Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  “He did,” Mom agreed. “And scared me to death.”

  Dad’s blue eyes were twinkling. He was happier than Kit had seen him in a long time. “The only person who could manage Liam was his brother, my uncle Pat. Uncle Liam was a damn good fighter. But your uncle Pat was better. Whenever Liam got into trouble, they’d call my grandfather, Malachi, and Grandfather Malachi would send Pat to collect Liam. Liam didn’t like it.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “You know, Liam had two inches on Pat, but Pat had a mean right hook, and the only way he could sort Liam out was by knocking him out cold.”

  “He hit him?”

  “Hard.” He saw Kit’s face and shrugged. “Kit, somebody had to. The family couldn’t let Liam go around picking fights, breaking furniture, getting carted off to jail. That’s how we’ve always done it in this family. We look out for each other. Never leave a man behind.” He abruptly stopped talking, and a wistful expression crossed his face.

  Kit exchanged glances with her mom. Marilyn shook her head but Kit wanted to know why her dad had grown quiet. She wanted to know her family history. It was an important history. It was her history. “What are you thinking about?” she asked him.

  He didn’t immediately respond. She waited. Her mother waited. One of the uniformed servers stopped by the table and topped off the champagne, then silently slipped away.

  “Are you thinking about your dad?” Kit persisted gently, wanting to hear more about her grandfather, her father’s father, Thomas Brennan—never Tom or Tommy—and the one person her father never discussed.

  Her grandfather Thomas Brennan had perished in a hotel fire when Kit’s father was fifteen and just a freshman in high school. Three firefighters, Thomas Brennan a twenty-year veteran with the fire department, and two young firefighters, one still just a probie, died that day. The entire city of San Francisco had turned out for the funeral. The family never discussed the fire, and so Kit had only learned that her forty-three-year-old grandfather Thomas had died a hero by reading newspaper clippings in a scrapbook her late grandmother had made.

  Kit had found the scrapbook while in high school. She’d been helping clean Gramma’s house and had been determined to organize some of the clutter. And Gramma was a pack rat. She kept everything—old magazines, newspapers, wrapping paper—and so at first Kit didn’t even bother to look at the scrapbook, but then as she dusted the leather cover, a card fell out. And then more cards. She sat down with the scrapbook to put it back together and that’s when she began reading the newspaper articles and poring over the photographs and sympathy cards and letters—dozens and dozens of letters—nearly all from strangers, people who felt compelled to reach out to her to say that they wished they’d known him, that they were so terribly sorry, that they were praying for her and the children and holding them in their hearts.

  “We never do leave a man behind,” her father said roughly, breaking the silence.

  Kit nodded.

  That summer, at her grandmother’s, she discovered the truth about her grandfather—that he’d had a choice. He could have saved himself that day. But he hadn’t. Instead, he went deeper into the fire to try to rescue the two younger men from his engine. Because those men weren’t just men to him. They were his team, his brothers, his responsibility. His other family.

  Kit cried when she’d read all of the articles and condolence letters from friends and strangers, and they’d been tears of anger. She wasn’t proud of her grandfather for sacrificing himself. She was angry with him. He’d made the wrong decision. How could he sacrifice himself when he had six children? How could he do that to his wife? How could you allow your work family to come before your own family?

  And yet how could she say any of that to her father? He’d followed in the family footsteps. He’d become a fireman, too.

  They talked then of other things, and as Kit sipped her champagne, it was easy to imagine people sitting here, in this very same spot, one hundred years ago, looking out on the same glittering water and wind-whipped waves. A true city landmark, the Cliff House first opened its doors in 1863 and immediately became a popular destination until a fire destroyed it in 1896. Adolph Sutro, the “Comstock King” and a wealthy San Francisco entrepreneur, rebuilt the place, turning it into a stunning eight-story four-spire confection that survived the devastating 1906 earthquake, only to burn down in 1907 in less than two hours.

  The Cliff House was reborn in 1909, this time in a neoclassical design, and was the same Cliff House they were enjoying brunch at now.

  “So what are your plans for next weekend?” Dad asked in his big booming voice, a voice that would carry in the firehouse whether he was browning onions in the kitchen or lifting weights in the gym.

  Kit smiled and looked from his mouth to his blue eyes. She and Tommy were the only two to have inherited his blue eyes, but no one had Dad’s bright color. “Polly and Fiona are taking me out Saturday night, and Meg was talking about having me up to her house on Sunday for dinner, but I told her let’s just wait until we’re on the cruise and we can celebrate as a family together.” She glanced at her mom. “That is, if we’re still doing the cruise?”

  “If?” Mom said. “There’s no if about it. I have confirmation numbers for five cabins. We’re going.”

  “So tell us about last night,” Dad said. “How was your date? What’s he like? How did you meet him?”

  “He’s a friend of Polly’s ex-boyfriend,” Kit said.

  “Oh?” Mom’s expression brightened. She’d always loved Polly. “Which boyfriend?”

  “Jon Coleman. I don’t think you know him. He’s from way back in the past.”

  “But you liked this boy?” Mom persisted.

