The Other Daughter (15 page)

The house security system sounded a warning chime. Melanie stilled, then heard the telltale beep of someone entering the entry code into the front alarm box. Another beep as the alarm was rearmed. Seconds later footsteps sounded down the hall, then her mother poked her head into the study.

Patricia wore a long, black wraparound coat and a pillbox hat. The makeup was smudged around her eyes, and she looked as if she'd had a very long day. Generally she returned from her AA meetings looking flushed and revitalized, armed with her twelve steps and ready to take on the world. Not tonight.

She stepped into the room with her fingers nervously fiddling with the top button of her wrap and her gaze studiously avoiding her daughter's.

“Hey,” Melanie said at last. “You're home late.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Her mother smiled belatedly, struggled harder with the top button of her coat, and finally got it undone. She draped the wrap over a pile of books by the door, plopped her hat on top of it, then finally crossed to Melanie for a brief kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt cool. Melanie caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke mingled with Chanel No. 5, and stiffened.

Her mother smelled as if she'd been in a bar.

Automatically, helplessly, she started searching for signs. The smell of mouthwash used to cover gin and tonic. A slight swaying. Overbright eyes, anxious chatter.

Her mother's hands were shaking, her expression tremulous. Other than that, Melanie couldn't be sure. It could be just one of those days for her mother, or it could be worse. In the past six months it had become so hard to tell.

Her mother pulled back, seeming to inspect the piles of books.

“Is your father already in bed?” she asked brightly.

“He's not home.”

Patricia frowned, picked up an old book. “Well, he's out rather late for a Sunday. Probably checking up on some important patient.”

“Probably.”

Her mother set down that book. Picked up another. Her back remained to her daughter. “How is your migraine, honey?”

“Fine.”

“Relaxing day?”

“Sure,” Melanie said quietly. “Sure.”

Patricia turned. She dropped the book she was holding almost forcefully, almost angrily, and the sudden display of emotion sounded Melanie's alarm bells once more.

Patricia's chin was up. Her blue eyes were beginning to glow. She appeared defiant, and that made Melanie's heart sink. Oh, God, so she'd been out after all.

Her mother simply wasn't that strong. Her life had so many demons, so many dark moments…

And then Melanie found herself wondering why. It had been twenty-five years and yet she was still so troubled.
Just what had she done
?

“I'm not drunk,” her mother announced abruptly. “Oh, don't bother to deny it, Melanie. I can see in your eyes that you think I've been drinking. Well, I haven't. It's just been …it's just been one of those days.”

“So you had only one drink instead of four?” Melanie's voice came out sharper than she intended. She bit her lip but couldn't call the words back.

“Sweetheart, I'm telling you, I didn't have a drink—”

“Then where have you been all day? It's nearly midnight!”

“I've been out.”

“Out where? Come on, Mom, out to what bar?”

Patricia drew herself up haughtily. “I wasn't aware that I had to explain myself to my own child.”

“That's not what I meant—”

“Yes, it is. You're worried, and when you worry, you mother all of us. And we let you, don't we, Melanie? I've been thinking about that tonight. How much your father and I depend on you to take care of things. How much
I
depend on you. For God's sake, we let you work yourself to a point of vicious migraines. What kind of parents do that?”

Patricia crossed the room, taking Melanie's hands and looking at her with an urgency that confused Melanie, caught her off guard.

“Oh, God, Melanie,” her mother cried. “If you could've seen yourself last night, having to be carried back into your own home by some stranger. You looked so pale, so fragile, and I realized for the first time what I'd been doing to you. I've been so lost in my own confusion, my own pain over Brian, I'd never thought about yours. You just seem so strong, I take it for granted. So I turn to you, pile it on. And you're such a good girl, you never complain. But it's not fair of me, and at my age I ought to know better. For chrissakes, when am I going to take care of myself?”

Melanie opened her mouth. She had the strange sensation of being in quicksand.

“I …I don't mind.”

“Well, you should.”

“Well, I don't. I honestly don't.”

