Favourite Daughter

“How do you make that kind of mistake? Really, Jane?” David’s shaking his head. I need to woo him, not disappoint him, and I should try to refrain from spooking him.

Focus, Jane.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, darling.” I dig my fingernails into the palm of my right hand and smile at my husband. David’s watching me admire my reflection. What does he think when he sees me? He can’t deny that I’m beautiful, but I know he doesn’t see me with the same loving thoughts of the past, that much I know is true. We all change, especially in the face of unimaginable tragedy like we’ve been through. It’s understandable. That’s why I’m giving him one last chance. Starting tonight.

I turn to face him and take a step closer. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, tilts his head. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark. He thinks he’s a tough guy. I take another step toward him and he backs away. Ha!

I smile and ask, “Let’s start over. This is a special night. Darling, do you know when Betsy will be home? She knows how important tonight is to me.” Truth be told, I’m not sure I told her about our dinner. But she’s a senior in high school, she still lives in my home. She should be home for family dinner. This is part of my plan to do everything I can to make this graduation week extra special, for both David and Betsy. I hope Betsy knows that even though Mary is gone, we are still a family. None of this is easy, it never has been. I mean, it’s hardest for me trying to be so selfless, the perfect wife and the perfect mother. I spoiled the girls, of course. Sometimes when you give them everything, they take you for granted. My mom warned me about that, too.

David bites his lip, another new habit. It’s not really a good look for him—it shows doubt, weakness, condescension. I hate that.

David says, “Betsy has art class tonight. It’s every Sunday night, has been for a year.” He says the words sharply, and with a big exhalation, as if he’s had to say them every week to me. As if I’m an idiot. He hasn’t. I’m not.

“Right, I forgot.” It’s hard to keep her schedule straight, especially when time shifts and moves with those pills. Don’t worry. I’m not taking them anymore, like I told you, it’s just that lately Betsy is acting more like her father. She’s hardly ever home, and has one excuse after another. Besides, David should remember that Dr. Rosenthal explained to him that grief, like many other strong emotions, makes it hard to think straight. I’ve read a lot about the grieving process. I am a textbook case of complicated grief. I know, I’ve researched it.

Betsy only has ordinary grief, of course. Betsy’s grief has made her tense, angry. She’s focused on school, making sure she graduates. She’s hired her own tutor, and actually seems to care about grades for the first time in her life. She hasn’t even spent much time with her boyfriend, Josh, which is fine with me. He’s a bit of a loser, not the kind of boy we’d choose for our little girl, but he’s the type Betsy attracts. Poor thing.

Before I can leave the kitchen to retrieve my socks, David says, “Did you actually make dinner? There’s nothing cooked. I don’t think you even told me you were doing this.” His hand sweeps over to the table, to include the broken glass, and captures the stovetop devoid of dishes and meal prep, the counters pristinely clean.

“Oh, darling, of course I told you about tonight. I didn’t want to overdo it, so I ordered in, from Salerno’s, your favorite. Delivery arrives in half an hour. Pasta Bolognese just for you. Hope you’re hungry.” I smile. I’ve thought of everything. I’m back. “If it’s just the two of us for dinner it will be so romantic. I hear Italian food is made for lovers.” Before I turn away I watch David’s face flush, his cheeks a rosy pink. He recognizes the phrase, and the restaurant, of course.

I walk away before he can respond. Perhaps I will slip into a sexy dress for our date, because just maybe, tonight, he’ll decide to do the right thing. I know he loves me. We were such a good team. He remembers those days, too. I know he does. We just need a fresh start.

I head toward our bedroom, walking past the front door and glancing out into our courtyard lit with white twinkle lights, the fronds of our twin palm trees rustling in the gentle breeze. I stop and scan the outdoor space. I like to try to be ready for anything now, to be one step ahead and to avoid being startled or surprised. I learned that from my childhood. My mom was full of awful surprises. For a moment I see her standing in the courtyard, a ghost from my distant past. I shake my head. Stop it. These thoughts aren’t productive. That’s Mary’s voice, or perhaps it is Dr. Rosenthal’s? They sound similar these days. You’re safe. Your mom is gone.