  Kit gurgled with laughter. “He’s not a boy, Mom. Michael’s in his forties. And he’s…okay…but there were no sparks.”

  “Sometimes those develop later,” Dad said.

  “Or not at all,” Kit answered.

  “But you will see him again?” Dad asked hopefully.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh.” Her father’s face fell, disappointed. “Well, if you change your mind, you know we’re always happy to meet your friends. Feel free to bring him around anytime.”

  Nine

  Kit drove home to Oakland grateful she had a sense of humor, and rather amused by her father’s desperate desire to see her married. It was far better to be amused than offended. Dad meant no harm. It had always been his goal to see his daughters settled, married, with families. In that order. Dad wouldn’t be happy about her becoming a mother without being a wife first. Not even if she did it through adoption.

  But Kit was serious about adoption, and after letting herself into her house, she changed into sweats and dug through the caddy on her bedroom desk to find the fat adoption application, which she carried to the kitchen table.

  It was a sixteen-page document and she’d filled out the easy stuff already: name, address, age, height, weight, language spoken at home, employment history, residential information, personal history (Arrested? Felony? Psychological/psychiatric treatment?), ten references from your community—thankfully that had also been easy, as she’d filled in her teacher friends’ names, and then all the short essay questions…

  Tell us about the people who raised you. Who were they, and did you get along with them?

  She’d smiled reading that. The people. Dad and Mom, Tom and Marilyn Brennan. The best of the best and her very own parents and she absolutely got along with them, saw them every other weekend still.

  How did you get along with your brothers and sisters when you were growing up?

  Great. Awesome. Loved my three sisters and brother. I was the one who got along with everyone.

  Which of your family members are you still close to? How often do you see or speak with them?

  All of them. My family gets together at least once a month for dinner, and I talk to my sisters almost every day. My sisters remain my best friends.

&
nbsp; Has any member of your family ever been arrested or charged with a violation of the law?

  That one had given Kit pause. Brianna had been arrested twice…once demonstrating for or against something at city hall, and then there was the night in New Orleans when she had one too many Hurricanes on Bourbon Street and ended up spending the night in jail.

  Kit had ended up answering that her fraternal twin sister, now an infectious disease nurse in Congo, had been a free spirit in college, and did have two arrests for disorderly conduct during that time, but now ran one of the most respected medical clinics in Central Africa.

  Has any member of your family/household ever been in foster care?

  No.

  And then all the childhood questions, and there were many. Some she breezed through, like: Growing up, which family members were you closest to? And what made them special to you? And: What were you usually punished for, and how were you punished? To the one that had tripped her up last time: What was the hardest part of growing up for you?

  She hadn’t known how to answer. Compared to most people, she’d had an idyllic childhood and had grown up knowing she was loved.

  But that didn’t answer the question.

  What was the hardest part of growing up for you?

  Not feeling good about yourself. Feeling bad. Feeling ordinary.

  She hadn’t been gifted or special at anything…well, except for reading. She did win Reader of the Year in fourth grade by turning in the most book reports. When Kit was awarded her blue ribbon by Sister Sylvia, her fourth-grade teacher, on the last day of school, Brianna had laughed so hard she’d been sent to the principal’s office.

  Kit smiled crookedly, remembering. She and Brianna had been such opposites all through school. Kit was studious. Bree couldn’t care less. In junior high, Brianna disappeared with boys, while Kit would steal away with books. But it hadn’t mattered. They were all different in her family, each one unique. Bree was fierce and funny. Meg, driven and ambitious. Tommy, athletic and popular. Sarah, smart and beautiful. And Kit…well, Kit had simply been good. As her dad used to say, it made Kit happy to make everyone else happy.

  Kit sat down at the table, picked up the pen, and wrote in the lined section, I was a middle child and very ordinary and not special at anything, with the exception of reading. But being a good reader isn’t something you brag about, and I desperately wanted to able to brag about something.

  She reread her answer, wondering if it was the wrong one, then felt frustrated by how little she’d accomplished and moved on to the next dozen questions.

  Finally she reached the section called “The Single Applicant,” which she was, and skimmed the pages of questions about her sexual orientation, her partners, her dating patterns, the history of her relationships, her social life the past six months, her sex life, her views on men, her views on women, her views on homosexuals, heterosexuals, her views on race, religion, everything.

  Kit had just finished filling in the part about her sex life and views on men when Sarah called. She answered the phone, happy to take a break from sharing her sexual history with complete strangers. “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Heard you had a date last night,” Sarah said brightly.

  No secrets in their family, Kit thought, leaning back in her chair and stretching. “I did.”

  “And…?”

  “It was fine.”

  “Just fine? So you won’t see him again?”

  Kit’s gaze fell on the question Do you want to be single or is there an ideal partner you’re still looking for? She rolled her eyes, pushed the application away from her. “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s married.”

  “What?”

  “Correction. He’s going through a divorce, but it’s not final, won’t be for another couple of weeks.”

  “But you like him?”

  “Not sure.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He works for Chevron. Is an engineer, I think.”

  “How old?”

  “A little older than me.”

  “Attractive?”

  “Very.”

  “Tall?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Build?”

