For some endless span of time, her mother didn’t speak. “Hal’s a good man,” Judy finally managed. “He loved you very much. And you loved him! I really don’t see the point in stirring up all of this old mess.” Her lips curled in distaste, and Daisy wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.
“You know what I think?” Her voice was strident, her hands were balled into fists. “I think Danny told you exactly what Hal was. I think you didn’t care. And you know what else I think?” She could see Arnold Mishkin in the darkened hallway, his pale face glimmering, ghostlike, as he listened, but Daisy didn’t stop. “I think you were done being a mother. I think that, after Daddy died, you didn’t have anything left for me. I think you were glad for me to be someone else’s responsibility.”
“Daisy, that’s not true! All I wanted was for you to be happy!” her mother said. “Happy, and safe, and secure, so you’d never have to worry about your whole life falling apart!” Her voice was getting louder. “Hal was a good man, he had a good job, he had a house, he had plenty of money, and he was generous…”
“He pulled me out of college,” said Daisy, half to herself, remembering what Hal had told her: There’s a lot of great schools in Philadelphia. You can finish your degree. But, right now, I need your help getting the house together.
“No, Daisy, that’s not true. He wanted you to finish!”
“Well, he certainly never pushed for me to go back.” She thought of what Diana had said, the first night that they’d met in New York City: You were a child bride. She’d laughed it off, but now she saw herself as a newlywed, wide-eyed and innocent, happy to let Hal guide her, happy to surrender her power, her agency, her voice. Everything. She’d given him everything. Even her name.
She turned for the door, feeling hollowed out and exhausted. “I’m leaving,” she said, and began walking toward the door. “I’m done.”
“Daisy!” her mother called.
Daisy turned around. “What’s wrong with you?” she shouted at her mother. “I wasn’t that much older than Beatrice, and I’d die to keep anything bad from happening to her, and you! You let me marry a criminal,” she hissed.
Her mother was crying, shaking her head. “People change,” she said. “Hal is a good man. I know he is. And if some silly girl got drunk at a party and showed up, all these years later, to make crazy accusations about Hal raping her, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change what the two of you have.”
Daisy shook her head and kept walking. Her mother called after her.
“What are you going to do?”
When Daisy didn’t turn around, her mother ran after her, putting her hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “He’s still Beatrice’s father,” she whispered.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Daisy shouted. Crying, her mother retreated to the kitchen. Then Arnold was there, touching her arm gently. Daisy whirled around to glare at him. “Did you know about this?”
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”
“Not good!” said Daisy, with a harsh, barking laugh. Arnold nodded sadly.
“Your mother only wanted what was best for you. She wanted you to be happy, and safe, and well taken care of. I’m sure you know how hard it was after your father died.”
“I could have taken care of myself,” Daisy said. “I could have gotten my degree, and gotten a job.”
“Of course,” Arnold said. “But Judy didn’t see it that way. It was different for her generation. She didn’t want you to struggle, as she had. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but I know your mother, and all she’s ever wanted for any of her children was that you be safe, and comfortable, and happy.”
Daisy looked over his shoulder at her mother, a small, slump-shouldered figure, weeping softly.
“And she’s right,” Arnold continued, his voice gentle. “You have a daughter. You need to think about her.”
Daisy’s chest felt tight, and the air felt thin. “I need to make a phone call,” she said.
Arnold led her to his office, where a framed wedding portrait of Daisy and Hal stood on the desk, the same one that Diana must have seen in Vernon’s Cape house. Daisy looked at it: her twenty-year-old self, in a frothy confection of white lace and tulle, a fairy-tale princess dressed for her happily-ever-after.