I hurry to my bedroom, reminding myself it is possible to be scared to death. Not the outcome I’m looking for in life. A scare floods your body with adrenaline, makes your heart pump faster. If you have an underlying heart problem, fright can induce sudden cardiac death. I’ve become a bit fixated with tragic death, so I apologize in advance. Remember, knowledge is power. I have a lot of tragic knowledge to share.

Mary’s tragic death shook us all, of course. My beautiful daughter Mary, how I miss her. I’ll never be able to curl her shiny dark hair, laugh with her about the lavish wedding we’d plan together one day, revel in her constant achievements, guide her choices as she prepared for her future. There is no future now, not for her. But I can focus on David and Betsy. I’ve been watching over them, but not engaging with them. That changes tonight. At dinner.

I’m reenergized. Truth be told, I’m a bit more awake these days than I should be, and that makes me a little on edge, a little temperamental. You understand, of course, after all I’ve been through. But still, I need to watch it, practice the breathing exercises Dr. Rosenthal taught me. I take a deep cleansing breath, and exhale some of the tension of the day. I imagine my frustrations flowing from me like a fast-running river, just like Dr. Rosenthal tells me to do. I don’t tell her about the dam. I’m sure my flowing river thoughts will return soon, right? I mean, breath work is the key to health, that’s what these yoga people keep saying and what Dr. Rosenthal repeats on her relaxation podcasts. They really don’t work, but I’m not going to be the one to tell her that.

I trudge into my bathroom and through to the walk-in closet. I look at the section of cocktail dresses, but with the chill in the air I decide to grab warm socks and a cozy gray cashmere sweater. It’s brisk here at the beach once the sun sets, even in the middle of summer. Evenings in May, like tonight, always hold an extra special chill.

I glance at the cluster of picture frames on the counter next to my sink. Mary on the day we adopted her, swaddled in a soft pink blanket. Mary at age ten throwing her arms around our new labradoodle puppy, Cash. I pick up the last frame. In the photo taken a year and a half ago, Mary’s grinning, so excited to be pledging the sorority of her dreams. She wears a white cocktail dress and holds a huge bouquet of red roses her dad hand-delivered to her—without me since I had to stay home with Betsy—during one of his now-frequent business trips to Los Angeles.

Mary’s happiness her freshman year in college was almost too big to contain in a photo, too grand for a picture frame. Boundless potential and limitless opportunity once she left home, left me, for a new life and flowers from her dad. She was so excited to be miles away from me, my rules, my one line in the sand. I shake my head, glance at my reflection in the mirror.

Betsy is different. Although she shows all the outward signs of teenage rebellion, she’s really a good, obedient daughter. My new favorite, I suppose. Mary promised me she’d be back after freshman year, of course, but she never really was. It was so hard for me when we moved her into her dorm room and then had to drive away. It was like cutting off my right hand. It was hard for David, too. He was vulnerable, missing his eldest, even though Betsy and I were still here. Are still here.

“I loved you, Mary.”

“Who are you talking to?” David materializes behind me. He thinks he sneaked up on me but I heard him coming. I see the judgment in his dark blue eyes as he shakes his head.

“Nobody.” We lock eyes. He looks at the photo in my hands and I know he thinks I’m talking to myself. Another “creepy” habit of mine, as he says. I place the photo back where it belongs.

He’s changing in the closet. I hear a swish as he tugs off his tie and know he’s hanging it neatly next to the rest of his collection. Next he’ll open the drawer to find a casual shirt. He reappears in jeans and a white T-shirt, dark brown Gucci loafers. He’s brushing his teeth. We make eye contact in the mirror. Sometimes he knows I’m watching him. Most of the time he doesn’t. I wonder if he has decided to stay with me for dinner? Perhaps I should have changed into a dress? I still can. I smile. “I’m looking forward to our romantic dinner.”

“Did you sleep well last night?” He spits in the sink, ignoring my statement.

I check my face in the mirror and decide I don’t look too sleep deprived. I doubt he notices the circles under my eyes. I’m an expert with concealer. Tomorrow, I’ll look even better. It’s only day one of operation reconnection.

I lie. “Yes. Like a baby.”

He tilts his head, slaps his expensive cologne on his neck. How manly, like he’s the Old Spice guy or something. “Are you sure you can handle the Celebration of Life ceremony tomorrow?”

