your father can't?"

Susan refused to be baited. "No, Mom. I invited both of you soon after I bought the house, but you said Dad wouldn't fly east. I repeated the invitation several times. This is just once more."

"Well," Ellen said, more measured again, "I'm not yet ready to think of going places. But thank you. I'll keep the invitation in mind. Bye, Susan."

As they headed home later that day, Susan had a hollow feeling. She blamed it first on her mother-would it have been so difficult for her to say she would come?-but by the time they hit the New Hampshire border, the hollowness was a knot. Returning to Zaganack meant returning to everything she had been trying to forget. Now it rushed back. They still had the weekend, but she couldn't shake the idea that this was the calm before the storm. By Monday, the town would be up and running again, Susan would be back at school, Rick would be gone, Lily would be waiting for the test results. This little break would be done.

Susan crept down the hall that night, carefully avoiding the floorboards that creaked, but she wanted to lie with Rick. They had been good-nothing prior to going to Boston, and at the hotel, he had used the foldout in the living room, while Susan shared the bedroom with Lily. But if he was leaving, she wanted this first.

He was reading. With a finger to her lips, she quietly closed the door, tiptoed to the bed, and pulled her nightgown over her head. Naked, she knelt over him, but she left the light on. Too often they made love in the dark. This time she wanted to see the way his sable hair was messed, the way his cheeks grew red under his tan. She wanted to see his hands on her, wanted to see his face when, rearing back, he found his release.

Afterward, she lay in his arms. The light was out now, heightening other senses. Being naked with Rick was her chocolate after a diet of veggies. She was savoring every last bite.

The thought made her smile.

"What?" he asked.

"You're my splurge."

"Good. I was thinking I'd stick around for a few days."

Startled, she rose on an elbow to see his face. "You don't usually."

"I don't usually have a child in crisis."

"There's really nothing to do. We're just waiting."

"I can wait, too," he said, adding soberly, "What'll we do if there are other abnormalities?"

"She won't hear of abortion."

"What if the baby doesn't have a prayer in hell of living?"

She rested her cheek on his chest and whispered, "I don't know."

"To carry it to term and then lose it within hours of its birth would be devastating."

"I know."

"She'll need our advice. What would yours be?"

Susan wanted to say she couldn't go there. Only she had been doing just that in unbidden moments since the first sonogram. "I saw the heartbeat."

"You agree with her, then."

"I don't know." How to explain her feelings, when they were so complex? "Being pregnant right now is not what I wanted for Lily. I wouldn't have minded if she miscarried spontaneously. If that makes me a horrible mother, I'm a horrible mother, but my first thought was for the well-being of my own child. Seeing that heartbeat? That's something else. If it were earlier in the pregnancy, I might say we should terminate it. But she's almost halfway through. I don't know if I could tell her to do that. I don't know if it would be the best thing for her. She's come this far. She's bonded with this child. She may need to see it through, and if she has to deal with sorrow, she will."

Rick was quiet.

"What would you tell her?" Susan asked.

He took a breath. "I don't know. I haven't seen the heartbeat."

"Stick around and you will," Susan warned, then added, "But how can you stay? The network calls you constantly."

"They're spoiled. Maybe I have to unspoil them."

"What does your contract say?"

"That I'm a free agent in two months. They haven't made an offer yet. Money's an issue. I make more than most. They can hire two twenty-somethings for what they pay me."

"But you have a following. They won't want you to leave. They'll renew your contract."

"They may change the terms. Am I prepared to take less money for more work? With a child starting college?"

Susan was wistful. "She's made it easy for you there. Percy State costs less than the Ivy League. But if you blow them off, where would you go? Another network?"

"I could. I could also write. You said it yourself. I have a following. I've been places in the last few years that would make for great books."

"But you love traveling."

"I'd travel. Just not as much." He moved his legs. "Your feet are cold."

She might have laughed and said something about usually sleeping in socks, but she only murmured, "You can't stay in Zaganack. I might get used to leaning on you, and that'd be bad because you will leave, sooner or later. It's in your blood."

"How do you know?"

"Look at your life, Rick."

"I am. I'm thinking I have a helluva lot of frequent flyer miles and nowhere to go. Susie, why are you picking a fight?"

"I'm being realistic."

"I could rent somewhere in town if you don't want me living here. I could even buy a little house of my own."

"In Zaganack? I wouldn't do that, if I were you. If my job falls through, I may have to leave."

He was quiet. "You don't want me here."

"I do," she said. "That's the problem. I'm trying to protect myself. And what about Lily? If she gets used to having you here and you go, she'll be devastated."

Again he was quiet. Then, "I'm going to be a grandfather."

Susan heard the awe in his voice and rode with it. "What do you want to be called? Gramps? Papa Rick? Your dad is Grampa, so you can't use that."

"Why not? He'll be Great-Grampa. Wonder what he'll have to say about that."

"When'll you tell him?"

"When we know more."

Susan crept back down the hall soon after that. She said she wanted to be in her own room if Lily needed her, but it was all part of the dependency thing. She could get used to sleeping with Rick. Even now, her bed felt cold.

She reached for socks. They were ones she had knit of a PC Wool colorway from two years ago-Bobcat Ridge, done in shades of gray, white, and gold. Thinking of PC Wool made her think of the catalogue shots that were overdue, which made her think of Pam, which made her think of the school board-not the nicest of thoughts, but paling in comparison to the prospect of a baby born ill.

Rick's presence didn't eliminate the worry, but he was a distraction for Lily, which was a help. Susan called the doctor's office twice a day, even over the weekend, but there was nothing.

Nor was there any news on Monday morning. In fact, quiet seemed to be the order of the day in general, when school resumed. She greeted students, none of whom mentioned Lily, the pact, or the Gazette. She was able to make headway on her midyear report, as well as on the staff evaluations she had to do before hiring for fall. For that little while, she felt she was the good principal, the good mother, and even the good friend, because when news came midday Monday that the oldest living Cass had died, the first thing she did was to call Pam.

They didn't talk for long. Pam was distracted by what sounded like a newsroom on her end. But Susan imagined she appreciated the call.