This Is My Daughter Read online

  “Your hair is wet,” she said accusingly.

  “I’ve been running,” Emma said, placatory.

  Tess looked restlessly around the room. Emma laid the overalls on the floor and reached for Tess’s shirt, but Tess brushed her hand away. She leaned down and picked up her overalls, then, theatrically, flung them back onto the floor. Watching Emma, Tess stamped on them in a rapid staccato.

  Ignoring this, Emma took Tess’s jersey and began to slide it off. “Where’s Tess?” she asked, as the child’s head vanished inside the shirt.

  “Where’s Tess?” Tess repeated the question as she was meant to, but her voice was shrill, unresponsive.

  “Here she is,” said Emma. She pulled the jersey off and smiled when she saw Tess again, as she always did. If she were calm, if everything were familiar, all this would, she hoped, restore Tess’s balance.

  “Here she is,” repeated Tess, her face reappearing. She spoke quickly, unsmiling. She looked restively again around the room.

  “Where’s my panda?” she asked suddenly, accusatory.

  “I don’t know. Around somewhere,” said Emma.

  “I want my panda,” said Tess, her face tense.

  “Well, let’s find him,” Emma said.

  They looked: there was the painted wooden bed with its bright quilt; the bookcase, its upper shelves full of books, its lower shelves jammed with toys. A brown monkey sat in the rocking chair by the bed, but the panda was not on Tess’s pillow.

  “Where is he? Where is my panda?” Tess’s voice was now truculent.

  “Did you take Panda to your daddy’s?” Emma was still calm.

  Tess’s face closed and darkened.

  “My panda is at Daddy’s! I want him!” Her voice was shrill.

  Emma’s mouth tightened. “Your panda is fine, Tess. If he’s at your daddy’s, we can get him tomorrow.” She spoke firmly, trying to quell the rising tide.

  “But I want him now! I want my panda now!” Tess’s voice rose higher. She was determined. She ducked her head and stamped her foot, kicking with her heel at the rug. “I want him!”

  “Stop it,” Emma said warningly. “Stop squalling. Your panda is safe. We’ll call your father, and we’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

  Tess ignored her. Eyes closed, she shook her head wildly. Her voice was excruciating. “I want him! I want my panda!”

  “Tess, stop this at once,” said Emma.

  But Tess was past reason. She squirmed wildly against Emma, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. She stamped her feet in an ecstasy of rage. “I want him! I want him! I want him!” she screamed. That note in Tess’s voice, that high, fine shrillness, needled into Emma’s ear like an alarm.

  “Stop it, Tess,” Emma said, her own voice loud.

  “I want him,” Tess wailed, throwing her head back and forth, her eyes closed. She was in a half-trance, caught up in the current of hysteria.

  “Tess, we’ll get your panda. Now, stop it,” Emma said again. Where was her child? What would return her? It was Warren’s fault, she thought angrily, he had wound Tess up like this, confused and disturbed her. “Stop whining,” she commanded.

  But Tess was lost, struggling in her arms. “I want my panda-a-a,” she wailed. The needling whine was suddenly intolerable. Emma felt a burst of temper flare against the tantrum, against its deep self-indulgence. The wailing maddened her, and Emma grabbed Tess’s hand and smacked the small pink palm, angry at Tess for her hysteria, for her refusal to listen, for her alliance with her father, for her abandonment and betrayal of her mother. At the blow, Tess’s voice rose again, wordless, impossibly shrill, desperate, as though she were being tortured.

  Emma dropped the small damp hand, and Tess, crying, threw herself down, away from her mother. She wept bitterly.

  “Now stop it. Just stop it,” said Emma coldly. She was flushed, her heart pounding. At this moment, her own hand stinging with the blow, she felt merciless, triumphant. She felt she was upholding some stern alliance among parents, adults. Children must realize that there are limits, she thought, self-righteous. Discipline, limits: these are important. Children need them, she thought. She’d done the right thing, to put a stop to Tess’s hysteria.

