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Authors: Sue Miller
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remembered of himself as a kid. Sometimes, when he rocked Theo at night, or kissed him as he put him down to sleep, he had a sense of loving himself, of healing some part of himself—a sense that he couldn’t have explained clearly to anyone else.
He had rationalized all this, he had told himself that the girls didn’t need him anymore. When they were at his house, they spent hours in their room with the door shut. He could hear them talking, or Emily on the phone. Sometimes they did each other’s hair. Emily often went out, with friends, on dates. Daisy stayed in their room. As he moved around the house, he could see her there reading, or working on something at the desk, or lying on the bed listening to music on her Walkman. If he were honest, he would have to say he didn’t know them anymore. And they didn’t seem to care to know him.
No, it was Theo who was interested in Mark, who wanted to do the activities he planned for the weekends—so that when Mark bought a picture puzzle the girl in the shop said was age appropriate for a three-and-a-half-year-old, when he helped Theo set up an elaborate marble chute with blocks that stretched from the living room into the dining room, when he knelt next to the tub and reached over to soap the little boy’s smooth, soft skin, singing him the bathtub songs he’d sung to the girls, it seemed to him that he was just responding to the situation—that it took nothing away from Emily and Daisy, who had moved on anyway.
But then on that day in May, because both girls turned him down, he took Theo alone out for an afternoon of fishing. After they’d returned, Daisy sulked around the kitchen while he fixed dinner, not so much helping as getting in the way. At one point, when Mark asked her to pass him a colander, he addressed her as Miss Grumps . This was a mistake. She burst into tears. She accused him of loving Theo more than he loved her, she said she didn’t know why he even bothered to have her over.
Mark was so pained for her he couldn’t answer, he just reached out his arms and pulled her in.
It was at this moment, actually, holding his grieving daughter, feeling a pang of deep sorrow at misunderstanding her—ungainly Daisy, so tall she had to bend her head slightly to rest it on his shoulder—that he realized why he was doing it, all of it. That he understood he was trying to earn his way back to Eva’s love through the children. Most of all, through Theo. The sense of recognition he felt, the quick jolt of shame, lasted only a moment. He was holding Daisy. He would do better by her. He did love her.
He loved her and Emily, and he had come to love Theo too. There was nothing false about any of it. It had happened because he loved Eva. He still loved her, and loving the children, all of them, was a way of coming back to that.
He stood in his kitchen and stroked his daughter’s hair and whispered, “Sweetheart, of course I love you”; and what he had moved on to thinking was that he could do it, he could make it happen. He knew he could. He just needed to be slow and patient. He would approach this the way he had approached college, he thought, with the conviction that though it might take him longer than it would take someone else, there was no reason he couldn’t do it. None.
Chapter Four
S OMETIMES WHEN they were younger, Daisy and Emily would talk about which of their fathers seemed more like a real father. This was in the early days in the house in town, on Kearney Street, when it was still being renovated, before they moved into separate rooms. When, as Daisy remembered it, they were still friends. (As Emily remembered it, they were always friends, but in this, of course, she was wrong.) It was before Emily went into seventh grade; it was when they still walked to school together every day, when they still lay down at night in the two beds only a few feet apart and talked on and on, long after their bedtime—talked until Eva came to the foot of the
He had rationalized all this, he had told himself that the girls didn’t need him anymore. When they were at his house, they spent hours in their room with the door shut. He could hear them talking, or Emily on the phone. Sometimes they did each other’s hair. Emily often went out, with friends, on dates. Daisy stayed in their room. As he moved around the house, he could see her there reading, or working on something at the desk, or lying on the bed listening to music on her Walkman. If he were honest, he would have to say he didn’t know them anymore. And they didn’t seem to care to know him.
No, it was Theo who was interested in Mark, who wanted to do the activities he planned for the weekends—so that when Mark bought a picture puzzle the girl in the shop said was age appropriate for a three-and-a-half-year-old, when he helped Theo set up an elaborate marble chute with blocks that stretched from the living room into the dining room, when he knelt next to the tub and reached over to soap the little boy’s smooth, soft skin, singing him the bathtub songs he’d sung to the girls, it seemed to him that he was just responding to the situation—that it took nothing away from Emily and Daisy, who had moved on anyway.
But then on that day in May, because both girls turned him down, he took Theo alone out for an afternoon of fishing. After they’d returned, Daisy sulked around the kitchen while he fixed dinner, not so much helping as getting in the way. At one point, when Mark asked her to pass him a colander, he addressed her as Miss Grumps . This was a mistake. She burst into tears. She accused him of loving Theo more than he loved her, she said she didn’t know why he even bothered to have her over.
Mark was so pained for her he couldn’t answer, he just reached out his arms and pulled her in.
It was at this moment, actually, holding his grieving daughter, feeling a pang of deep sorrow at misunderstanding her—ungainly Daisy, so tall she had to bend her head slightly to rest it on his shoulder—that he realized why he was doing it, all of it. That he understood he was trying to earn his way back to Eva’s love through the children. Most of all, through Theo. The sense of recognition he felt, the quick jolt of shame, lasted only a moment. He was holding Daisy. He would do better by her. He did love her.
He loved her and Emily, and he had come to love Theo too. There was nothing false about any of it. It had happened because he loved Eva. He still loved her, and loving the children, all of them, was a way of coming back to that.
He stood in his kitchen and stroked his daughter’s hair and whispered, “Sweetheart, of course I love you”; and what he had moved on to thinking was that he could do it, he could make it happen. He knew he could. He just needed to be slow and patient. He would approach this the way he had approached college, he thought, with the conviction that though it might take him longer than it would take someone else, there was no reason he couldn’t do it. None.
Chapter Four
S OMETIMES WHEN they were younger, Daisy and Emily would talk about which of their fathers seemed more like a real father. This was in the early days in the house in town, on Kearney Street, when it was still being renovated, before they moved into separate rooms. When, as Daisy remembered it, they were still friends. (As Emily remembered it, they were always friends, but in this, of course, she was wrong.) It was before Emily went into seventh grade; it was when they still walked to school together every day, when they still lay down at night in the two beds only a few feet apart and talked on and on, long after their bedtime—talked until Eva came to the foot of the
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