Not My Daughter (5 page)

Susan wasn't as worried about going back as moving ahead. "At least you know it's Jacob. Lily won't tell me who the father is. She says he doesn't know. How crazy is that?"

"You have no idea?"

"None." And it bothered Susan a lot. "She told me when she had a crush on Bobby Grant in second grade. She told me when she got her first kiss. That was Jonah McEllis. She gave me a blow-by-blow of her relationship with Joey Anderson last year. And in each case, I wasn't surprised. A good mother would know if her daughter liked someone, wouldn't she?"

Kate snickered. "Like she would know if her daughter planned to get pregnant?"

"How did I not see something?" Susan asked, baffled. "I look now, and, yes, there's a difference. Her breasts are fuller. Why didn't I notice before?"

"They weren't fuller before," Kate reasoned. "Or her clothes hid it. Or you thought she was just filling out. Susie, I'm asking myself the same thing. My daughter is two months pregnant, has been drinking milk by the gallon, has thrown up lots of mornings, and I thought it was the flu."

Susan actually smiled. Pathetic as the situation was, she felt better. Venting always helped, especially when the person on the other end was in the same boat. Kate would love her regardless of what kind of mother she was.

"Have you and Lily talked about options?" Kate asked.

Susan could only think of three, and abortion was out. She reached for more yarn. "I mentioned adoption this morning." She twisted the hank and looked up. "Lily threw the question back at me. Could I have done that? We both know the answer."

"What was it like?" came a third voice. Sunny unbuttoned her coat as she approached. "Having a baby at seventeen."

Susan didn't have to pull at memories. She had been reliving the experience in vivid flashes since dinner at Carlino's Tuesday night. "It totally changed my life. My childhood ended--was over, just like that."

Sunny joined them at the table. Clearly on a break from work, she had her hair in a plum bow that matched her sweater and slacks. "I know you're estranged from your parents," she said to Susan. "I don't know the details."

That wasn't something Susan dwelt on. "My parents couldn't deal," she said, "so I went to live with an aunt in Missouri while I had Lily and finished high school. Aunt Evie was great, but she had no kids. She didn't know what I was going through, and I didn't dare complain. It was scary. My doctor was one step removed from my father. He delighted in telling me all the risks of having a baby at seventeen."

"Like?"

"Like a seventeen-year-old's body isn't ready to carry a baby to term. Like I was at risk for anemia, high blood pressure, preterm labor, and my baby could be underweight and have underdeveloped organs."

Kate looked frightened. "Is all that true?"

"I believed it. Now I know that most of these problems arise because teenage moms typically don't take care of themselves. But my doctor didn't say that. I was terrified. There were no classes at the local hospital. I had some books, but they weren't reassuring. I was only seventeen. I dreaded childbirth, and then, if I survived that, I was going to have to take care of a baby who would be totally helpless and who might have developmental issues because I was seventeen."

Sunny scowled. "There must have been someone who could help."

"My pediatrician's nurse. She was an angel. I talked with her every morning during call hours. It was like she had two patients, an infant and a seventeen-year-old--well, eighteen-year-old by then. We still keep in touch."

"Are you in touch with your aunt?"

"Occasionally. But it's awkward. She never wanted to buck my father, either. The deal was that I'd stay with her until I graduated high school, then leave. My dad put enough money in a bank account for me to buy a used car and pay for necessities until I got Lily and me to a place where I could work."

"They disowned you," Sunny concluded, "which is what I may do to my daughter."

"You will not," Kate scolded.

"I
may
. I don't believe she's done this. Do you know how
embarrassing
it is?"

"Not as embarrassing as when I got pregnant," Susan said. "We lived in a small town of which my dad was the mayor--just like his dad before him--so the embarrassment was thoroughly public. My older brother, on the other hand, was a town hero. Great student, football star, heir apparent--you name the stereotype, and Jackson was it. I was the bad egg. Erasing me from the family picture was easy."

Sunny seemed more deliberative than disturbed. "What about Lily? Weren't they curious?"

