Eve's Daughters (64 page)

“Do you really have to go away again, Daddy?”

“Yes, Amy. You know that I do.”

“But why?”

“I have to go to work tomorrow morning. And I work in Chicago now.”

“Will you please,
please
come to the teddy bear picnic at my school, Daddy?”

“That depends. When is it, Melissa?”

“I think it’s Fursday.”

Jeff laughed. Suzanne had missed the sound of his laughter. She remembered how freely he had laughed in the campus coffee shop the day they’d first met. It had been a long time since they’d laughed together that way.

“That’s very funny, Melissa,” he said. “You made a joke—a teddy bear picnic on
Furs
day!”

“I did?” She giggled helplessly and Suzanne knew Jeff was tickling her. “So will you come, Daddy?”

Suzanne couldn’t bear to hear his answer. She stood and poured another cup of coffee into her great-grandmother’s crying cup. She had been drinking from it lately. It soothed her to feel connected with all the women who had lived and loved before her, Eve’s daughters, as her great-grandmother had
once called them. As she sipped, she wandered to the doorway to watch Jeff and the girls. He sat on the loveseat with his daughters nestled on his lap. He still wore his suit from work.

For some reason, the sight of him in a suit and tie jolted her, as if she’d discovered Bradley Wallace in the living room instead of Jeff.“
A suit is an overpriced straitjacket. A tie is a silk noose
,” Jeff had once told Bradley. Where had that wild, impertinent hippie gone? When Suzanne searched for him beneath the suave exterior, she was saddened by what she saw. He’d been domesticated, tamed . . . like a wolf chained to a doghouse. And he’d first donned a suit and tie for her sake. If only there was some way to cut those chains and set him free.

They had started out their marriage with a willingness to sacrifice for each other, but somewhere along the way, they had started living for themselves. Was that when their marriage had been thrown off-center like flawed pottery on a wheel? “
It isn’t too late to put the pieces of your marriage back together
,” Grandma Emma had said. “
But it won’t be the same marriage it was before. It shouldn’t be. That pattern was flawed. . . .
”

“Jeff? Can we talk for a minute?” she said suddenly.

He looked up, startled to see her standing in the doorway. “Girls, go get ready for bed,” he said. “I’ll come upstairs to tuck you in before I go.” Suzanne heard the wariness in his voice.

As they slid off his lap and scampered upstairs, Suzanne retreated to the kitchen. She felt shaky all of a sudden, so she sat at the kitchen table again and took a sip of coffee from the crying cup, as if for strength. Jeff followed her as far as the door and leaned against the frame, waiting for her to speak first.

“I want you to know that I forgive you for not consulting me before you made the decision to move,” she said.

Jeff tensed, frowning, as if suspicious of her motives. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said. I forgive you. I don’t want to hang on to all this bitterness anymore. It’s tearing me up inside. I’m tired of fighting about everything from the antique desk to visiting rights. I want to discuss things like two adults again and see if we can’t resolve the matter of joint custody in a way that’s fair for all of us. I don’t want to deprive the girls of their father.”

“Thanks . . . I’d like that too.” He looked relieved but still wary. Suddenly Suzanne’s heart was too full to talk about visitation rights. It seemed as though all of the people who had lived and loved before her and Jeff had crowded into the room—Louise and Friedrich, Emma and Patrick, Grace and Stephen. They were watching her, rooting for her, waiting for her to make the right decision. But what was the right thing to do?

“You know,” she began, “for the past few weeks Grandma Emma has been telling me stories about her life and about her mother’s life. My great-grandmother used to play the
Someday
game when she lived in Germany. We did that before we were married, remember, Jeff? Your dream was to be a great artist. Where did that dream go? Do you ever think about it anymore?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “No, I don’t. What would be the point of games? I have a family to support.”

“But we don’t need all of this—expensive cars, a huge house, maid service. Lately I’ve been wondering if we bought all this stuff just to prove to my father that you could be a success.”