No. What a stupid name. I’m sure this is all his assistant’s idea. I answer, “Of course. I have to be there. I’m the mom. Star of the show.” I meet David’s eyes. I am the lead actor in this house, in this family, I’m reminding him. Every mom is. And I will be there tomorrow for the ceremony. It’s my duty, it’s the beginning of my reemergence, an important aspect of my strategy even though I didn’t want this memorial service, and didn’t arrange it. Despite all of that, of course I’ll be there. She was my daughter.

I know he’d like nothing better than to soak up all of the attention, both from the attendees and the event planner. The perfect father. He loves the spotlight, hosting parties, chatting with friends. But he’s not going alone. I’ve been preparing myself for this week. I’m looking forward to reviving my role: his adoring, beautiful wife. I reach over and run my hand along the limestone countertop between our two sinks, the stone cool to the touch. I tap my nails, a slow drumbeat.

“I’m coming to the ceremony,” I say and walk to the bedroom, and pause next to our king-size bed. Large enough we don’t bump into each other at night. I touch my favorite pillow.

“I can take care of it, host it alone, if you’re not up to it.” He is behind me. I feel his eyes on the back of my neck.

“I’ll be fine.” I turn to face him. “Dinner should be here any minute. Tonight will be lovely, and tomorrow night, at the ceremony, I’ll be right by your side, David, as you will mine.”

I’m back. I smile at his frown. He doesn’t like my answer.

His shoulders drop. “I can’t stay for dinner. But you eat the pasta. You need to gain some weight. People in The Cove are talking.”

“Oh, are they? About my weight? I don’t think that’s the hottest topic in the neighborhood.” I glance at the bed. After he leaves, maybe I’ll take a nap? I may be able to fall asleep even though it’s barely past seven. It’s been so long since I’ve slept. I’ve been so busy.

“Maybe it isn’t the hottest topic, but it’s a concern.” David walks toward the bedroom door.

“Stop!” I blurt, my tone sharper than I’d intended. I cover my mouth with my hand, forcing myself not to say more. He can’t just walk away from me. It has been surprisingly comforting to have David home this evening. I even allowed myself to imagine him joining me for dinner. I was feeling a little sentimental, a little needy. How stupid. This isn’t about love. We already have that, as you can see. This is about control. We will dine together soon, and for as many evenings as I’d like, once I get back in charge. The way I had been, from the moment we met.

Our relationship began slowly like an orchestrated dance number. I was in the lead. David had been dropping into the Santa Monica club where I worked for more than two weeks and we’d been making eye contact and flirting, despite his regular blonde date attached to his arm. Sure, she had a gorgeous body and the air of money that made the space around her sparkle like gold. But I knew I was different than all those sorority girls. Special beauty, as my mom would say when she was sober.

I’d worked hard since I’d moved to LA after high school. I’d lost my accent but I hadn’t lost my Southern charm. I could tell David was looking for someone like me, someone different, someone more exotic than the cookie-cutter sorority girls, someone with big dreams, a charmed future: a diamond in the land of cubic zirconia. I slipped him my phone number, in the most old-fashioned way, written on a napkin placed under his beer, our fingers brushing as electricity surged between us.

Now, as David stands at the door to our bedroom, he laughs and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t yell, Jane. It’s not becoming.”

I walk to his side, my hands clenched. It’s part of our dance these days, this feigned politeness, this lingering something. Is it nostalgia or just an endurance test to the finish line on Thursday? I still believe in us. I put my hand on his chest, imagine I’m touching his heart. “Sorry. Please stay.”

Instead of embracing me, he takes my hand from his chest and squeezes, an awkward gesture that presses my two-carat engagement ring into the knuckle of my middle finger. “I’m going to work out and grab dinner after at the club. Don’t wait up.”

Once he’s gone I sigh, trying to push my frustration aside. In the bathroom I pick up his bottle of cologne. When I unscrew the lid I take a deep inhalation of his favorite scent, the smell of my husband. In our closet I see his silk ties hanging up in a neat little row. He’s so tidy. Likes his things under control, orderly. For David, and I suppose most husbands and fathers who are the “sole providers” for their families, their personal spaces at home provide the comfort they don’t find at the office. The sense of order, the semblance of routine.

Home is so much more than a place, it’s your anchor, your retreat. I know it is especially important to him now that Mary is gone, his favorite daughter. He finds peace in his color-coded closet. David is a cyclone of activity out in the world ever since the accident. He’s kept up a frenetic schedule this past year, but he always comes home to me, eventually.

