The Newport Ladies Book Club: Daisy

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The Newport Ladies Book Club: Daisy Page 14

by Kilpack, Josi S.


  “She’s struggling,” I finally said. “It’s good of you to come.”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way.”

  Like I was, I thought, thinking of how I had to go back to work. “Do you know when you’ll be here?”

  “I hope to get an early start, which should put me there in the afternoon.”

  “You’re driving?”

  “Certainly. I can’t afford to jump on a plane; plus, I’ll need transportation while I’m there. When does December come home from the hospital?”

  “Wednesday morning,” I said. “My flight leaves that afternoon.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll see all of you tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah, drive safe.”

  “I will.”

  I hung up and wanted to scream. I didn’t want her to come to December’s rescue. She hadn’t wanted me to even keep December. Did she ever think about that? Had she ever admitted she’d been wrong about me and my potential?

  While straightening up the living room, I found a book about pregnancy and childbirth and sat down on the couch to read it, taking note of how little I had done to prepare. What if I wasn’t healthy enough for this? I had been sick and not eating well. What if that hurt the baby? I read until I was sufficiently overwhelmed, then put the book back where I’d found it. I still couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Chapter 31

  Mom arrived around six o’clock Tuesday night. She came right to the hospital and organized December’s side table, forced Lance to have a meal that included vegetables, and asked a hundred questions of the NICU nurse that hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Basically, she made me look and feel like an idiot as she effortlessly took over. I retreated to the sidelines and let her run the show. She was efficient and smooth, and, based on December’s reaction, calming. December had been emotional all day, hating that tomorrow she would go home empty-handed. Now that Mom was here, though, she was taking it in stride. My insignificance seemed to know no bounds. We finally left the hospital around eight thirty, and I was glad to be alone in my rental car. It gave me time to prepare for being alone with Mom at the house.

  “Well,” Mom said when we shut the front door of December’s house behind us. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I had a sandwich at the hospital while you went to the NICU.”

  “I was thinking of making some popcorn,” Mom said, heading into the kitchen. “Do you think December has some popcorn—preferably not microwavable? It’s good to end the day with fiber.”

  “I have no idea if she has fiber or not,” I said, sitting down heavily and letting the couch cushions envelop me. I might never stand up again.

  “You mean popcorn.”

  “What?”

  “You said you didn’t know if she had fiber or not. You meant popcorn, I think.”

  I waved a hand through the air. “Popcorn. That’s what I meant.”

  “I know. That’s what I said you meant.”

  I stopped talking and just breathed deeply, leaning my head against the couch and trying not to think about my mom watching me, judging me, and juggling a hundred questions in her mind that she didn’t dare ask. I’d hoped Lance would have come home with us to diffuse the tension, but the doctors had Tennyson on a two-hour feeding schedule, and Lance wanted to be at the ten o’clock feeding with December.

  I closed my eyes and must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew, a hand on my knee startled me awake. I blinked to see my mother’s face above me. She handed me a large pink mixing bowl.

  “She had popcorn,” Mom said, taking a handful from the bowl. “And a Whirly Popper.” She smiled, causing a firework of wrinkles to appear beside both eyes. She’d stopped coloring her hair since I’d seen her last, and her gray curls were soft around her face. “I put extra butter on, just how you like it.”

  She must have caught me off guard because I laughed, taking us both by surprise. “You’re the one who likes extra butter,” I said. “You only blame it on me.”

  She smiled even wider and shrugged. “You like extra butter too, so we can share the blame.” She sat down next to me on the couch, and we munched in silence for a few minutes.

  “How’s Stormy?” Mom asked. I felt myself bracing.

  “Good.” I hadn’t told her that Stormy was living with Jared, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to. “She’s in the school play, Phantom of the Opera. It’ll run through the end of January.”

  “Wonderful,” Mom said. “She’s a talented girl.”

  “She is.”

  “And how’s Paul?”

  Guilt descended. I took another handful of popcorn. “Good,” I said. “Working hard.”

  “Good,” Mom said.

  We’d run out of things to talk about already. It was my turn to command the small talk. “How’s Dad?”

  “Hanging in there,” Mom said. “His doctor thinks he needs a new hip. Maybe this summer—I don’t know.”

  We worked through updates on my siblings, Mom’s sisters, and Dad’s mom, Grams, who was still alive and kicking at the age of ninety-one. Well, maybe not kicking.

  “We should get a five-generation photo,” Mom said. “Hopefully Grams will hang on that long.”

  “That would be fun,” I said. “Maybe we can all come to Virginia this summer, before Dad’s surgery.” As soon as I said it, though, I realized I might have a baby of my own by then. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Mom said, nodding.

  Another silence descended. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “And how are you, Daisy-Day? Is everything all right with you?”

  For some reason, her question initiated a wave of emotion I was desperate not to show. Nothing was all right with me, but my mother was not someone I would share that with. She never had been. For as long as I could remember I hadn’t trusted her with my emotions. I shrugged and stared into the popcorn bowl. “Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  I hated being worried about. It implied that I might need help from someone, that I might be incapable of handling whatever I needed to handle on my own. “I’m fine.”

