This Is My Daughter

by Robinson, Roxana;

  “What do you mean she won’t say your name?” Peter’s voice was raised.

  “Because,” Emma said. “It has implications. And anyway, she doesn’t work for you, she works for me. You don’t help me with her salary. I mean, who are you in this household? Are you just a boarder? Are you here for good? Is this temporary?”

  “How do I know? How do you know? It will certainly be temporary if I’m not allowed in half the rooms or to talk to anyone else who lives here. You tell me what you want. If you want me to pay part of Rachel’s salary, that’s fine,” said Peter resentfully, “though I have to say I don’t see why I should.”

  “Because Rachel cleans the rooms you live in,” said Emma, “she washes the sheets you sleep in, she buys the food you eat.”

  “I suppose that’s right. All right, fine. I’ll pay half her salary. But then I goddamn want her to look me in the eye and say, ‘Hello, Mr. Chatfield,’ when I come into the room.”

  “Of course she should,” Emma said, “but she won’t do that for me.”

  “What’s the matter with her? What’s the matter with you? Why won’t she call you by your name? Whose name does she call you by? This is like a lunatic asylum.”

  “She doesn’t call me anything,” said Emma. “I think she doesn’t want to.”

  “Well, God forbid Rachel should have to do something she doesn’t want to. You do whatever you like, but I want to be called by my own goddamned name. And I want to be treated like a member of the household. I don’t want to be limited to the living room.”

  “It was just that I didn’t want Tess to disturb you,” Emma explained. “I’m just trying to keep you from being disturbed.”

  “Well, stop it!” Peter shouted at her, his temper lost. “Disturb me!”

  “All right, fine!” Emma said. “Fine. I will.”

  They glared at each other.

  Emma turned herself away from him. She leaned over to the bedside table for her book, and as she did Peter slid his arm across her chest, from behind. His touch on her was brilliant, electric. It took hours.

  9

  Tess, hovering alone by the front door of the apartment, was talking quietly to herself.

  “Are they not here yet?” she asked earnestly. “Is Peter and Amanda not here outside the door?” She paused, motionless, in the act of listening, her ear set against the heavy door.

  In the dining room, Emma was setting the table with fancy blue mats, and paper napkins printed with jungle animals. At two places she put small pink-wrapped packages: these were flowered barrettes, roses for Tess, daisies for Amanda. Emma could hear Tess’s low serious voice.

  “They will be here soon,” Tess promised herself.

  Tess had been waiting all morning. She had been waiting all week, ever since the moment Emma had told her that Peter’s daughter, the mysterious grown-up Amanda, was coming to lunch.

  That morning, when Emma came into Tess’s bedroom, Tess awoke at once, sitting urgently upright. Her slept-in face was miraculously fresh, the pale skin smooth and translucent.

  “Today is the day that Amanda comes,” she said, blinking with sleep, but already full of purpose. “I would like to wear a party dress.”

  “It’s not really a party,” said Emma.

  “But it’s kind of a party,” Tess pointed out. “We are having guests to come. I think a party dress would be a good idea.”

  Tess thought this every day. She yearned for lace, ribbons, petticoats, as though she had been brought up in a bordello. Emma slid the footed bottoms of Tess’s pajamas down her pearly legs.

  “Amanda won’t be wearing a dress,” Emma said. “She’ll be in everyday clothes.” Emma had a sudden image of Amanda: stony eyed, implacable. “You’ll want to be able to play,” Emma said, “How about your sweater with the ducks? And the white blouse with the ruffle?”

  “My blouse with the long ruffle?” asked Tess, interested. “All the way around?”

  “That’s the one,” said Emma.

  Now Tess trotted in to report that no one had yet arrived. She wore corduroys and the duck sweater. At her neck rippled the white ruffle. Tess leaned heavily against her mother’s side. She sighed loudly. “I wish they would come,” she said, despondent.

  “They’ll come soon,” Emma promised.

  “I wish they would come now,” said Tess. She put her head down on the table in despair.

  Emma patted her. Waiting was dreadful for a child. There was no sense of time passing, no belief that it ever would.

  “They’ll come soon,” Emma repeated: Peter was always on time.