I shake my head, knowing I don’t have the energy to straighten up the chaos on my side of the closet. I’ve learned to embrace my mess. And besides, I have other things to focus on. My husband deserves my thoughtfulness, my presence at the ceremony tomorrow, and I can’t wait to surprise him with everything else I have planned.

Each time he walks out our front door he becomes someone different. At home, with me, he’s the grieving father of a dead daughter. Out in the world, he’s an übersuccessful businessman with his sculptured chin held high, invincible. Out in the world he doesn’t worry about his sad wife. I’m sure of that. Most of the time, it’s easier for him if he doesn’t think of me at all. But I’m always thinking about him.

For example, who wears cologne and Gucci loafers to the gym? No one. I swallow and try to control my shaking hands by shoving them into the pockets of my jeans. I hurry from the bathroom and climb in bed. I stare at the dark black glass of our huge flat-screen TV. David insisted on having a television in the bedroom, something I opposed. I know myself. I can get sucked into a show, a story, and always ended up staying up too late when the girls were little. I like to lose myself while I watch television, one of the things my mom and I had in common. She had the television on all day and night, making me watch her favorite shows with her when she was in a good mood. She taught me how to critique actresses, and to learn from them.

And I’ve learned a lot over the years. That’s why it was time to pull myself out of my seemingly unshakable depression. After this week, I’m going to begin my career again. I’ve already lined up a photographer to shoot some head shots. David will be so pleased. He fell in love with me when I was acting in LA. He’ll be so surprised when the old me makes a comeback. I’m focusing on the future now.

Instead of dinner tonight, tomorrow’s ceremony will be the beginning of my second act. Us women, especially moms, we’re resilient. At times life just throws us punches. But I’ve always been a fighter. Sometimes we have to take a stand for those we love, protect them from bad choices, love them even when they don’t think they need it. I know some women who are stuck in their relationships, in their lives, who don’t have choices.

I know how lucky I am and I know how to fight to get what I deserve.

So, life, let’s get ready to rumble.

2

11:30 p.m.

I stand at the edge of a cliff when suddenly the earth gives way and I’m falling, my hands reach for something to hold on to, something to stop my fall, but it’s only air. I’m tumbling, screaming.

I wake with a start and sit up quickly, my heart racing. My regular nightmare, I can’t make it stop, bursting into my subconscious. I jolt awake before I hit the water, before I drown like Mary did.

My heart races as I take deep breaths and try to calm down. I’m safe in bed. It’s dark outside. David is home, how nice, snoring beside me after his workout and dinner. Climbing out of bed, I’m desperate for a drink. Of water, or wine, or both. But first, I creep into the bathroom, illuminating my way with the soft light from my phone. And there is David’s phone, where he always leaves it, plugged in and resting on the counter next to his sink. My heart thumps as I quickly enter the code and smile with relief when I realize he hasn’t changed it. It’s our two birthdays, 1420. I open Find My Friends on my phone, a feature I didn’t realize we all have until I did a little research. How wonderful. I send David’s phone an invite, and accept on his behalf. Now I’ll know exactly where he is all the time. I glance out toward the bed, listening for the quiet rumble of his snore. There it is.

I grab his phone again and open the text messages even though I’ve already read them in real time with my handy parental control app, otherwise known as spyware. These products are versatile. I mean, they sell them so we concerned parents can track our kids, a perfectly legitimate use, am I right? And can you ever be too vigilant, too protective? Of course not. Don’t judge—everybody uses these things, not just me.

I simply added one more person to my bundle, my loving husband. Oh, look, there is a new text. From her: smiley, kissy face, red heart. She’s so predictable with her childish overuse of emoticons, and her stupid declarations of love. As if Italian food is romantic. It’s not. It’s fattening. She’s ridiculous. David, I’m sure, has realized it, too.

It’s not all his fault that he fell into her arms. Men are needy. And I know, I’ve been rather distant, ignoring him, first adjusting to Mary going away to college and then her tragic death. I’ve been lost in my complicated grief. So he looked for attention elsewhere. That’s finished now. I’m back in the game, large and in charge, as they say. Sure, she’ll be sad for a little bit, but she’ll move on. She’s so young, so good at the game. There are plenty of wealthy, older men for her to latch on to. Tomorrow at the memorial service she’ll witness David and me in love, unified. The service will be our recommitment ceremony of sorts. It also will be the end of smiley, emoticon over-user. Time’s up.

