This Is My Daughter

by Robinson, Roxana;

Amanda looked around the room: there was nothing for her to do here. There was nothing in the room but books. Books made her restless. Emma made Amanda listen while she read to Tess when she put them both to bed, too early. Emma made Amanda go to bed at the same time Tess did, even though Tess was four years younger. When Amanda told Emma that at home she went to bed at nine, Emma said, “Your mother lets you stay up until nine?” Her voice rose as she asked this. She looked concerned, as though Amanda had said her mother let her play with guns.

  Emma acted as though the bedtime reading was a treat. Tess lay under the covers, and Emma sat by her pillow. Tess listened breathlessly, her eyes fixed on her mother, her face intent, as though she were picturing every word Emma spoke. Amanda lay on her back, her hands clasped under her head, and stared up at the ceiling. As Emma read, Amanda’s foot jiggled, a steady restless beat. Emma read slowly, as if it were exciting, changing her voice affectedly for the different characters.

  Emma looked up often at Tess; she turned often to smile at Amanda, too, but Amanda never looked back at her. Emma read about the unpleasant girl in the horrible dark house in England, the stupid robin and the so what garden. The long incomprehensible words, and nothing to watch but the ceiling. Amanda tried to block it all out, to concentrate on something else, a TV movie she liked, instead.

  At home Amanda never had to read or to listen to reading. Her own mother never read books to Amanda, and seldom to herself. When her mother did read, it was a new book, something with a bright cover, usually with a beautiful woman on it. Those were what Amanda felt were the right kinds of books to read. But mostly Caroline read magazines. She liked to watch television with Amanda. Sometimes she made a bowl of popcorn, and she and Amanda lay together on Caroline’s bed, making a nest out of the down quilt.

  Emma never watched television, and neither did Tess. They never knew what Amanda was talking about if she said something about one of her favorite shows, something that everyone else knew. Emma just shook her head and smiled, as though it were normal to be so stupid. But Tess eyed Amanda, envious. She was not allowed to watch television, and Amanda would have even felt sorry for her if she had permitted herself.

  Amanda got out of bed. She was wearing pajama bottoms and the short-sleeved striped jersey she had worn the day before. Amanda liked sleeping in the clothes she had spent the day in. Emma disapproved, and told her not to. When Amanda did anyway Emma got cross. Her mouth turned angry and she said, “I told you not to do that, Amanda!” Maeve would never have let her wear day clothes to bed either, but she wouldn’t have gotten angry. Maeve would have called her a monkey and told her to get right out of bed and into her pajamas, but she wouldn’t have been angry. Maeve never got angry at her, never. Emma got angry at everything.

  The Kirklands’ house was quiet, and it felt early. Amanda was too awake to stay in bed. She would go and find the television. She would watch cartoons, keeping the sound down low. Even though Emma’s parents were poor, they would have a television set, even very poor people had television sets. Maria had a television set.

  If Amanda were at home now, she would put on her red plaid dressing gown that her mother gave her for Christmas. She would go into the library and watch cartoons. Amanda had always watched cartoons on Saturday mornings. When she was little she had carried around with her a yellow blanket with a smooth satin binding. She would lie on the library rug with pillows from the sofa, wrapped in her yellow blanket and watching the Road Runner. She held her blanket up to her face, folding the satin edge of it around her nose and mouth, and breathing in its familiar smell. She lay like that, squinting at the TV, sometimes watching it and sometimes closing her eyes, letting the chatter of the Road Runner and the Coyote wash over her, all of it blending into a comforting hammock of sound. And sometimes, while she was lying there, her eyes half shut, wrapped in her blanket, breathing through its tattered satin edge, Amanda would feel the sole of her foot slowly invaded, a delicate trail of sensation, a diabolical feathering across her skin, warning of delight and hysteria: the unbearable bliss of tickling. Her mother had found her. Then her mother would sit down next to her, wrapping the two of them in the blanket. Her mother had watched cartoons when she was little, the Road Runner, and Tom and Jerry, rampaging across the screen, and that made Amanda feel safe, comforted to know that she was growing up in the same world as her mother.