  Tess raised her head. “But Amanda’s mommy is not coming?”

  “No,” said Emma.

  “But where is Amanda’s mommy?” Tess asked, squinting.

  Emma had explained this before. “She’s at home, in the house where she lives with Amanda.”

  “And Amanda doesn’t live with her daddy?”

  “No. She’s like you. You don’t live with your daddy,” said Emma. She wondered if Tess really understood who Amanda’s father was, and where he lived.

  Tess stared up at her. “Mommy,” she said, “how old is Amanda?”

  “I’ve told you,” Emma said. “Seven.”

  “Seven,” Tess repeated. Awed, she said, “But, Mommy, I don’t play with such old girls.”

  “But you will with Amanda,” Emma reassured. “You’ll have fun with her.”

  “Will I?” asked Tess, hopeful.

  “You’ll be friends,” Emma promised. At that moment they heard the front door.

  “They’re here!” whispered Tess.

  Peter closed the door with a jubilant slam. He wore a tweed jacket against the cool April morning, a wool scarf. He brought in with him a swirl of fresh air, and his cheeks were rose from the chill and excitement. Smiling, he raked his wheat-colored hair back from his forehead. His gestures were swift and generous, as though he had energy and happiness to spare.

  “Hello, sweet,” he said to Emma.

  Amanda, in jeans and a tan jacket, looked small beside her father. His hand was on her shoulder; she leaned away as though it were a tether. Her hands were deep in her pockets, her face seemed pinched.

  Tess, brazen with excitement, ran headlong toward them. When she reached them she stopped, suddenly shy.

  Peter, exuberant, stooped to pick her up. “Hello, you,” he said, and swung her into the air for a kiss.

  Tess, her eyes fixed on his, rose in his hands, in a swift spiraling arc. Peter leaned up toward her. He was a man who had left his wife and child, he was the source of grief and loss, but in this moment, lifting Emma’s daughter up to a flying kiss, he declared himself again a man of family, a man who loved, who could be forgiven. The swoop was full of spirit and hope. At the peak of it Peter lifted his face to kiss Tess, his lips prepared for her small mouth, the earnest sweetness of her kiss, redemption.

  But Tess, self-conscious, embarrassed in the presence of this glamorous stranger, struggled in his arms. She twisted her head sharply, away from his kiss. “Put me down,” she commanded, squirming. “I want to be down.” Obedient, disappointed, Peter set her down.

  Tess turned to face Amanda. Amanda stared briefly, then coolly turned away. Tess shuffled a step closer and put her hands behind her back. She was Waiting for it to begin, for them to start being friends. Amanda looked over her head, into the distance.

  Emma stepped forward. “Hello, Amanda,” she said. She leaned over to kiss her, but as she neared Amanda’s face, the child jerked back. Her expression was so alarmed, then so chill, that Emma lost heart. She put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and gave her an awkward hug instead. Amanda flinched slightly as though at a blow.

  Peter squatted between the two girls, putting a hand on each one’s shoulder. “Amanda, I want you to meet Tess, Emma’s daughter,” he said. “Tessie, this is Amanda. She is my daughter.”

  Amanda looked down at Tess. “Hello,” she said.

  “I am Tess,” Tess
announced. She raised her shoulders elaborately, then dropped them.

  Amanda looked around the hall, mute, her hands deep in her pockets. She hates being here, Emma thought, her heart sinking. She hates everything: the air.

  “Amanda, why don’t you give me your jacket, and I’ll hang it up,” Emma said.

  Amanda looked around without moving. There was a pause. She shifted her gaze to the top of the doorframe. She was waiting to go home.

  “Amanda?” Peter said. “Give Emma your jacket.”

  Amanda looked at him, remote. The jacket was zipped tightly up to her chin. Emma pictured someone—Caroline?—kneeling on the rug in front of her, smiling, zipping Amanda into a warm snug cocoon.

  Peter’s eyes did not leave Amanda’s face. “Amanda,” he repeated. “What did Emma just say to you?”

  Amanda’s hands were rooted deep in her pockets, her arms close at her sides. She looked intently into the middle distance. Tess stood beside her, staring up at Amanda’s face, respectful, fascinated, anxious. There was a pause.