I replace his phone on the counter, just where he left it, and hurry through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen. I adjust the lights to the dimmest setting and feel my way along the smooth countertop until I reach the sink. I fill a glass with water and chug it, noticing lights are on downstairs in Betsy’s room below me. Our home tumbles down the side of the hill. The front door is at street level, but the girls’ rooms are downstairs, downhill. Not a basement—we don’t call it that here—just a lower level.

This is the best hour to chat. I often surprised the girls during middle school and high school, at night, catching one or the other as she raided the refrigerator after studying. It’s best, I find, to get them alone and hungry, to give them food and share my wisdom. But Betsy doesn’t join me for kitchen chats anymore, not since Mary left for college. But that’s okay. I go to her.

I like to keep track of Betsy, too, but I’ll admit, I’ve been a little lax when it comes to my younger daughter. Sure, I check the app regularly, but she isn’t as active on her phone as David or Mary. Likely, it’s because Betsy doesn’t have many friends. But still, I need to reconnect with her. I pull up Betsy’s account, just to check. Yep, nothing there. She needs me, poor Betsy. Such a lonely girl. But I’m here for her, always. Even with all that I have going on, I did call the school counselor last week to find out if Betsy was on track to graduate, and Angelica surprised me.

“Betsy is doing remarkably well her senior year considering all that has happened,” Angelica had said. Then she proceeded to effuse over Betsy’s choice of community college, followed by a transfer to a more prestigious college. Betsy likely won’t make it out of community college, but I didn’t tell Angelica that. I’d thanked her and hung up.

Angelica was right about one thing: for Betsy, community college will be fine. It will keep her close to home, where she belongs. Without Mary to place my biggest hopes and dreams on, I’m left with Betsy. At least she doesn’t need to bother with sibling rivalry anymore. Things have shifted between us this year, just normal teenage rebellion, I’m sure. I’ll get us back on track. I mean, we were all teenagers once. And I love Betsy. So much.

I pull open the refrigerator and spot the Salerno’s to-go order of four, white-boxed pasta dishes. David must have retrieved them from the front door, where I’d asked the driver to leave the food. How nice of him to bring them inside. I consider throwing the food away, but instead I grab my bottle of chardonnay, pouring a generous amount into a coffee mug. It’s not like I have an issue, but I don’t want to set a bad example for my daughter. You understand. I take a big gulp of wine, and open my junk drawer, every great kitchen has one, and pull out the letter from the bank that arrived in our mailbox last week. I unfold it and stare at the now-familiar words.

Dear Mr. Harris. Congratulations! You have been approved for the mortgage on 1972 Port Chelsea Place, Newport Beach. All of us at First Federal thank you for choosing us...

My heart pounds as I fold the letter into a square, and tuck it away at the back of the drawer. I love that David is surprising me, that he wants a fresh start. I just hope he announces it soon. It’s so hard for me to keep this a secret—it must be killing him. This letter is proof he still loves me, loves our family despite the tough year we’ve had since Mary died. I realize my grief was hard for David to handle. It was a necessary, normal part of what happens when a mom loses a daughter. I know, I’ve researched it, choreographed it. Truth be told, I may have enjoyed the pill haze a little too much. I mean, there isn’t a national pill-popping crisis for no reason. These things are addictive.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? A letter from a big bank snapped me out of it. This is likely the only good thing a big bank has ever done for anybody, ever. I’m looking at you, Wells Fargo.

I take a drink of my wine and feel just a little sorry I’ve ruined the surprise he has for me. But, like I said, I’m a professional actress. I was just one role away from getting my SAG card back in the day. When he tells me, which should be any moment now, I’ll throw my arms around him and cry tears of joy. I’m already familiar with the new neighborhood. Although it isn’t a gated community, it’s a fabulous choice. The Port Streets are lovely, quiet and safe, with sidewalks, green spaces galore and a smattering of people out walking their dogs before bed. How exciting it will be to walk through the door of our new home. Even though I’m beyond tempted, I’ve been so good and haven’t driven past it yet, or looked it up online. I know you’re impressed.