“And I'm telling you that you should! Melanie…”

Patricia took a deep breath. For a moment she appeared impatient and almost furious. Then she looked frightened and, at last, fatalistic, as if something else had happened, something she wasn't prepared to share yet but they would all know about in the end.

Jesus Christ, what was this all about?

Patricia said more quietly, “Melanie, have you ever had a turning point in your life? I know you're only twenty-nine, but have you ever felt yourself at a crossroads, when suddenly all of life was murky, and even though you can't see the landscape and you're not sure where you're going, you know you must take a step. And that this will be an important step. This will be The Step.”

Melanie thought of the past twenty-four hours. She said, “Yes.”

“Good.” Her mother clutched her hands more tightly, her eyes beginning to burn again. “I had a turning point today, Melanie. I've had them before — I'm fifty-eight years old after all — and to tell you the truth, I've blown all of them. Stepped the wrong way every single time. Gone back instead of forward. But I think I finally did it right, Melanie. Because I thought of you.”

“Mom?”

“I found myself in a bar tonight.”

“Oh, God, I knew it. Why? What happened?”

“It doesn't matter. I went to a bar. I contemplated ordering a drink. I was so rattled, I was thinking, why not? Once you've fallen off the wagon the first time, it just doesn't seem so far to fall. We all have our patterns, and this one's mine. When I'm frightened, I head for the booze. I'm overwhelmed, sad, depressed, I head for the bottle. But then I thought of you, Melanie. How you looked last night, flattened by a migraine and still not wanting to worry us. How much you take inside yourself when you shouldn't have to. How you love me even when I do all the silly things I do. How much you love all of us when I know there are times we are far from lovable.

“And I thought …I thought I couldn't have a drink and still face you. I just couldn't.” Patricia's voice grew soft. “Melanie, do you even know how much I love you? How you are such a godsend to me? The last six months, you have held me together. I don't think I could've made it without you. I want you to know that. I want you to know, to really know, how much I care.”

Melanie couldn't speak. She held her mother's hand, feeling touched, but, heaven help her, also suspicious. Her mother never spoke like this. None of them did.

She was thinking of Larry Digger again, wondering if he had gone back on his word and approached her mother, if that was what had rattled Patricia Stokes. And then she was thinking how odd it was that they were having a conversation about how much they cared while both of them were purposefully keeping huge chunks of their day to themselves. It was like exchanging compliments on hairdos while wearing hats.

And then she wondered how much of the Stokes family was based upon that, lies of omission carrying back to the sunny days of Texas.

Her mother let go of Melanie's hands. She picked up a pile of books and set them on the floor. Now that she'd said what she wanted to say, the intensity had drained out of her face. She looked more settled. Whatever need she'd had, she'd fulfilled it, at least for then.

“Here,” she said firmly. “Now that I've filled your head with too much stuff, let me help you. Your father's right — you're working too hard.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I love you too.”

“Thank you,” Patricia whispered softly, and smiled back, looking happy. She picked up a book and got to work.

Thirty minutes later the front door banged open. The alarm chirped. Both women jumped, then flushed self-consciously, sharing a nervous laugh neither cared to explain. Harper came striding into his study in green hospital scrubs, one hand tucked behind his back, the second hiding a yawn. He halted and regarded them both curiously, clearly not expecting to find either awake.

“I thought I saw the light on. What are you two ladies still doing up?” He gave his wife a kiss on the cheek, then hugged his daughter. “Sweetheart, feeling better?”

“Right as rain,” Melanie said. He checked her forehead and pulse anyway. After migraines, he always tended to her as if she were a patient.

“Better,” he finally declared, “but you still need to take it easy. Here, maybe this will help. I was going to give these to you and your mom in the morning, but as my two favorite women are still up…”

Harper pulled out his hidden hand and produced a small bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Four sunflowers, treated with purple dye until they were a rich magenta color. Very striking, and offered at only one of the more tony florists on Newbury Street. He handed them to Patricia and she flushed, giving her husband almost a shy glance.