Jeff’s anger was instantaneous, like striking a match. “What kind of screwed-up mind games are you playing, Suzanne? If you’re trying to imply that I—”

“Wait, don’t get mad . . . just listen. We loved each other when we had nothing. We were so poor when we were first married it was laughable. But we were so much in love, Jeff. Remember? All we had was a bed, so we spent every spare moment in it. Now we have all of this stuff—and we’ve lost each other. It’s not a fair trade. And somewhere along the way we lost God. Remember when you first took me to the art museums in New York? We were going to tell the world about Christ through our art.” She looked down at the crying cup, fighting her tears. She traced the figure of the little girl on the front.

“I’ve been listening to all these stories—my mother’s, my grandmother’s, my great-grandmother’s—and I realized that the love we once had is much too precious to let it slip away . . . and faith in God is even more precious.” She looked up, waiting for Jeffs reaction.

“So . . . go on. . . .”

“I could give up my job for you and move to Chicago. I could make all the sacrifices you’re asking me to make . . . but not if we’re only going to rebuild the same empty lives we have here—both of us working night and day, never talking. Is that what you really want us to do?”

“No . . . but what’s the alternative?”

“What if we went back to the way it was when we were first married?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You mean live in a firetrap apartment and drive a beat-up Volkswagen?”

“Yes, exactly! You gave up your dream of being an artist to help me go to graduate school. Now I’d like to repay you. We could make the garage into your studio. You wouldn’t have to quit advertising cold turkey. You could do freelance work. But at least you’d have a chance to paint again. You’re so gifted, Jeff.”

He turned away, paced a few steps, then turned back. “I don’t think you realize what it would mean to give all this up.”

“Probably not. But I wonder if we really like the people we’ve become, or if we just like the income and the life-style. I have choices and opportunities that my great-grandmother Louise never had. But I’ve lost some of the good things she had—things like relationships. Other people raise my kids, my husband is a stranger, I don’t have time for friends, I don’t know God anymore. I’ve gained a sense of myself, but I’ve lost a sense of my importance to other people. We’ve become islands, Jeff, isolated in the busy rush and flow of life. Our marriage slowly went under, and we didn’t even know it. So did our faith. God is no longer an important part of our life. What happened to Him? What happened to proclaiming Christ in our work? I’m not doing that in my work, and I don’t think you are either. Remember how compromised you felt when you first took an advertising job? You said you were prostituting yourself.”

“That was a long time ago. You can’t seriously be asking me to be poor again? What about the girls?”

“It won’t be any worse for them to be poor than to be shuttled back and forth between two homes. How well-off will they be living on my salary and child support? How well can you afford to live in Chicago after deducting support payments and commuting to see them? Besides, I don’t think we’ll be poor for very long. I believe in you. You’re a talented artist, Jeff. And there are so many other things you could do. A few years ago, the Art Institute asked you to teach part time, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. I didn’t have time to teach.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then the sexy grin she had once loved so much danced briefly across his face. “Can’t I at least keep my BMW?”

Suzanne smiled. “Not with the enormous car payments we’re making! Besides, you won’t need to commute if you have your own studio at home.”

Jeff grew thoughtful again. “This is an awful lot to hit me with, Suzanne. I have a plane to catch.”

“I know. And you’re probably going to get back to Chicago and decide that this was just something I cooked up to get my own way. But it isn’t. I’ve been hearing about the sins of my mothers and learning a lot from their lives. We owe it to Patrick and Grandma Emma to make our marriage work.”

“Who?”

“I don’t have time to explain. But will you at least think about what I said? We can talk about it some more when you come home in two weeks.”

Jeff nodded and turned away. Suzanne heard him trudging upstairs to say good-bye to the girls. He came down a few minutes later, briefcase in hand, and leaned against the kitchen doorframe again.

“Hey, Irish . . .” He hadn’t called her that in ages. “I . . . uh . . . I really am sorry for not talking it over with you before I took the job. It was a stupid, selfish thing to do. I can’t even imagine why I did it . . . I was just . . . well, I was just thinking of myself.” A horn tooted outside. “My cab is here. I’ll be back at the end of the month. But I’ll be thinking about everything you said in the meantime.” He turned to go.

“Jeff?”

“Yeah?”

“You were right all along, you know . . . I really am Irish.”