  Mom seemed to accept that. “He’s sure a beautiful baby, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” I said.

  “Though the name is quite strange.”

  “Alfred Lord Tennyson is December’s favorite British poet,” I said, feeling a little defensive and yet pleased to know this detail about my daughter. “It holds special significance for her.”

  “Well, regardless, it’s wonderful to see her taking this step in her life, isn’t it? Babies are magical.”

  “Magical?” I repeated, unable to block how unmagical it had been when I had brought my baby home. “Hmmm.”

  Mom interpreted my response as a desire for explanation. “Well, they’re just amazing little souls fresh from God. They bring healing and happiness, joy and celebration with them. It’s remarkable, the spell they can cast on people. You can see it in December’s eyes when she looks at him; she’s instantly in love. It’s a beautiful thing seeing a mother and child together like that, especially this close to Christmas.”

  I blinked at my mother and felt my anger boiling. I had a distinct memory of coming home from the hospital to a house decorated for Christmas. “You never said anything like that to me when I had a baby around Christmastime.”

  “Well, your situation was never quite like December’s, was it? You never had this kind of stability.”

  “So maybe only some babies are magical, then? If you’re not ready to be a mom, then the child is less valuable?”

  I could feel her looking at me with her stoic stare; I looked straight ahead as she answered.

  “That’s not what I said. This isn’t about you.”

  I laughed without humor. “Of course it isn’t,” I said, standing and wishing I had
taped my mouth shut.

  “Why are you so angry all of a sudden?” she asked as I passed in front of her as though I had somewhere I could go to get away from her.

  “Never mind,” I said, rubbing at my eyes and reconsidering the sleeping arrangements. Maybe I should go to a hotel. Obviously I couldn’t control myself very well right now. “I’m tired.”

  “So am I,” Mom said. She rose and headed into the kitchen to rinse the cereal bowls Lance and I had left in the sink that morning.

  I took off my shoes and eyed the couch that would be my bed. Mom had already set up the inflatable bed she’d brought with her in the nursery. She never missed a detail. The hotel was sounding better and better.

  From the kitchen, Mom said, “I’d caution you to be careful comparing your situation to December’s. It’s not the same.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said in an almost offhand manner. “I’m the sinner. I forgot.”

  Mom shook her head and turned to face me. “I did not come here to fight with you, Daisy.”

  “I know. You came to help December because she’s done it the right way.”

  Mom turned back to the sink, but she was out of dishes, so she wiped down the counter as a way to keep from having to look at me. “She has done it the right way. Don’t let your jealousy get in the way of her success.”

  “It was thirty years ago.” I wasn’t sure who I was saying that for. Me or her? Shouldn’t I be over this thirty years later?

  “You’re the one who brought it up, dear.”

  She turned to face me but didn’t say anything else. I took that as a challenge. “I’m so tired of feeling judged.”

  Mom shook her head and actually rolled her eyes before turning back to the sink where she wrung out the washcloth and laid it perfectly flat over the divider in the sink. “You want to feel judged.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “I want to feel judged?”

  “It makes you feel superior.”

  I sputtered and could feel the heat in my face. “That makes no sense at all, Mom,” I said. “I have no need to feel superior, but I don’t deserve the censure, either.”

  Mom’s shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath. “When have I censured you?” she asked. “When have I put you down or called you out on anything? You act as though I’m continually harping on you or being critical of your choices. When have I done it? Give me an example.”

  My mind was reeling. “Only one?” I spat out, but I was stalling. Suddenly I couldn’t latch on to anything, so I went with the easiest one. “When I got pregnant with December, you wanted me to give her up for adoption. You had a prayer meeting for me, for heaven’s sake.”

  “If Stormy were pregnant, wouldn’t you ask her to at least consider adoption?”

  The calmness of her question only antagonized me more. “I wouldn’t tell her to do it.”

  “Did I tell you to do it?”

  “Yes!”

  “When?”

  I hunted my gray matter. I dug and searched for it, but now that I’d been called on the carpet, I didn’t know how to answer. Had she told me to give December up for adoption, or had it been only a suggestion, something to consider? I remembered going to Catholic Charities, where the nuns had talked to me about the blessing of a child being raised by parents who had covenanted with God and each other, but I didn’t remember why I’d gone there.

  I was starting to feel confused by the fact that I knew—I knew—my mother was overbearing and blunt to the point of being rude, but she didn’t lie. She didn’t. But if she hadn’t made me feel forced somehow, why was I so angry?

  Mom sighed and folded her arms. “Let me tell you a little bit about seventeen-year-old Daisy,” she said, her face absolutely serious. “She was beautiful and smart and talented—everyone loved her. She might not have been the most popular girl in the school, but I would be surprised if there was anyone who didn’t like her. She wanted to become a nurse. Do you remember that?”

  I did, but it seemed so long ago that it didn’t feel real anymore.