Her father was definitely working hard at making up for past mistakes, Melanie thought approvingly. Not bad at all. She got a small box of champagne truffles. Teuscher. Flown in from Switzerland twice a week. She approved of that peace offering as well and promptly helped herself.

Her father pretended to check the pulse on her wrist again, then swiped a chocolate. She had to laugh. On impulse, she hugged her father again, and even more unexpectedly, he held the embrace.

“You should get upstairs,” he said after a minute, his voice a little gruff. “You need rest, young lady.”

“Why don't we finish up tomorrow,” her mother said lightly. “I can help you out in the evening, and we'll get through them in no time.”

Melanie was tired. But then she found herself thinking of her room again. Her room and the altar. Her room that had been entered in the dead of night while the rest of the house slept.

Melanie gazed longingly back at the books.

Her father would have none of it. Ever the fix-it man, he took her arm and led her and her mother upstairs.

Nighttime rituals came smoothly. Her father set the alarm from the second-floor landing. Her mother kissed her cheek. Her father gave her a hug. Melanie murmured good night. Her father told her to sleep in. She said she had a meeting at ten. Her father said he had surgery at eleven, her mother commented she was due at the children's hospital to read at eleven as well. The beginning of a new week at the Stokes household.

Her parents disappeared inside their bedroom. Melanie just caught her father asking her mother how her day was. Patricia did not say anything about turning points. She simply said, Fine. And yours? Fine. She imagined them climbing into their separate sides of the bed, continuing the same polite conversation until both fell asleep.

Then she thought of David Reese and wondered if he would stick to his side of the bed. She doubted it. He struck her as the intense, silent type. Sex would be hot, slick, and fierce. Few words before and after, but what a ride in between. Something twisted low in her stomach, made her sigh. Yearning. Hunger. Pure sexual frustration.

She was lonely these days, she thought, and smiled wryly. Why else would she spend so much time trying to convince herself she had the perfect life?

Melanie reached the third floor. She inspected Brian's empty bedroom from the door. Tonight, no intruders lingered. Only then did she finally, reluctantly, go to bed.

Her dreams were the standard anxiety dreams. She was in her first year at Wellesley, sitting down to take a final exam and realizing at the last minute she'd forgotten to study. She didn't understand the questions. Oh, God, she couldn't even fill in her name.

Then she was in an elevator shaft plummeting down.

Then she was suddenly in the hospice where she'd stayed when she was nine years old, eagerly waiting for the Stokeses to take her away. Except this time they walked right past her. This time they picked up a new girl with perfect sausage curls and walked out the door.

No! No
! she cried in her dream.
You're my family. My family
!

At the last minute, fourteen-year-old Brian Stokes looked at her. “Did you honestly think you couldn't be replaced? Just ask Meagan.”

The hospice spiraled away. She ran through black voids, utterly lost, calling and calling for someone to see her, to tell her her name. She couldn't bear not to know her own name. And the blackness went on and on and on…

Suddenly she was cocooned in a warm embrace. Solid arms, low, gentle voice.
Shh, it's okay, love, it's okay. I'm here for you. I will always be here for you. Even if you never remember
…

Melanie stirred. In her sleep she whispered a name.

It was the closest to the truth she ever came until it was too late.

MONDAY MORNING PATRICIA watched her husband read the
Boston Globe
. After all these years, she knew exactly how Harper would read the paper — starting with the business section, where he would check his stocks and on a good day smile and on a bad day frown but never actually announce anything because he always kept the financials to himself. Then he would move on to the local section, first skimming it for any articles pertaining to himself or City General, then reading the articles in depth. After Boston news, he moved to national, then international, slowly expanding his circle of interest to include the things not immediately relevant to himself.

He had once told her that it was important to be well read on all subjects so you could make intelligent conversation at work. Though he'd never expanded upon that statement, she'd understood all the things that were left unsaid. Harper came from blue collar stock. People who did not debate national news or attend black-tie parties or hobnob with political movers or shakers. People whose biggest dream was someday landing a government job that would provide enough of a pension to support fishing in their old age.