“Father. Yes. I know. You can stop right there.”
“I wish I could. I wish I’d never had to begin in the first place. But when I see quite unnecessary mismanagement, I feel I must do something about it.”
“Why? Stella’s not so bad. She muddles through, and that’s about all you can expect of anyone.”
“I don’t agree,” Mrs. Fielding said grimly. “In fact, we don’t seem to be agreeing on anything this morning. I don’t understand what the trouble is. I feel quite the same as usual — or did, until this absurd business of a dream came up.”
“It’s not absurd.”
“Isn’t it? Well, I won’t argue.” Mrs. Fielding leaned forward stiffly and put her empty cup on the coffee table. Jim had made the table himself, of teakwood and ivory-colored ceramic tile. “I don’t know why you won’t talk to me freely anymore, Daisy.”
“I’m growing up, perhaps that’s the reason.”
“Growing up? Or just growing away?”
“They go together.”
“Yes, I suppose they do, but...”
“Maybe you don’t want me to grow up.”
“What nonsense. Of course I do.”
“Sometimes I think you’re not even sorry I can’t have a child, because if I had a child, it would show I was no longer one myself.” Daisy paused, biting her lower lip. “No, no, I don’t really mean that. I’m sorry, it just came out. I don’t mean it.”
Mrs. Fielding had turned pale, and her hands were clenched in her lap. “I won’t accept your apology. It was a stupid and cruel remark. But at least I realize now what the trouble is. You’ve started thinking about it again, perhaps even hoping.”
“No,” Daisy said. “Not hoping.”
“When are you going to accept the inevitable, Daisy? I thought you’d become adjusted by this time. You’ve known about it for five whole years.”
“Yes.”
“The specialist in Los Angeles made it very clear.”
“Yes.” Daisy didn’t remember how long ago it was, or the month or the week. She only remembered the day itself, beginning the first thing in the morning when she was so ill. Then, afterward, the phone call to a friend of hers who worked at a local medical clinic: “Eleanor? It’s Daisy Harker. You’ll never guess, never. I’m so happy I could burst. I think I’m pregnant. I’m almost sure I am. Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve been sick as a dog all morning and yet so happy, if you know what I mean. Listen, I know there are all sorts of obstetricians in town, but I want you to recommend the very best in the whole country, the very, very best specialist...”
She remembered the trip down to Los Angeles, with her mother driving. She’d felt so ecstatic and alive, seeing everything in a fresh new light, watching, noticing things, as if she were preparing herself to point out all the wonders of the world to her child. Later the specialist spoke quite bluntly: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Harker. I detect no signs of pregnancy...”
This was all Daisy could bear to hear. She’d broken down then, and cried and carried on so much that the doctor made the rest of his report to Mrs. Fielding, and she had told Daisy: there were to be no children ever.
Mrs. Fielding had talked nearly all the way home while Daisy watched the dreary landscape (where were the green hills?) and the slate-gray sea (had it ever been blue?) and the barren dunes (barren, barren, barren). It wasn’t the end of the world, Mrs. Fielding had said, count blessings, look at silver linings. But Mrs. Fielding herself was so disturbed she couldn’t go on driving. She was forced to stop at a little café by the sea, and the two women had sat for a long time facing each other across a greasy, crumb-covered table. Mrs. Fielding kept right on talking, raising her voice against the crash of waves on pilings and the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.
Now, five years later, she was still using some of the same words. “Count your blessings, Daisy. You’re secure and comfortable, you’re in good health, surely you have the world’s nicest husband.”
“Yes,” Daisy said. “Yes.” She thought of the tombstone in her dream, and the date of her death, December 2, 1955. Four years ago, not five. And the trip to see the specialist must have taken place in the spring, not in December, because the hills had been green. There was no connection between the day of the trip and what Daisy now capitalized in her mind as The Day.
“Also,” Mrs. Fielding continued, “you should be hearing from one of the adoption agencies any day now — you’ve been on the list for some time. Perhaps you should have applied sooner than last year, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Look on the bright side. One of these days you’ll have a baby, and you’ll love it just as much as you would your own, and so will Jim. You don’t realize sometimes how lucky you are simply to have Jim. When I think of what some women have to put up with in their marriages...”
Meaning herself, Daisy thought.
“...you are a lucky, lucky girl, Daisy.”
“Yes.”
“I think the main trouble with you is that you haven’t enough to do. You’ve let so many of your activities slide lately. Why did you drop your course in Russian literature?”
“I couldn’t keep the names straight.”
“And the mosaic you were making...”
“I have no talent.”
As if to demonstrate that there was at least some talent around the house, Stella burst into song while she washed the breakfast dishes.
Mrs. Fielding went over and closed the kitchen door, not too subtly. “It’s time you started a new activity, one that will absorb you. Why don’t you come with me to the Drama Club luncheon this noon? Someday you might even want to try out for one of our plays.”
“I doubt that very—”
“There’s absolutely nothing to acting. You just do what the director tells you. They’re having a very interesting speaker at the luncheon. It would be a lot better for you to go out than to sit here brooding because you dreamed somebody killed you.”
Daisy leaned forward suddenly in her chair, pushed the dog’s paw off her lap, and got up. “What did you say?”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Say it again.”
“I see no reason to...” Mrs. Fielding paused, flushed with annoyance. “Well, all right. Anything to humor you. I simply stated that I thought it would be better for you to come with me to the luncheon than to sit here brooding because you had a bad dream.”
“I don’t think that’s quite accurate.”
“It’s as close as I can remember.”
“You said, ‘because I dreamed somebody killed me.’” There was a brief silence. “Didn’t you?”
“I may have.” Mrs. Fielding’s annoyance was turning into something deeper. “Why fuss about a little difference in words?”
Not a little difference, Daisy thought. An enormous one. “I died” had become “someone killed me.”
She began to pace up and down the room again, followed by the reproachful eyes of the dog and the disapproving eyes of her mother. Twenty-two steps up, twenty-two steps down. After a while the dog started walking with her, heeling, as if they were out for a stroll together.
We were walking along the beach below the cemetery, Prince and I, and suddenly Prince disappeared up the cliff. I could hear him howling. I whistled for him, but he didn’t come. I went up the path after him. He was sitting beside a tombstone. It had my name on it: Daisy Fielding Harker. Born November 13, 1930. Killed December 2, 1955...