Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

I must, I wish, I must touch another human. Help me, oh please, help me. I cannot lose her, too. I have lost my younger child, how golden her hair was, and her smile, her eyes would light and she would rush to my arms and I would hold her tight against my breast. “Mandy,” I would say, but the name was alien to my tongue. “Amanda,” I would say, “Daughter,” cold, and the arms would sense, the eyes would cloud, but oh, oh, the golden sight of her hair, to kiss the top of her head, to hold her in my arms and kiss the top of her head freely without shame, I am so cold.

I was cold to him at first, tall and proud with his books under his arm. “I am a divinity student, Miss Bailey,” delivering the words with an aloofness of purpose, “I am a divinity student,” and I studied him with appreciative awe, but I said even then to myself, “Do not love him, do not love this man.” Ahh.

Ahhh.

I was a girl once.

She bit me once. Penelope. She bit my breast and the shock of it! I stared at her in my arms, my first child, I could feel her tiny teeth! I laughed. And then I cried. I put her back in her crib. I did not want her to see me crying.

God, help me. Please. Please!

She is my daughter. I know, I know, she is mine, I should not have let them take her from me.

I do not know myself sometimes, dear Lord. I hear myself saying things, and I do not know this person. I look at this grown-up person saying things, I do not recognize her. And no daughters.

I swear, I swear to You, I was not trying to create myself again in my daughters, I swear this to You. I did not interfere, she wanted to play piano, there was no money, You know that, there was none. But we gave her lessons, she played so well, I felt I would burst when I heard her play, but I never said. I watched only, and I listened, but I did not touch her hair. I did not interfere. I did not want Priscilla Soames twice again. They were new, so new, and smelling sweet as rain, both new, my daughters, my babies, I wanted them to be themselves.

Nothing.

Nothing now.

A daughter who has said to my face the things I only dared to say to myself, alone, said them aloud. They ring in my ears, they echo in my ears, said them to me aloud. I have lost her now. I have no daughter Amanda.

Penelope.

Help me, dear God. Should I let them do these things to her? Should I let them? But if she cannot talk, then how will they help her unless they do these things? My daughter, let me touch your hand.

Dear God, I once ran barefoot in the grass. I once picked a daisy.

Gillian saw her father suddenly and only from a distance. There was a brisk October breeze blowing through the city that day, and it attacked the eyes and made them water. Squinting against the wind, she wasn’t at all sure that the tall, redheaded man was actually her father. Or told herself he wasn’t. And then knew the man was Meredith Burke, knew without question, and watched him without shock, watched him as she would a slightly ridiculous figure in an old-fashioned movie. He had taken the young woman’s arm in a manner so courtly Gillian almost laughed aloud. He was leading her through the promenade, past the banks of shrubs, toward the golden statue of Prometheus overlooking the restaurants and the ice-skating rink. He did not see Gillian, and she pretended not to see him, but she remembered with sudden clarity her mother’s words — “ What is there to say about my Meredith Burke and his little blond bookkeeper? What is there to say, Gillian? ” There was nothing to say now, either. She watched them dispassionately and thought they made a striking couple, her father with his deep-red hair, and the girl’s head bent close to his as they walked, a bright natural blonde, very striking. How young she is, Gillian thought, he looks so old beside her. She felt curiously abandoned. She watched her father, and then quickly looked at the people on the sidewalk, wanting to know suddenly if they had all seen Meredith Burke and his bookkeeper, if they were as aware of him as his daughter was, and then silently condemning him for choosing a place as indiscreet as Rockefeller Center. She left quickly, seeking the shadowed anonymity of Forty-eighth Street.

She called him at the shoe store the next day. He didn’t recognize her voice at first.

“This is Gillian,” she told him. “Your daughter.”

“Well, Gilly!” he said, his voice booming onto the line. “Now, what a surprise!”

“How are you, Dad?”

“Fine, just fine. And yourself?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Well, that’s marr -velous, Gilly. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Dad, what are you doing for lunch today?”

“Why? What is it, Gilly?” he said. “Is something wrong?” There was a curious concern in his voice. She wondered for a moment whether the concern was for his bookkeeper or his daughter.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh? Who, Gilly? A young man?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause on the line. “Shall I have my shoes shined? Will he be proposing?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just wanted you to meet him.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Where do you want to meet, and what time?” Meredith asked.

She set a time and place, and then hung up. She did not know quite why she was doing this. It’s time he met David, she told herself. She dialed David at the library. When he came to the phone, she said, “David, I’m having lunch with my father. I’d like you to join us.”

There was only the slightest hesitation on the line. Then David said, “Sure. I’d like to.”

They talked a bit longer. She listened patiently and then said, “I have to get dressed. Twelve-thirty, don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

She hung up and stood staring at the receiver. When the telephone rang, it startled her. In the few seconds before she picked it up, she thought, It’s one or the other of them calling to cancel. She lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” she said.

“Sweetie, this is Marian.”

“Hello, Marian.”

“I’m glad I caught you. Have you got a minute?”

“Yes, sure.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Marian asked.

“Nothing.”

“You sound... distant.”

“No. What is it, Marian?”

“Sweetie, do you remember my telling you about this man who’s going to shoot a pilot film in the Bahamas? Bimini, or some damn place, I can never remember the names of those islands.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The underwater stuff, you remember. He’s trying to get Sterling Hayden or someone like him for the male lead, and he needs a girl to play the part of this trouble-shooter sort of broad, but she’ll be in every sequence, assuming they sell the pilot, of course.”

“Yes, Marian.”

“Well, he came into town Saturday, trying to tie up his financing and all that, and looking around for talent. I called ABC and arranged for a showing of that half-hour thing you did, the one with—”

“I remember it, Marian.”

“Well, he liked it.”

“That’s good.”

“He’d like to talk to you about the part. He’s one of these guys who likes to meet the actress personally and exchange ideas. He has the peculiar notion that actresses should be intelligent as well as talented. He’ll probably want to discuss the Berlin airlift — so brush up on your I.Q.”

“When is this, Marian?”

“Today. For lunch.”

“I can’t make it.”

“What?”

“I said I can’t make it.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Why not?”

“I’m busy today. Anyway, Marian, I couldn’t possibly go charging off to the Bahamas. That’s out of the question.”