  Kit laughed and shook her head. “Athletic.”

  “Nice, Kit!” Sarah said warmly.

  “You are as bad as Mom and Dad,” Kit groaned.

  “No, I’m not. They’re discussing a June wedding. I personally think you should insist on a yearlong engagement—”

  “You’re all going to be disappointed, then. I’m not into him. And I certainly would never think of him as marriage material.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Kit’s voice drifted off as she pictured Michael—tall, dark blond, blue-eyed—and then thought of how she felt after the date. Annoyed. Played. And it bothered her still.

  “Because…?” Sarah prompted.

  “He was just okay, and I’ve been there, done that. Richard was a warm body and it wasn’t enough. I don’t want to be with someone just to be with someone. It doesn’t make you happy. And I’m not going to settle, not ever again. If I’m going to get married, he’s got to be amazing. I want to have what you have with Boone…from the first time you guys met, it was fierce and intense, and it’s still that way with you guys today. I love that. I love that you have so much passion and sex and crazy love—”

  “Be careful what you wish for, because intense love and crazy love can make you crazy, too. Since I fell for Boone, I’ve never been the same.”

  “Better intense and crazy than to feel nothing.”

  Silence stretched across the line. “I guess it depends on how much you need control. I need it, Kit. I miss it. I’m sick and tired of crazy.”

  “But you love Boone.”

  “I do. So much that sometimes I find myself wishing I’d never met him.”

  After they hung up, Kit reached for the application, pulled it back toward her. What do you think the hardest part of raising a child on your own will be?

  Her eyes suddenly burned. This had never been her plan. Never.

  She shook her head, gathered the pages, put them back in order. She’d had enough questions and reflection for one day.

  Fiona popped by Kit’s classroom Monday morning, juggling hot tea and a stack of papers and a big pink-frosted cupcake. She placed the cupcake on the corner of Kit’s desk with a flourish. “Six days until your birthday!” she sang. “Six days until we spoil you rotten!”

  Kit followed her into the hall, called to her departing back. “Six days is a long time, Fiona.”

  Fiona lifted a hand and waved. “Not when we’re celebrating all week!”

  “We’re not!”

  “Oh, yes we are. You know we Irish like a good party!”

  Back in her room, Kit eyed the tall, heavily frosted cupcake all morning, determined to save it for after school, but it smelled so good, the vanilla in the frosting tantalizing her taste buds, and she ended up eating half at break and then the other half at lunch. It was delicious and decadent and probably a thousand calories.

  “I loved the cupcake,” she told Fiona after school as they stood in the parking lot, monitoring traffic and making sure everyone was following the rules, including the younger student drivers who tended to race toward the exit, thrilled to be behind the wheel. “But don’t bring me any more. I can’t resist them. I’ll be fatty pants soon if I’m not careful.”

  * * *

  Kit hit the gym on her way home, ran the mandatory two miles and, once home, showered, put on her pajamas, and sat down at her kitchen table with a Lean Cuisine, intending to answer a few more questions on the adoption application, but the more she thought about the questions, the less motivated she was to fill out the paperwork.

  Was she crazy, wanting to adopt? Was she crazy, thinking she could do it on her own?

  Tommy and Cass were the ones who should be filling out the application. They were the kinds of
people adoption agencies wanted—loving, strong, stable, committed. They’d be far more likely to be approved, too, than a forty-year-old teacher who couldn’t keep a man.

  In the end, Kit chose to grade papers instead of filling out more of the application. Meg called while she was eating and working.

  “I hate trying to figure out what I’m going to make for dinner every night,” Meg said, the sound of pots and pans banging in the background. “Is it meat loaf, chicken, pasta, steak? Bleck.”

  Kit grinned and stretched. “So what is it tonight?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “I’m eating spaghetti, too. But mine is frozen and out of a little box and is about as big as my palm.”

  “Not for me, thank you.” Meg was an incredible cook and didn’t nuke anything. “So, hey, this weekend. Your birthday.”

  “Not you, too!”

  “Knock it off. You’re such a spoilsport. We’re all so happy to celebrate your birthday and you’re being no fun at all.”

  “Meg, when you turned forty you were married, a mother to three kids, and in the best shape of your life. When I turn forty Saturday, I’m a single bookworm with aging ovaries.”

  Meg gurgled with laughter. “Oh, Kit, the visual on that one! You’re too funny.”

  “Yes,” Kit answered drily, “hilarious.”

  “So what is happening this weekend? Are Polly and Fiona still taking you out Saturday?”

  “They are.”

  “Can I join you guys?”

  “Yes!”

  “You really don’t mind? I know I’m the boring older sister—”

  “Shut up. You know I love hanging out with you. I’ll have Polly call you and she can tell you the plan since they’re keeping it secret from me.”

  “They haven’t told you anything?”

  “Just that we’re meeting up at seven, but I don’t know where—” Kit broke off hearing the beeping sound of another caller on the line. “It’s Michael,” she said. “The guy I went out with Saturday.”

  “I thought you weren’t sure about him.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, take the call, tell Polly I’m in, and I’ll see you Saturday.”