Emma stared out of the window at Birch Grove without really seeing the beautifully landscaped lawns, the beds of flowering annuals and perennials. She hadn’t heard from Grace since Katie’s funeral two days ago. Her silence was more painful to bear than any harsh words or accusations she might have hurled at her. Emma could have more easily borne those. She shuddered every time she recalled the shock and anger on her daughter’s face. How devastated Grace must have been to learn that the two people she loved and trusted the most had lied to her to cover their own wrongdoing. Patrick had been right when he described the destructive consequences of sin.

When Emma heard a knock on her door, she wasn’t sure if she should answer it. She had been avoiding all the group activities at Birch Grove for two days, too wrung out and depressed to put on a cheerful face for everyone. This was probably one of her new friends at the door now, coming to inquire about her. But when Emma opened it, she faced her daughter.

Grace didn’t say a word. She simply opened her arms to Emma, then held her tightly.

“I’m sorry, Gracie . . . I’m so very, very sorry,” Emma said when she could speak.

“I know.”

“Come inside.”

“I can’t stay long. I just wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry. . . .”

“For what, Gracie? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“For judging you and Father O’Du—you and my father.”

“No, Gracie. Your judgment was right. We did a terrible, terrible thing. Can you ever forgive me for it . . . and for lying to you all these years?”

“Of course I forgive you.”

Emma covered her face and wept. Gracie had been harmed the most by Emma’s sin. If Grace could forgive her, then maybe God could forgive her too. Hadn’t Papa said that he and their heavenly Father would both be waiting with open arms for her return?

“There was never any question of forgiving you, Mother,” Grace said as she gathered Emma into her arms again. “I was shocked and hurt and angry at first, but Sue helped me sort through it all. When you shared your story and Grandma Louise’s story, Sue and I both did a lot of thinking. And you may have saved Sue’s marriage. She told me she and Jeff are talking again.”

“Then it was worth digging up all those painful memories. It was worth it all.”

“I came to ask if you have this weekend free. Sue and I would like to take you to Bremenville to visit your sister Vera.”

“Vera? Oh my. I don’t think she’d want to see me.”

“Suzanne and I have been to Bremenville already, Mother. We talked to Aunt Vera and to Karl Bauer’s adopted son. That’s how we began to suspect that Karl wasn’t my father. We promised Aunt Vera that we’d bring you back for a visit. She’s eager to see you.”

“Do you really think it would be a good idea . . . for me to go back there?”

“I do. It will be like closing the circle. But it has to be this weekend.” Grace wore a bemused grin. “Starting Monday I’ll be a working woman.”

“Working!”

“I’m the new director of the crisis pregnancy center.”

“Oh, Gracie! Oh, I’m so glad! Your father would be proud of you!”

“We’ve been looking for a name for the center, and I’m on my way to ask the board to consider naming it after Father O’Duggan.”

“He’d be honored . . . but he wouldn’t want it to bear his name. He’d want it to bear yours. . . . He would want it to be known as a house of grace.”

She smiled. “Grace House. I like that even better.”

Grace awoke in the motel room in Bremenville early Saturday morning. Suzanne was still asleep in the bed opposite hers. So much had changed in Grace’s life since their last trip here to Bremenville, when she had awakened in this same room to the chilling knowledge that she might be illegitimate. Somehow, accepting the truth hadn’t been nearly as painful as she had thought it would be. The important thing was that she had finally found the key to unlocking the door between her mother and God. Now if only Emma would walk through that door.

Coming back to Bremenville had drawn all three women closer together. In the car on the way here, Suzanne had brandished a file folder. “I’ve been saving this surprise for today. After hearing all your stories, I wanted to learn more about Black Jack and O’Brien. So I did some investigating. . . .”

“No, please don’t tell me,” Grace begged. “I loved those two characters. I don’t want to know anything bad about them.”

“But this is good news.”

“Tell us, then,” Emma said. Her eyes shone with excitement.

“Well, according to my source in Las Vegas, two former small-time gangsters once operated a legitimate, licensed casino known as ‘The Black Jack Lounge.’ It never amounted to much compared to the big-name places, but as the city grew, the property it sat on slowly increased in value. To make a long story short, twenty years after they bought the place,
Fergus
O’Brien and
John
‘Black Jack’
Doyle
sold it for a cool four million dollars and retired to their private yacht in the Bahamas!”