  “Amanda,” Peter said again. His voice was firm.

  “She can keep it on, it doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “Tess, why don’t you show Amanda your room?” She wanted them to be alone together, away from the noisy thrust of their parents’ expectations.

  “Come on,” said Tess at once. “Want to come to my room, Amanda?” She beckoned officiously and started off down the hall. Reluctant, Amanda followed. Tess turned back. “Come on,” she said brightly, as though Amanda were a puppy. Amanda followed slowly. Her hands in her pockets, she gave a small contemptuous kick with each step. She stared boldly around as she walked through the rooms, like a monarch in exile.

  Emma turned to Peter. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

  The lunch was planned for Amanda: onion soup, quiche, salad. Ice cream and cookies. Emma lifted the lid on the saucepan: steam rose warm and damp against her face. On the dark surface floated filmy strips of onion. The quiche was in the warm cave of the oven. Emma began to make the salad dressing; Peter slid the long loaf of French bread from its paper jacket.

  “God,” he said forcefully.

  “She doesn’t want to be here,” said Emma.

  Peter looked up. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “This is her only chance to see her father. This is my new life.”

  “She doesn’t want you to have a new life,” said Emma.

  Peter began slicing the loaf, quick, deliberate diagonal strokes. “I told her she had to be nice to Tess.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Emma said, wondering if they would. “In a while. It’s hard for Amanda. She’s jealous of Tess.”

  “Well, she’ll just have to learn not to be,” said Peter.

  “You can’t tell her how to feel,” Emma said. She poured a smooth ribbon of olive oil into the glass jar. The yellow-green oil coiled swiftly, dissolving into itself.

  “Yes, I can,” Peter said. He began buttering, hard, the slices he had cut. “Everyone controls their feelings.”

  “No,” said Emma. “You control your actions. You can’t control the way you feel.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No,” said Emma again. She poured a dark globe of vinegar into the oil. “You can’t make yourself love someone.”

  “Children love whoever loves them,” Peter said. He began setting the slices onto a metal pan. “I love Amanda, you love her, Caroline loves her. Tess will love her. What more could a child want?”

  Emma, who did not love Amanda, said nothing. She screwed on the top and shook the jar. Inside, the oil and vinegar dispersed into tiny globules. With each shake they shattered more, glistening, jostling, tiny: they would never dissolve. Each time Emma saw Amanda, the child’s hostility rose up at her in great waves, chilling, repelling. What if she could never love her?

  “Ready?” Peter asked.

  “I’ll get the girls,” Emma answered.

  Approaching Tess’s room, silent on the carpet, Emma heard them talking and paused outside the door. First she heard Tess’s high, serious piping, then a silence, then Amanda’s low voice.

  “It’s your turn to take a card,” Amanda said. After a pause she asked, “Where’s your mom’s room?”

  “You mean my mommy’s?” asked Tess, uncertain. Emma disliked the word mom.

  “Your mom’s,” Amanda repeated, a thread of contempt in her voice.

  “My mommy’s room is in there,” Tess said, conciliatory. “My mommy’s and Peter’s. They share that room together.”

  Amanda did not answer.

  “This is my room,” Tess said hopefully.

  There was a pause.

  “My room is bigger than this,” Amanda said, as if to herself. There was a fluttering sound, cards being shuffled. “A lot bigger,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “It’s your turn.”

  “I have a closet,” Tess offered, but Amanda did not answer.

  “Want to see it?” Tess asked.

  “No,” Amanda said cruelly.

  There was another pause; cards slid about on the rug.

  Amanda said, “I won. Look.”

  “Why?” Tess asked.

  “I have all four elephants. Look.”

  “But you won last time,” Tess said wistfully.

  “I won this time too,” Amanda said.

  Emma stepped into the doorway. The girls were sitting on the rug, the cards scattered in ragged lines in front of them.

  “Hi, guys,” Emma said. They looked up. Amanda, holding Emma’s eyes with hers, made a swift guilty gesture. Certain cards slid quickly behind the curve of her hand.