  Tess paid no attention to Emma. She lay messily on the rug, her limbs flung out, sobbing, heartbroken. Watching her, Emma felt her anger begin to ebb at once. Her conviction turned to remorse. She felt her own chest rise with Tess’s gasps. The small warm body was broken with grief, Emma’s fault. How could she have hit her? Tess was only three, and upset, disturbed by the weekend. Now her mother had hit her. What was Emma thinking of? What sort of discipline was this? Whose side was she on? She had lost her temper, she had struck her child. What had she done? Would Tess ever forgive her? How did you know how to be a mother? How many mistakes were you allowed?

  Emma knelt beside Tess and gently patted her small bare back. It gave off waves of heat. She rubbed it softly, waiting until the sobs had quieted.

  “Come here, my little froglet,” she said, and tugged at Tess’s hand. “I’m sorry I smacked your hand.”

  Tess’s face was red and puffy with misery, her body limp and unresisting. She had no choice but to be comforted by her enemy. It was the final humiliation. Her mother was her captor, her tormentor, her judge, her punisher and her last refuge.

  Emma, now aching with remorse, picked Tess up and kissed her. “I love you,” she said, and holding her close, carried the beloved body to bed. She lay down, Tess against her chest. Emma stroked the hard damp skull, smoothing the fine hair. Tess’s breathing began to quiet, the sobs to subside. Emma, still shocked and ashamed at her own violence, began gently to sing.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,

  Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  The song was a favorite of Emma’s: a mother’s promise to her child, holding fast against the disappointments of the world. And Tess, hearing the familiar words, the slow monotonous melody, began at last to respond. Her limbs turned soft and trusting against Emma’s body, as though now, finally, she belonged there.

  3

  In the spring of Emma’s senior year at Smith, Warren had invited her on a camping trip in New Hampshire. On the morning of the climb, they drove to a rough parking lot at the base of their mountain. There were the others, whom Emma was meeting for the first time: two friends of Warren’s from Williams, Jack and Winston, and their girlfriends. They had all done this before, together. They wore heavy socks and scuffed leather climbing boots, and talked about distributing the load. They each had a pack. Warren loaded Emma’s for her.

  “Is this going to be too much for you?” he asked, when she had shrugged it into place.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  Warren turned to the others. “This is Emma’s first camping trip,” he said. “She wanted to know if she could take a taxi to the top and meet us there.”

  The others laughed, looking at Emma. Emma laughed too, though she was hurt: she loved climbing, and had said nothing of the sort.

  All day they trudged upward in a ragged cheerful line. They wore layers of clothing, which they peeled off as the temperature around them rose, as their own bodies warmed. Flannel shirts and windbreakers were tied around waists as they stripped down to T-shirts and worn jeans. The air was pure and fresh, the sky clear and blue, with a few high muscular white clouds.

  They climbed the narrow trails steadily, first winding through the silent woods, past the dim ranks of gray standing trunks. There was no wind, no sound, down there, except the rustle of their footsteps through the dry leaves. They walked single file, Warren and Emma last. Early in the climb, when they were still down in the woods, Warren called out to Emma, loudly, for the others to hear, “I know you’re tired, honey, but there just isn’t an escalator. Maybe you shouldn’t have worn high heels.” Everyone laughed.

  When the path broke finally out of the sheltering trees, and began to rise diagonally up the broad upper slopes, Warren said, in an encoura
ging tone, “Just a few more minutes and we’ll be at the hotel. Then you can have a manicure. You can have two manicures, honey.” Again everyone laughed, more openly now. It seemed that this was the way Emma was to be known. As Warren went on, the others began to flash brief sidelong glances at her as they laughed. She smiled back.

  In the late afternoon they reached an open rocky field below the summit. This was a slanting plateau of granite, drifted with springy greenish brown moss, crumbly lichen. The ledges were scored with longitudinal seams, deep narrow cracks. The seams held pockets of moss, and in the widest ones there were low-growing blueberry bushes. Now, in the early spring, these were scraggly, nearly bare, with only a few tattered reddish brown leaves left from the year before.

  They set up camp and gathered firewood. There was still time before dark to climb to the summit for the sunset. “We’re going to climb up to the top, honey,” Warren said, “you stay here and watch TV.” When Warren said this, Winston grinned openly, straight at Emma. His girlfriend gave a stifled snort of laughter.