  Amanda stood watching Tess, but Tess did not stir. She went to the bedroom door and looked out into the hall. She considered going back into her room and sitting on Tess’s bed, staring at her until she woke up. Tess was company, even if she was only four. She was also protection from Emma. Amanda would be blamed for anything that happened if she were alone, but if there were two of them, Emma would relent. Still, waking Tess was totally forbidden. Even if Tess said she wouldn’t tell, Emma would be suspicious if Tess got up early. And if Tess and Amanda had a fight later, Tess would threaten to tell, and if she did tell Amanda would get in trouble.

  When Amanda got in trouble Emma would say, “Amanda, would you come in here for a second? I’d like to speak to you.” Emma’s voice would be light and brittle. Amanda would go into the room with her, and Emma would close the door. Then Emma would sit down, slowly and carefully, to make sure Amanda understood how serious all this was. Then she would fold her arms across her chest and look at Amanda, her face hard and dark.

  “Now, Amanda,” Emma would say. “I want to talk to you about waking Tess up in the morning.” She would pause, looking straight at Amanda. “Tess is younger than you. She needs more sleep than you do. She is a little girl.” She would pause again.

  Amanda, standing up, would shift her weight from one leg to the other. One knee would jiggle, waiting.

  “But I’ve told you this before. How many times, do you think, have I told you that you are not to wake Tess up?”

  Amanda knew that she didn’t have to answer this question. She would sigh, as loud as she dared. She would be waiting for this to be over.

  Emma would sit still, staring at her. “It’s not just waking Tess up,” she would go on. “It’s the fact that you do it over and over, even though I’ve told you not to.”

  Of course Amanda did it over and over: Tess was always asleep when Amanda woke up. Amanda would look sideways, then back at Emma. She would be waiting for Emma to finish. Emma acted as though Tess were the most important person in the world, and as though waking her meant the end of the universe, as though Tess were some wonderful princess who could not be touched, who would shatter into pieces if Amanda woke her up half an hour early. It was safer to leave Tess asleep.

  Amanda tiptoed down the hall and down the front stairs. The TV would probably be in the living room, she thought, though she hadn’t noticed it there last night. She looked around now in the daylight: there were more bookcases, but no TV in sight. Turning back into the hall, Amanda quietly explored the rest of the downstairs. She prowled through a small room by the front door, with one armchair in it and an oak desk. She opened a door onto a huge closet, jammed with stuff: sailing gear, slickers, tennis racquets, jackets and rubber boots. Another back room had a big white metal rack with plants on it, and an old striped sofa, but no TV. Amanda wondered where they kept it.

  She went back through the living room and dining room, then through the swinging door into the kitchen. Mrs. Kirkland, in a faded cotton dressing gown, was sitting at the table. An open book was propped up in front of her, against a jar of marmalade. She was wearing glasses that came only halfway up, and she was reading as she ate. On a plate sat an egg in a cup, and she was scooping its insides out with a spoon. She looked up, over her glasses, as Amanda appeared in the doorway.

  “Well, good morning, Amanda,” she said. “You’re up early.”

  Amanda came all the way into the room, and Mrs. Kirkland smiled at her.

  “Would you like some breakfast?”

  Sidetracked, Amanda nodded, and slid into a chair across from Mrs. Kirkland.

  “What would you
like?” On Mrs. Kirkland’s plate was a blackened piece of toast, with a cold slab of butter partly smeared across its surface.

  “French toast,” answered Amanda.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Kirkland doubtfully. She looked up at Amanda. “French toast.”

  Amanda said nothing, kicking her heels against the chair.

  “I guess you’ll have to wait until Emma comes down for that,” Mrs. Kirkland decided. She smiled again at Amanda and returned to her book. Amanda watched in silence.

  “Where’s the television set?” asked Amanda finally.

  “What television set?” asked Mrs. Kirkland, looking up.

  “The one here. I couldn’t find it.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Kirkland smiled deprecatingly and shook her head. “I’m afraid we don’t have one. You’ll think we’re very old fashioned, I guess. We’ve never wanted one here. It changes the evenings. It’s good for some things, I know. We have one at home, in Cambridge. We watch the news on it, but we don’t really want it here.” She smiled again at Amanda. She seemed pleased.

  “You don’t have one?” asked Amanda, still confused.

  “Not here.”