"My mother, maybe." A fantasy, perhaps, but Susan clung to the belief. "But she was married to my father, and he was tough. Still is. I send cards on every occasion--birthday, anniversary, Thanksgiving, Christmas. I send newspaper articles about Lily or me. I send gifts from Perry and Cass, and yarn to my mom. She sends a formal thank-you every time." Susan held up an untwisted skein. "She thought these colors were very pretty. Very pretty," she repeated in a monotone, startled by how much the blandness of the note still stung.

"I'm trying to decide if Jessica can survive," Sunny said. "How did you make it with an infant and no help?"

"I didn't sleep."

"Seriously."

"Seriously," Susan insisted. She had learned to multitask early on. "I was studying, working, and taking care of a baby. After I graduated from high school, I babysat my way east. Babysitting was the one thing I could do and still have Lily with me, because I sure couldn't afford a sitter. When I got here, I did clerical work at the community college because that got me day care dirt cheap and classes for free. I was halfway through my degree when I met you two." Their girls were in preschool together. "That was a turning point. Friends make the difference."

"Exactly,"
Sunny cried. "If our girls hadn't been friends, this wouldn't have happened."

Susan was startled. Of the three girls, she saw Jessica as the one most ready to rebel. "If not with our two, then with another two friends," she said quietly.

Sunny calmed a little. "Tell that to my husband."

"Uh-oh." This from Kate, and with cause. Dan Barros was mild-mannered, but there was no doubt who ruled the roost. "He's blaming our girls?"

There was a pause, then a halfhearted "Not exactly."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, he doesn't
say
things. He implies. He infers. I'm telling Jessica that she needs to tell us who the father is, so that they can get married, which would lend at least a
semblance
of decency to this, but Dan keeps grilling
me
. 'How did this happen, where were
you
, didn't
you
see anything?' Bottom line? It's my fault."

"It isn't your fault," said Kate, though she was looking at Susan. "Is it?"

Hadn't Susan asked herself the same question? She picked up a PC Wool tag from a pile that lay beside the skeins. A striking little thing, the tag carried the PC Wool logo, along with the fiber content of the skein, its length and gauge, and washing instructions. "We gave our daughters the know-how to prevent this," she said as she absently fingered the tag. "But they didn't consult us."

"They consulted each other," Sunny charged. "They gave each other strength."

"Bravado," Kate added.

"That, too," Susan said. After touching the tag a moment longer, she looked up at her friends. "I'm forever telling parents that they have to be involved. They have to know what their kids are doing. Kids aren't bad, just young. Their brains are still developing. That's why sixteen-year-olds are lousy drivers. They don't have the judgment--actually, physically, don't have the gray matter to make the right decision in a crisis. They don't fully get it until they're in their early twenties."

"And in the meantime, it
is
our fault?" Sunny asked.

Susan didn't answer. She was suddenly wondering what all those parents to whom she had lectured would say when they learned her daughter was pregnant. Given her age and what some saw as a meteoric rise in her field, she had always been on shaky ground. Now she feared for her credibility.

She must have looked stricken, because Kate took her hand. "What our daughters may have lacked in gray matter, they made up for in parental influence. We taught them right from wrong, Susie. They've never before given us reason to doubt them."

"That's what makes this so
absurd,"
Susan wailed. "I could give you a list of girls at school who are at risk of doing something like this. Our daughters' names would not be on it."

"Now there's a thought," Sunny said, sounding hopeful. "No one expects it from our girls, so no one will know for a while. That gives us time to figure out what to do." She looked from Susan to Kate and back. "Right?"

Susan was thinking that time might not help, when Pam came striding back from the front of the barn. "Hey, guys," she called when she was barely halfway past the stalls. "Were we supposed to meet?" She was unwinding a large scarf as she reached them. "I bumped into Leah and Regina at PC Beans. They said you kicked them out, Kate." Leah and Regina were Kate's assistants that day, two of eight part-timers who helped get PC Wool out in the quantity dictated by recent demand.

"I gave them money for coffee," Kate said after only a second's delay.

But Pam caught it and looked around. "What's up? You all look like someone died."

"No one died," Sunny said brightly. "We were just taking a last look at the holiday yarn. It was a great colorway. People are raving about the freshness of the colors--very holiday, but not totally traditional. I told you that we're giving the spring line a major Mother's Day push in Home Goods, didn't I? Do we have colors, Susan?"

