The Most Dangerous Thing - Laura Lippman [77]
“How do you feel about being an aunt?” she asks Gwen, hopeful that she will turn the question back to Tally, show a smidgen of empathy for her mother, or at least acknowledge that Tally is human, that she did not come into existence solely to produce Gwen, feed her, and clothe her.
“We never see them,” Gwen says. “So it’s hard to see how it will change much of anything around here. Why is that? Why don’t they visit? Even when they were dating, he never came home.”
“Well, he lives so far away—”
Her daughter can call bullshit with a glance.
“It’s how things are, Gwen. Sons tend to be absorbed by their wives’ families.”
“They only got married three months ago.” Tally remembers it well. Outdoors, in the Boulder backyard of the in-laws, Miller’s studious little wife wearing a wreath of flowers in her hair, Gwen staring raptly at the young couple exchanging their vows. Too raptly, for Tally’s taste. Gwen was seeing only the dress, the crown of flowers, the attention riveted on the bride.
“You’ll see. Miller’s just doing what most boys do, disappearing into his wife’s family. But daughters are for life.”
“What about Fee?”
“She’s still in college. I don’t expect Fee to partner off for a long time. Miller’s the odd duck, marrying young, having a baby right away.” But Tally wonders if Gwen is challenging her to gossip about Fee, to include her in the confidential discussions she and Clem have had about their oldest daughter.
“Huh.”
“But when you marry—”
“I’m never going to marry.” The viciousness of Gwen’s tone almost literally knocks Tally off balance. This is sincere revulsion, not the cool mockery she has been practicing. Tally finds herself placing her right palm on the edge of the stainless steel sink, steadying herself. She hates this sink, cold and industrial. Sinks should be porcelain, like the one in her parents’ home. Her parents’ home, with its pantry and maid’s room off the kitchen, a life she wanted no part of. Why? Why had she traded it for something even lesser? What was she thinking?
Perhaps Gwen realizes she has crossed a line because she softens her tone slightly. “I mean, I’m not going to marry young, or at least not have children young, not until I’m at least thirty. I want to have a career first.”
Her attempt at tact is only more hurtful. Gwen’s words hang in the kitchen, an utterly polite fuck-you to her mother. Why not just say: Upon pain of death, I am not going to be you. Tally wouldn’t mind. Tally doesn’t want to be Tally most days.
But if Tally hadn’t been Tally, then there would be no Miller, no Fee, no Gwen, no in utero grandchild. You can’t hate me for the crime of having you, Tally yearns to tell her daughter. Only it’s not hate, it’s disdain and pity, so much harder to stomach. Gwen, her plaid skirt twitching on her hips, is like some beautiful alien in a science fiction film, briefly looking back in disgust at the primordial ooze from which she has emerged. She wants to believe that she is the author of her own life, that she can take whatever form she chooses and it will have nothing to do with Tally. She needs to believe this, at least for a while. Tally understands, absolutely. She felt exactly the same way at Gwen’s age. I’ll be anyone but you.
Why does understanding only make it feel worse? Forgetting Clem’s plans, she takes the Burgundy from the ice bucket, opens it, and pours herself a healthy slug of wine. Let the celebration begin.
Chapter Twenty-three
Father Andrew is coming to tea. The invitation occurs to Doris just like that, when she stops by his office after altar guild to