  Amanda turned and looked out the window. Even Emma had one, in her apartment. It could be turned on for special things. The thought of a whole house without a television set discouraged Amanda. She had not really paid attention to what Mrs. Kirkland had said, but to choose not to have a TV, and to smile proudly about it, was mystifying to her. It was like cutting off your foot and boasting about it: two feet were all right for some things, but they made it too easy to get around. What was wrong with spending the evening watching TV, wondered Amanda.

  It was warm already, later it would be hot. Amanda stared out at the summer-dead lawn. Beyond the lawn were the wooden railings going down to the dock, and a flagpole. The flag was moving gently, dreamily, in the early breeze.

  “Is the flag yours?” Amanda asked.

  Mrs. Kirkland nodded.

  “Why do you have it?”

  Mrs. Kirkland looked outside. “Oh, just, you know, out here along the water. Lots of people have them, for some reason.”

  Amanda stared at her. “Does it stay up all the time?”

  “It stays up all summer. We take it in for the winter. Would you like some regular toasted toast?” She held up the flattened, blackened rectangle. “We have some honey,” she offered, as a special treat.

  Amanda shook her head, but she now felt hungry. “Is there cereal?”

  “Oh, I think so,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “Look in the larder. Right back there, that door, no, that one.”

  Amanda found the door.

  “On the second shelf. Do you see some?”

  “Yes,” said Amanda, but did not reach for it. It was a tasteless kind, sugarless, without interest. The kind you had to chew all morning. Emma had tried to give her some once. The cover of the box had only writing on it, no cartoon creatures, no colors, no excitement. At home there was a whole shelf of different cereals, with interesting names, Honey this, Captain that. They were all sweet, bright, colorful, launching themselves into her day. Now Amanda shut the cupboard door and came back, dispirited, to the table.

  “Didn’t you find it?” Mrs. Kirkland pushed back her chair and stood up to help.

  “I don’t like that kind,” said Amanda.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “I’m sorry there’s nothing you like here.” She sat down again.

  Amanda went over to the refrigerator and opened it.

  “Don’t stand with the door open too long, Amanda, you’re letting out the cold air, you know.” Mrs. Kirkland sounded anxious. Amanda, staring at the chill contents of the shelves, did not answer.

  At home, the refrigerator was full of things Amanda might want. Her mother kept treats for her in the kitchen: Oreos, and sodas, and ice cream bars in the freezer. Amanda was allowed to have one ice cream bar in the morning before her mother got up. Often she cheated and had two, hiding the stick and the wrapper of the first under the bedskirt. At Emma’s, in spite of the fuss Emma made about good food, there was nothing good to eat in the refrigerator. There were no cookies, no sodas, no ice cream. There was nothing sweet. And if Amanda asked why she didn’t buy snacks, Emma’s face would get that I’m-better-than-you look. Her voice would get light and hard, and she would say that sweets weren’t good for you, and that’s why she didn’t buy them. Then she would offer Amanda a cold green apple, which Amanda hated.

  Amanda shut the refrigerator door. There was nothing there for her either—nothing delicious, nothing comforting.

  The swinging door opened and Emma appeared.

  “Hello, Mum,” she said cheerfully. Then her voice changed, just slightly, into a harder, higher tone. “Good morning, Amanda! I didn’t know you were up.”

  Emma smiled, first at her mother, then at Amanda. Amanda watched her warily. Emma came over to her by the refrigerator.

  “Where’s Tess?” she asked.

  Amanda shrugged her shoulders.

  “Still asleep?” Emma asked, and when Amanda nodded she said, “Good.” Emma leaned over and lowered her voice. “Now, Amanda, what about that jersey you’re wearing? Didn’t you bring your pajama top? I thought we’d talked about that already, not wearing clothes to bed.” Smiling, she looked at Amanda, who did not answer. Peter came into the kitchen behind her. He was dressed for the day in jeans and a polo shirt.

  “Well, hello, lovey,” he said to Amanda. “You’re up early.” He smiled at her. He looked at Mrs. Kirkland. “Good morning, Aline.”

  “Oh, good morning, Peter,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “Isn’t this awful, here I am in my bathrobe. I get so used to being alone, you know, I’m just not used to visitors.” She smiled at him shyly, lifting her shoulders.

