Favourite Daughter

Back inside, I try to find my husband. I fight the urge to ask David about Elizabeth’s accusation. Maybe I’ll just ask him for a hug, for some reassurance about the ceremony this afternoon. I’ll demand that he make sure Elizabeth James does not attend. That’s the first step.

“David, we need to talk. The ceremony tonight has me all out of sorts. Let’s hug.” I stand near the front door and hold my arms out to him.

“You are unbelievable,” he says as he walks past me and out the door.

“Wait, we need to talk,” I scream after him, but he can’t hear me over the chain saws. It’s fine. If he had stopped, hugged me, I might have asked him if he is actually Mary’s biological father. I’m certain it isn’t true. What kind of man would cheat as a newlywed? Not David, not my David. As I watch chunks of palm tree drop to the ground, my stomach turns.

Of course it’s true.

I take a cleansing breath and walk to the kitchen. It’s fine that he ran out the door. He’s angry right now and he wouldn’t be fun to talk to about this newly realized betrayal. I will stick to my plan, reunite our family. And then we will have the important chat, once we’re settled in our new home.

I wonder if Betsy is home. If she passes through the kitchen, I’m ready to smother her with love. I walk to my desk and glance above my laptop at the invitation pinned to the corkboard:

JOIN US FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE LIFE OF MARY HARRIS

BELOVED DAUGHTER OF DAVID AND JANE HARRIS

BELOVED SISTER OF BETSY HARRIS

BELOVED GRANDDAUGHTER OF DAVID AND ROSEMARY HARRIS

5:00 P.M. AT THE COVE PRIVATE BEACH

PLEASE DRESS IN THE COLORS OF THE SUNSET

MONDAY, MAY 20TH

RSVP: KYLIE DORN

Most of the details of today’s event were handled by David’s assistant, Kylie Dorn, a spunky, sunny young woman with full, pouty lips and a waist to breast ratio like Barbie’s. I know she’s mostly man-made, but the guys don’t seem to mind. She draws the appreciation of all men she comes into contact with, much like I do. We have a lot in common.

I briefly wonder if she’ll be in attendance this evening, full lips pouting even more, breasts wrapped in the tight black fabric of feigned mourning. Oh, scratch that. The invitation directs us to wear the colors of the sunset. How cute. Of course she’ll be there.

Stupid Elizabeth is likely on her way back to LA by now. She’s afraid of me, and she should be. Good riddance.

I hear footsteps in the hall. Betsy walks into the kitchen wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and a frown. Her nose piercing taunts me, sparkles, challenging me to say something about it.

I swallow. “Good morning. Can I get you breakfast?”

Betsy’s face scrunches together with disgust as if she’s having an alien encounter. She wasn’t expecting me to be here. I enjoy surprising my daughters. It keeps them off balance.

She says, “No. I don’t eat breakfast. I thought you knew that by now.”

She’s so surly. Perhaps I should give her something to think about at school today, a little tidbit of juicy information for her to ponder during art class. “Did you know your father is Mary’s biological dad?” I ask.

Betsy’s disdain face has been replaced by something else. Her mouth drops open. She didn’t know.

“What are you talking about? Have you been drinking? Popping pills?” She throws her hands on her hips, ready to argue with me.

“No, of course not. I had coffee with Mary’s birth mother, you remember Elizabeth? Mary told you all about her.”

“So, that’s old news. You always told Mary she was adopted. I still don’t know why you made such a big deal about her wanting to meet her birth mom.” Betsy shakes her head.

She’s trying to act like this revelation doesn’t matter, that it isn’t true, but I can see the stress in her clenched jaw, her rigid posture.

“It is a big deal. All of it.” I know my voice is cold, hard.

Betsy takes a step back. “You’re lying about Dad, aren’t you?”

I fight a surprise burst of emotion threatening to choke my voice. “No, I’m not. We were married when he, well...” I cover my face with my hands, push tears from my eyes.

Betsy leans against the counter, deciding what to think.

I mumble, “I’m devastated.”

“Did Dad tell you this is true?” she asks.

“No.” I sob. “Haven’t talked to him yet. But it’s true. Your dad is a liar. I’m sorry.” I’ve needed a little leverage, something to force a space between them. I’ve found it.

“I have to go to school. I need to get out of here. It’s all screwed up, everything. I mean, when are you going to get rid of Cash’s dog bowl?” She points at the white porcelain bowl tucked under the kitchen island. The words—Love. Eat. Play. Cash.—are glazed in black block lettering on the side of the bowl.

Obvious change of subject, darling daughter, but fine, I’ll play. “Oh, does it bother you?”

“Kinda, yeah. He died six months ago.” Betsy yanks open the refrigerator, hiding her tears.

As if I didn’t know when he died. But I need to be patient and kind with her. It’s a hard day, the anniversary of Mary’s death. Learning your dad has cheated, fathered a baby who became your sister. It’s a lot. I remind myself I need to smother her with warmth and cheer and support. Besides, she’ll love the new house and we’ll just put all this nastiness behind us.

I say, “I can put the bowl away if it bothers you.” I flash her a big, fake beaming smile. My jeans are sagging and I yank them up on my waist.

Betsy closes the refrigerator. She holds a container of pomegranate seeds, a healthy choice. I’m proud. I always worry about her weight ballooning up. “You know what? It does. It bothers me. And that’s not the only thing wrong. I cannot believe I have to go celebrate Mary’s death today, like I don’t think about her, miss her, every single minute.”

I try to catch her arm but she darts past me, stopping at the door to the kitchen, watching me.

Tears fill my eyes, running down my cheeks. “I miss Mary every minute, too. That’s why I care about you so much. You’re my only focus now. We’ll sit together at the ceremony, I’ll be there for you, Betsy. You can lean on me.”

My tears match Betsy’s. Poor girl. I’m the only parent she needs. I hope she confronts David for me. That would be much more satisfying. He’d be crushed by the disappointment. It’s so important to him to be the hero, Betsy’s perfect dad. Not anymore. Not ever again, it seems.

She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I can’t cry anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t listen to you and your lies. I have to go.” She’s gone, out the door before I can remind her to be home in time for the ceremony. I know she heard me, though. She heard the truth about her philandering father.

A text pops up on my phone: I’m here.

I glance at the time and can’t believe it’s already 10:45 a.m. Such a busy morning. I grab my purse and hustle through the almost tree-free courtyard and out to the street. Sam, my driver of sorts, jumps out of the front seat and opens the passenger door behind the driver’s seat.

His hair is brown and unruly. Always. As if he doesn’t own a comb. “Hey, Mrs. H.”

“Hi, Sam. I took your suggestion and finally did something nice for myself. I had a manicurist come by the house. What do you think?” I flutter the fingers of my right hand.

“Glad you did something nice for you for a change, instead of just taking care of everybody else like you tell me you do. You know, when you’re not sad.”