"We do," Susan said, trying to hide the horror that the mere mention of Mother's Day brought. Lily would be in her ninth month then and would be huge. Picturing it, Susan could only think of pink and blue, not PC Wool colors at all.

She couldn't say that, of course. Going along seemed the safest thing. But Pam was a good friend, and her daughter was very possibly pregnant or trying to get pregnant.
Tell her
, cried a little voice in Susan's head.

But no one else spoke up. If Susan did, she would betray the others--and Lily.

So she said, "I'll work out the dye recipes Saturday. Do we have a deadline for the catalogue?"

Pam was their mail-order link. At least, that was what she called herself, though on that front she did little more than pass data to a manager. More crucial to the operation, she was a lobbyist for PC Wool, the women's link to the powers-that-be. If there was a conflict of interest, given that she was a Perry herself, no one cared. PC Wool had shown a higher percentage of growth in the last year than any two other departments combined.

"End of January," she said. "That means we need samples painted and photographed by mid-month." She lit up. "Can we do another spa weekend before Christmas to write copy? I loved that last year."

They had driven an hour inland to Weymouth Farm. The spa there had a reciprocal arrangement whereby Perry & Cass would provide them with PC bath soaps and gels in exchange for free use of vacant rooms.

"I may have trouble with that," Kate hedged. "My Percy State four have finals then. They'll need extra care."

Sunny shook her head. "Dan has every weekend between now and Christmas planned."

Susan was silent. In another month, Lily would be showing. Word might be out. Pam might hate them for not telling her sooner. Worse, Abby herself might be pregnant, in which case Susan would feel
doubly
guilty.

But Pam looked so eager that Susan dredged up her only excuse. "Rick may be coming," she said apologetically. "He's waiting to see how his assignments pan out for December. Until he knows, I don't dare commit."

Pam was crestfallen. "What fun are you guys?" she pouted. "So I have to settle for Saturdays here? What are we doing this week?"

"Tagging skeins," Kate answered. "And looking at Susan's magic notebook to see the colors she's picked."

"Bring your WIP," Susan told Pam, referring to her work in progress, a cashmere sweater coat that only Pam had the time--or money--to tackle. "How's it coming?"

"The back's almost done. The yarn is exquisite. We need to add cashmere to our line."

"Too expensive," Sunny warned.

"But wouldn't you love to have it in the store?" Pam asked.

"For me? Yes. I just don't know how many people off the tour bus will buy cashmere."

"Maybe not tourists, but diehard yarnies? Online buyers? Bloggers have asked for it." She looked at the others. "A cashmere shrug or a lace-weight scarf would be perfect for spring. Can I research where to buy it undyed?"

"Sure."

"Definitely."

"Great," Pam said. "Let's talk more on Saturday. And on Sunday," she added, turning to Sunny. "What time did you want us?"

Brunch at eleven
, Susan thought. It was Dan's birthday.

"Actually, Dan changed his mind," Sunny said, looking pinched. "All he wants is a quiet breakfast. He's feeling old."

Dan was turning forty-three, not old by any standards.

It wasn't age, Susan realized.
He blames us, too
.

Sunny didn't make it to the barn on Saturday morning, and, given that she was their ear to the ground when it came to Perry & Cass customers, Susan was hesitant to discuss colors without her. Fortunately, Pam didn't stay long anyway, so they spent the time alternately affixing tags to skeins and admiring the sweater Pam was knitting. The minute she left, though, Susan said guiltily, "That was bad. We have to
tell
her."

"How
can
we?" Kate argued and ran through the arguments about loyalty to the girls.

"But if we can save Pam from facing this--"

"Abby'll do it anyway."

"Maybe not if Pam gets to her first. What if I made her swear not to tell the world?" Susan tried.

"And you trust she wouldn't?"

No. Susan did not. Pam wouldn't tell anyone intentionally, but she was so desperate to be relevant that it might just spill out. "The problem," Susan said, making her final argument, "is that she'll find out sooner or later, and when she does, she'll be hurt."