  “Why don’t you run up and get dressed, too, Amanda?” Emma said. “Remember to brush your teeth. And make your bed if Tess is awake.” She stood up and patted Amanda on the head as though she were a show animal.

  At home Amanda never had to make her bed. When Maeve had been there, she had made it. Now, during the week, Maria did. On weekends it stayed unmade all day. If her mother saw it unmade, she would frown and say, “Your room looks like the glacier stopped here,” but then she would forget about it. The bed didn’t really matter.

  With Emma things were different. Emma smiled at Amanda all the time, but not the way Maeve had smiled at her, and not the way Emma smiled at Tess. Emma smiled at Amanda as though they were in a play, and the smile was for the audience.

  Amanda always forgot about making her bed when she was at Emma’s. She didn’t care about remembering, it was stupid. She stood leaning against the counter, sliding one finger back and forth along the chrome edge. She watched Emma and did not answer.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Kirkland brightly. She looked around, smiling, at them all.

  “Amanda?” said Emma. Her voice was a little louder, now. She was inviting Peter to listen.

  “Amanda,” said Peter, meaningfully. Amanda said nothing. She looked down at her hand, then looked up at her father. He and Emma were both staring at her, their faces were turning hard.

  “Amanda?” her father said again. His voice was now angry.

  “What?” Amanda said. She raised her eyebrows, aloof, indifferent.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Amanda ducked her head and did not answer.

  “Now, wait,” said Emma, in a calming voice. Amanda could hear that she was now trying to undo what she had started. “Amanda, let’s not make this into a big deal. Just run upstairs, get dressed and make your bed.” There was a pause. Amanda did not look up or speak, but Emma, instead of noticing, deliberately turned her back on Amanda. She began pulling pots out of the cupboard. “Off you go,” she said, her back still turned. Mrs. Kirkland smiled at Amanda, raising her eyebrows and blinking.

  Amanda drew herself slowly upright. Her father was still standing angrily in front of
her. Ignoring him, Amanda turned.

  “Let’s go up together, Amanda,” said Mrs. Kirkland, standing up. Amanda didn’t answer, and Mrs. Kirkland raised her eyebrows kindly and said, “Anyway, I’m going up. Why don’t you come with me?” She left the room.

  Amanda walked behind her, sauntering. As Mrs. Kirkland climbed the stairs. Amanda hung back. From out in the hall, she heard her father in the kitchen. His voice was low and tense, and Amanda stopped, listening.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Peter said. “She drives me crazy too.”

  “She doesn’t want to be here,” Emma said. “Why do you make her come to you every weekend?”

  “I want her,” Peter said stubbornly. “She’s my daughter.”

  When Amanda heard her father say that, “I want her,” she felt a strange painful jump in her chest.

  “You’re making her miserable,” Emma said.

  “Thank you,” Peter said. He gave a short horrible laugh.

  There was a silence, and then Peter asked, “Do you think you’re making her happy?”

  Right away, as though she’d been waiting for this, Emma said, “Do you think she’s making me happy?”

  “She’s a child, Emma,” Peter answered, his voice angry and loud. “You are a grown-up.”

  “And you are a bully,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t do this to her.”

  “I’ll decide what I should do,” Peter said. There was a pause, and then he said, “I wish you loved her.”

  Amanda waited, holding her breath, but Emma did not answer. There was no more talking. Amanda heard more pots banging, she heard the cupboard door slammed, and then she heard water running at the sink. No one spoke, and finally Amanda turned and went on, very quietly.

  She climbed the stairs and opened the door to her room. Tess was still asleep. Amanda walked in and sat down, harder than necessary, on Tess’s bed. Tess lay on her side without moving, her head tucked into her pillow, her hands spread open, one palm up, one down. She breathed without making any sound at all.

  Experimentally, Amanda rose slightly and sat down again, slightly harder than before, rocking the mattress. Tess frowned. Her fingers clenched, then spread. She relaxed into sleep once more. Amanda drew closer. She put her hands on either side of Tess’s face and leaned over it. She stared down at Tess’s soft open mouth, her closed eyes, the bluish veins beneath the skin. Tess was a baby, really, thought Amanda. She put her hand out! it hovered over Tess’s face. It descended, directly over the nose; delicately she pinched shut Tess’s nostrils.