  “We are playing the animal game,” Tess said, “and, Mommy, Amanda is the winner.”

  “That’s how it is,” Emma said. “Sometimes one person wins, sometimes the other.”

  “Yes, but she is always the winner,” Tess said sadly. “And you know, Mommy, I like to be the winner.”

  Amanda stood, making a wild swirl of the cards with her foot. “We’re finished now, anyway.” She glanced at Emma, then away.

  Emma gave her an admonitory look to let Amanda know she knew how she had won. But Amanda lifted her chin and would not meet her eye.

  At the table Emma and Tess sat side by side, facing Peter and Amanda. Tess picked up the package at once.

  “What is it?”

  “A present,” said Emma.

  “Can I open it?”

  “Why don’t you save it for dessert? Amanda has one too.”

  Amanda eyed her package without speaking.

  Emma ladled the soup into bowls, and Peter set into each a perfect crouton. Tess leaned over her bowl, nearly plunging her nose into the liquid. She gave a long, audible sniff. “What is this soup, Mommy, is this soup I like?”

  “It’s onion, Tess, I don’t know if you’ve had it before. But Tess,” Emma said, “it’s not polite to lean into your bowl like that, and sniff at your food.”

  Stricken, Tess looked up at her mother. She said nothing, putting her hands in her lap and leaning back in her chair. Amanda looked at Tess, now interested.

  Emma saw her mistake too late. “It’s all right, Tessie,” she said. “It’s just not something you should do next time.”

  She had made it worse. Tess dropped her head; her chin pressed against the white ruffle. She sat motionless, head down.

  “Tess,” Emma said, but Tess would not look up.

  Amanda now watched Tess intently, without courtesy or compassion, staring as though Tess were on display. Tess had put her spoon down; Amanda now picked hers up with meticulous care, and, fastidiously, began to eat. After every few spoonfuls, she picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth. She ignored Peter and Emma.

  Emma, watching Tess, began sipping her own soup. Peter, with tactful indifference to the whole thing, was eating steadily.

  “Good soup,” he said. He looked at Amanda and waggled his eyebrows. She looked away.

  Tess’s head dropped lower and lower. Her shoulders began to jerk with
little coughing sobs.

  “Tessie?” Emma said, but there was no answer. It was no use. Emma put down her spoon. She picked Tess up from the chair and carried her into her room, where she sat down with her on the bed.

  “Tessie, I’m sorry I said that to you, in front of other people,” she said. Tess was now sobbing openly, brokenly.

  “Amanda is a big girl,” Tess said. “You shouldn’t say those things to me in front of a big girl.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said again, hugging the small heated body. It was her own rule, not to criticize Tess in public: why had she broken it? It was Amanda, she realized. She was trying to protect Tess from Amanda’s scornful glance, the raised eyebrows, the condescending smile. She didn’t want Amanda judging Tess; she was trying to correct her before Amanda noticed.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said again. She would have to get better at this. She took Tess on her lap. She could feel the sobs lessening. She kissed the top of her head and held her until she was quiet.

  When they returned, Peter smiled at Tess.

  “Here she is,” he said. Cheered, Tess climbed back in her chair and picked up her spoon.

  After a moment, Emma turned to Amanda. “Amanda, where do you go to school?”

  Amanda looked at her, then away. “Nightingale.”

  Emma nodded. “That’s a very good school. And did you know, Tess, that it’s the name of a bird, too? A bird with a beautiful song.”

  “The name of a bird? Is your school the name of a bird?” Tess had bounced suddenly back into good humor, her face full of hilarious incredulity.

  But Amanda saw nothing amusing about the name of her school. She looked coldly at Tess without speaking.

  “The name of a bird, and the bird with the most beautiful voice in the world,” said Peter.

  “A school with the name of a bird,” Tess said, mirthful.

  “And Amanda is in the first grade there,” said Emma, trying to move on. “And what’s your favorite subject? What part do you like the best?”

  “Reading?” Peter prompted. “Music? Arithmetic?”

  For the first time, Amanda’s mouth broke out of its strict tautness into a curve. The corners slid reluctantly into a smile. “Daddy,” she said, “we don’t call it arithmetic.”