Not My Daughter

'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.

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.'