  It felt suddenly like a slap. Emma turned to Warren. “Warren, why do you keep saying that? I’m not complaining. I don’t ever complain. What are you talking about?”

  At once Warren’s arm swooped around her, pulling her very close and swiveling her away from the others. He walked her off with him like a doll, tucked under his arm.

  “Now, Emma,” he said, his voice low, warm and tender. He was nearly whispering. “Now, Emma,” he said, “don’t be so sensitive.” He stopped and nuzzled at her. He whispered, “Don’t be so sensitive. Okay? This is just teasing. These are my friends, Em. Don’t get so upset.” He smiled at her, and put his hand up to her cheek. “Okay?”

  His gaze was deep, kind. His arm was close around her. He rubbed her cheek gently. Emma nodded.

  “Okay,” she whispered, ashamed. “Sorry.”

  Warren smiled forgivingly, and shook his head. “You just seem foolish, when you act like that. I don’t want my friends to think you’re foolish.” He spoke quietly. His hand curved around her jaw and stroked it. He patted her kindly and waited.

  Emma nodded again.

  The two of them turned back to the others. Everyone avoided their eyes.

  They climbed the last steep gravelly stretch to the open sloping rock at the top. There they sat on huge gray granite boulders and watched the sun melt secretly down into the inky ridges. Above them was only sky, below them only mountains. They stood silently, arms folded, looking. There was little to say, up here. They were surrounded by space, light, distance. The sky went on and on, above them and around them. I’m free, I’m in the sky now, Emma thought exuberantly.

  When the sun had entirely subsided, and the light was dissolving around them into dusk, they scrambled back down, climbing into night. They reached their camp just as the light was gone, and lit the fire. For dinner they ate thick scrambled eggs, smoky toasted bread, apples. Afterwards they sat around the fire, its small flames shifting and flickering. The fire held them connected, mesmerized, by its brilliance. Jack passed around a joint, and the sweet musky smell of marijuana began to lace the clear air. Emma took it without drawing on it and gave it to Warren; he too passed it on.

  “You don’t want any?” she asked.

  “Puts me to sleep,” he said.

  Emma was falling in love with Warren, and every coincidence strengthened the feeling of magical alliance she felt. They both liked Italy better than France, they both liked the Beatles better than the Stones, and they both hated sushi.

  Emma looked at him, smiling, holding his attention until he said, “You too?”

  She nodded.

  Warren grinned, and slowly shook his head, holding her in his bright blue gaze. “Amazing,” he said. “Fate.”

  It was another reason for their ordained couplehood, another tiny part clicking ingeniously into place. It seemed to Emma as though Warren had some secret power, some connection to large mysterious forces. She trusted him.

  Warren put his arm around her. He brought out a flask, and he and Emma took tiny flaming swallows of whiskey. This seemed more grownup to Emma, more dignified, than grass. They sat on the sloping rock, watching the small fierce fire, surrounded by the great ocean of darkness. Around them were the black wooded mountains, rising into the huge sky. Above them were the brilliant reaches of the universe, the darkness giddy with motionless fireworks. There they were in the midst of it, incalculably fortunate. There they were with their tents, their down sleeping bags, their canteens. They could flourish here, improbably, in this wild endless dark among the mountains: it seemed to Emma that there was nothing they could not do. Sitting next to Warren, she felt that they were partners. She thought that she was experiencing one of the great moments.

  Warren put his arm around her and kissed her ear. “Little Funny Face,” he said. The feel of his arm around her was wonderful. She felt valuable; he held her very close. “Funny Face,” he repeated, nuzzling her ear.

  Later, they struggled clumsily into their tents. All day long these had seemed very large in the knapsacks, bumping against their backs, but now, unfolded, set up, they seemed impossibly small. Warren and Emma clambered inside, zipped up their tent against the night, and began awkwardly to undress. They crouched in the tiny triangular space, their elbows and knees suddenly troublesome. They inched down into the double sleeping bag and at last clasped each other. Warren put his mouth to her ear.

