stuff on TV and in the papers. I know these things go on. Although I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” Another thought occurred to her. “It wasn’t some interracial thing, was it?”
“Please, Mom, don’t grill me. For right now you have to trust me…or believe me.”
Alice threw her head back and closed her eyes. “What a waste,” she said.
“I didn’t waste my life,” Linda insisted. “I got a degree, got a pretty good position at Marshall Fields. I’ve worked my way up. I have a nice little apartment in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Alice said numbly. “I suppose you’re married now.”
“No,” said Linda shortly. “And I don’t plan to be.”
There was a silence between them. Alice pushed herself up out of her chair and said, “Do you want some tea or something?”
“Not right now. Mom, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
Alice looked almost frightened. How much worse could it get? “What?”
“I’ve seen my daughter.”
Alice dropped back down into her chair. “The baby?”
“She’s thirteen years old now,” said Linda proudly. “She was adopted by a couple here in Bayland. I went to see her this afternoon.”
‘They asked you?”
“Not really,” said Linda. “But I was able to find out who they were.”
“Oh, Linda, Linda.”
“She’s beautiful, Mom. Her name is Jenny. Jenny Newhall. They live over on Potter’s Way.”
“You’re not allowed to do that, are you?”
“Do what?” Linda asked defensively.
“Go showing yourself to the child. At least in my day you weren’t.”
“Things have changed, Mom.”
“Things don’t change that much. There was a good reason for that. No one wants to be reminded of how that child came into the world.”
“God, you have attitudes from the Stone Age. She came into the world like any other baby. Aren’t you curious about her? She is your grandchild.”
“Linda, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t even know she existed until two minutes ago. I’m still trying to get over the fact that you’ve shown up here after all these years. Although I see now it was probably just an afterthought.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you really came back here to see this child you gave up. Figured you’d drop in while you were in town.”
“That’s not the way it is,” Linda said bitterly.
Alice turned her face away. “I don’t know how it is,” she admitted.
Linda sighed, and the room was silent. “Well, I’d like to wash up,” she said.
“Bathroom’s in the same place,” said Alice tartly.
Linda went up the stairs to the bathroom, where she washed and dried her face. Then she turned and went down the hall to her old bedroom. She pushed open the door and looked in. Everything in the room was exactly as she’d left it when she was seventeen years old. Other than being cleaned and dusted, the room had not changed in fourteen years. The same pink dust ruffle on the bed, her books still in the bookcase, her posters on the wall, all the childhood mementos still crowding the bureau top.
She heard Alice’s heavy tread on the stairs. Alice walked up behind her and peered in around her. “Mom,” Linda breathed. “It’s exactly the same.”
Alice nodded and sighed. “Your father wouldn’t let me change a thing. He always swore you would come back, and he wanted you to know that we’d kept it this way for you.”
“Daddy,” she said woefully.
“He got sick after you left. I mean, mentally,” said Alice. “They gave him all kinds of medication, but he never completely pulled out of it. You were always his pride and joy. More than his son, even,” said Alice in a tone that indicated her lasting bafflement at this preference. “It just drained the life out of him, little by little.”
For a moment Linda’s face darkened and she tensed up as if she were going to lash back at her mother’s not-so-veiled accusation. Then her shoulders slumped. “I missed him, too,” she whispered.
“Please, Mom, don’t grill me. For right now you have to trust me…or believe me.”
Alice threw her head back and closed her eyes. “What a waste,” she said.
“I didn’t waste my life,” Linda insisted. “I got a degree, got a pretty good position at Marshall Fields. I’ve worked my way up. I have a nice little apartment in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Alice said numbly. “I suppose you’re married now.”
“No,” said Linda shortly. “And I don’t plan to be.”
There was a silence between them. Alice pushed herself up out of her chair and said, “Do you want some tea or something?”
“Not right now. Mom, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
Alice looked almost frightened. How much worse could it get? “What?”
“I’ve seen my daughter.”
Alice dropped back down into her chair. “The baby?”
“She’s thirteen years old now,” said Linda proudly. “She was adopted by a couple here in Bayland. I went to see her this afternoon.”
‘They asked you?”
“Not really,” said Linda. “But I was able to find out who they were.”
“Oh, Linda, Linda.”
“She’s beautiful, Mom. Her name is Jenny. Jenny Newhall. They live over on Potter’s Way.”
“You’re not allowed to do that, are you?”
“Do what?” Linda asked defensively.
“Go showing yourself to the child. At least in my day you weren’t.”
“Things have changed, Mom.”
“Things don’t change that much. There was a good reason for that. No one wants to be reminded of how that child came into the world.”
“God, you have attitudes from the Stone Age. She came into the world like any other baby. Aren’t you curious about her? She is your grandchild.”
“Linda, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t even know she existed until two minutes ago. I’m still trying to get over the fact that you’ve shown up here after all these years. Although I see now it was probably just an afterthought.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you really came back here to see this child you gave up. Figured you’d drop in while you were in town.”
“That’s not the way it is,” Linda said bitterly.
Alice turned her face away. “I don’t know how it is,” she admitted.
Linda sighed, and the room was silent. “Well, I’d like to wash up,” she said.
“Bathroom’s in the same place,” said Alice tartly.
Linda went up the stairs to the bathroom, where she washed and dried her face. Then she turned and went down the hall to her old bedroom. She pushed open the door and looked in. Everything in the room was exactly as she’d left it when she was seventeen years old. Other than being cleaned and dusted, the room had not changed in fourteen years. The same pink dust ruffle on the bed, her books still in the bookcase, her posters on the wall, all the childhood mementos still crowding the bureau top.
She heard Alice’s heavy tread on the stairs. Alice walked up behind her and peered in around her. “Mom,” Linda breathed. “It’s exactly the same.”
Alice nodded and sighed. “Your father wouldn’t let me change a thing. He always swore you would come back, and he wanted you to know that we’d kept it this way for you.”
“Daddy,” she said woefully.
“He got sick after you left. I mean, mentally,” said Alice. “They gave him all kinds of medication, but he never completely pulled out of it. You were always his pride and joy. More than his son, even,” said Alice in a tone that indicated her lasting bafflement at this preference. “It just drained the life out of him, little by little.”
For a moment Linda’s face darkened and she tensed up as if she were going to lash back at her mother’s not-so-veiled accusation. Then her shoulders slumped. “I missed him, too,” she whispered.
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