  “So, there she was, this smart, unpretentious, good-hearted girl. She started dating a boy her father and I didn’t approve of. We wanted you to be with people who would support the values we felt were so important. He wouldn’t do that. We knew it, yet you lit up when he entered the room. You had always been independent, but suddenly you weren’t coming home on time, you were lying about where you’d been, you didn’t want to go to Mass or youth group.”

  “More judgments,” I cut in. “The fact that I didn’t believe what you believe put me on the outside as soon as I dared say it. It was unfair to judge me for having different beliefs than you did.”

  “And you’re not judging me for believing different than you?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “Church can help us find God, and then it helps us stay close to Him. It’s a vehicle, Daisy, not a destination in and of itself. But you were suddenly not interested. In our experience, not wanting to worship means there is unrequited sin in need of confession, but you wouldn’t go. We were really starting to worry about where this boy might take you, when you came home one day to say you were pregnant. You weren’t tearful. You weren’t repentant. You saw it as a shortcut to a grown-up life.”

  I felt a shudder rip through me as for a moment I was that seventeen-year-old girl again, telling my parents about the wonderful thing that had happened. It hadn’t been what I believed, exactly—I was terrified—but I had presented it to them completely different because I thought it would make me seem more mature, more capable. Strong.

  Mom continued, but her words hit me differently now. “Your father and I spent hours on our knees seeking the Lord’s help with this. We did not see December as the end of you or your life, but we saw that your journey would be very different and that you had no idea what you were up against. You moved in with Scott. You promised us you would get married, and then, when you didn’t and instead moved back home, you didn’t even thank us for the help. You never did, really. I cared for December while you finished school. I took her to get her immunizations, I took her to the park to play, and I even stayed up with her when she was sick so that you could get your rest.”

  I hadn’t thought about those things, but she was right. I felt sick.

  “As soon as you had a good job, you were ready to leave, and you acted as if we’d somehow been holding you back, making things so hard for you. You were determined to prove that you could do this on your own. Even as we admired your spunk, we worried about you very much. You were a nineteen-year-old girl with a GED under your belt, barely a year of college, and a toddler in the backseat. I still watched December after you moved out, and though you were gracious enough, you still treated it like it was my job.

  “Then you moved to California and disappeared completely from our lives. I was heartbroken. I realized that at least part of my being there to help you and December was due to the hope that it would get us to a point where you and I could be closer. If I helped you, surely you would soften toward us.” She shrugged. “But then you didn’t call. You didn’t visit. You just went on with your life, and through it all, you’ve treated the past as though we somehow damaged you, hurt you, treated you badly. When the fact is, Daisy-Day, we didn’t.”

  Her voice had softened in direct proportion to my tension increasing.

  “We loved you, and we worked hard to support you in a bad situation, but what you wanted was a celebration. You wanted to somehow be applauded for being a pregnant teenager. You wanted baby showers and accolades, and there was no way we could give you approval for something we didn’t see as a good thing for you. We love December, and we can’t imagine a life without her in it, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t justified in our disappointment. You were not ready to be a mother, and we were worried about your future. That you’ve done well is wonderful, and we are proud of you, but please don’t judge us so harshly. If you are truly honest with yourself and look at the situation from the perspective of
a grown woman rather than a teenage girl, I think you’ll see a very different picture than the one you’ve chosen to paint in your head.”

  She pushed away from the sink and passed by me, heading into the nursery. The door clicked shut behind her, and I stared into the place where she’d been standing. I didn’t know what to think about what she’d said. I wanted so badly to believe it wasn’t true. And yet, my mother didn’t lie, and there was something about the version of events she’d relayed to me that felt . . . real.

  I got ready for bed in a daze and said hello to Lance when he came home around eleven. Mom didn’t come out of her room. Lance went to bed, and I settled onto the couch, staring at the streetlight shining through the miniblinds and thinking over what my mom had said.

  I remembered thanking her when I would pick up December from her house after I’d moved out, but did I ever thank them for letting us stay? Did I ever try to make up for the extra burden I’d brought into their home and lives? The more I thought about that time of my life, the more embarrassed I became. I’d treated their help as my right. I’d expected my mother to take care of December just as she took care of my younger siblings. I expected it, took it for granted.

  I’d been lying on the couch for half an hour when I heard a door open. I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep, until I heard the bathroom door close. Then I peeked over the back of the couch. The nursery room door was open; Mom was the one in the bathroom. I feared I’d never get any sleep if I didn’t at least try to chip away at the ball of guilt and shame growing in my stomach. I stood outside the bathroom, waiting for her. The toilet flushed. The sink turned on, then off again. She opened the door, saw me, and then shut off the bathroom light, but not before I saw her red, swollen eyes. She’d been crying. Over me.

  “Thank you,” I said. It came out in a gruff whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Thank you for taking care of me and December back then, for letting me come back home and for . . . coming out here now. I . . .” I had to take a breath to keep from crying. “I’m sorry I never properly thanked you before now. I hadn’t realized that I’d been so . . . entitled and unfair.”

 

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