  “Funny Face,” he whispered, “I love you.” He spoke deep into her inner ear. He began to move his hand along her thigh, but Emma tensed, thinking of the other tents flanking theirs.

  “Won’t they hear us?” she asked.

  Warren pulled back from her. “Let’s give them something to hear,” he said, and began to grunt like a pig, a throaty, greedy, powerful thunder. Emma began to laugh, and the more she laughed the more Warren grunted, his arms locked tightly around her.

  That kind of laughter was like falling, giving up, it was like sex, and throughout it she felt Warren’s arms locked tightly around her. As Emma rocked, helpless, giddy at his vulgar snortings, she was aware of the mysterious vastness of the night, the feeling of surrendering into this laughter, the feeling of both giving up and being held, safe. Warren’s arms were closed around her. It felt as though he would hold her like this forever, just like this, all the length of her body, locked into his embrace, forever.

  The laughing stopped and their bodies quieted, but Warren’s arms didn’t loosen. He began to kiss her, pressing himself against her, hard, as though he were driven to this, as though she were to be punished by his passion.

  “I love you,” he whispered, deep into the center of her, “I love you.” He said her name over and over, as though it were a secret word of his, as though it meant something to him that was unknown to her. Warren’s passion seemed grand, tempestuous, authoritative. His hold around her was fierce, fanatical. She felt herself taken over by him: it was exhilarating, faintly frightening. It felt as though she had been seized by a madman, a murderer, a predator. She felt herself giving way, she felt Warren taking charge of her. She trusted him, she had no choice, she thought, that wild ferocious grip.

  They were married the following year. Emma was young, only twenty-two, but she couldn’t think of a reason to wait. And Warren was determined. “You need me, Funny Face,” he told her. He was absolutely sure of himself, of her. It felt safe, to Emma, this giving of herself into his charge: he loved her. He knew her needs, her weaknesses, he forgave them.

  For their honeymoon, Warren’s parents gave them a trip to Italy. Warren had taken a course in the history of architecture, and that year he was in love with Palladio as well as Emma. They went to the Veneto to see Palladio’s work. They stayed at the Cipriani, in the old part of Asolo. The hotel was on a terraced hillside, in two seventeenth-century buildings, set at right angles to each other. One building was parallel to the street behind them; the other stretched out to the hillside. In the angle between was a small e
xuberant garden, with tables and an awning. Beyond it the hill dropped off sharply.

  Below the hotel, in descending layers, were houses, with trees and vegetable plots crammed into corners. The steepness of the slope and the closeness of the terracing made for an odd combination of privacy and congestion. Trees whose roots and trunks stood on one level spread their limbs and foliage on the next. Neighbors who could not see each other’s faces heard every cough, every whisper, in each other’s bedrooms.

  Warren and Emma stayed in the hotel annex, parallel to the street and overlooking the garden. Their room was large, oddly shaped, and disappointingly dark. There were windows on only one side of the room, and they were small. At shoulder height, they looked out directly into the trees. The leaves gave the light an aqueous cast, and the darkness and the high windows gave the room a faintly subterranean feeling. It made Emma claustrophobic.

  “This is weird,” Emma said, walking to a window. “It feels as though we’re underwater. We should have on diving suits.”

  “You’re right,” Warren said. “I’ll call Room Service and ask for some. How do you say ‘diving suits’ in Italian, do you think?”

  “Robi di diva,” Emma said.

  “That sounds like what an opera singer would wear,” Warren said. “I’ll just say it in English. I’m sure they have this request all the time.”

  Emma stood at the window, her arms crossed on the sill, and leaned her head out. It was early summer, and the leaves were still pale, tender and translucent. Later in the season the trees would darken the window entirely, but now the narrow leaves merely filtered the greenish light into the room. One window looked out beyond the branches, and from it the view extended through the clear air to the facing hillside. This was wilder than their own, without terraces or other buildings. The hill was very steep, and covered in long grass that shifted silkily as the winds moved across it. The grasses there were starred with flowers. A villa, shuttered, stood alone at the top of it. No road led to the house, and it looked as though it existed in a different moment, a different place.