No wonder Lillian had been flustered. She’d been selfish and insulted her teacher, guide, and friend. Shirley didn’t deserve to be pushed aside. Over the years Shirley had helped Lillian. It would have made her happy had Lillian included her.
Then there were Ruth’s novel ideas complicating things. According to Ruth, it wasn’t Lillian’s job to make anyone happy but Lillian.
What an absurd concept.
Lillian had no idea what would bring her happiness.
She clicked her jaw and exhaled smoke rings, a brash, private talent usually reserved for teenagers congregating on street corners or diner waitresses on break. Ruth’s words floated inside the last circle. “We could do some real good.” It was the only time Lillian had heard her old thoughts aloud, out of someone else’s mouth. She couldn’t shake them.
“I’m going out front,” Lillian yelled to Sunny.
On the patio, Lillian lit another cigarette, inhaled, and filled her lungs. With the cigarette dangling, and the ashes growing, she raced against the precarious embers and picked up a few golden leaves that had floated to the front path. Keeping busy was the best distraction from troubling thoughts.
Sunny pushed open the front door, carrying a glass of iced tea. After two decades, Lillian still checked behind Sunny, half hoping her mother would be trailing behind her friend, carrying sugar cubes and a long spoon, even though Lillian had stopped using sugar after high school. The other half of her was relieved it was only Sunny with saccharin tablets. No mother.
Sunny was short and round. Anna had been tall and slim. But when Lillian allowed herself to think of her mother, she did so most easily in the wake of Sunny’s expressions, her laugh, her walk. This proximity to her mother’s oldest friend afforded Lillian closeness to her memories—and distance from guilt.
Would Lillian have been happier or more content if she’d visited her mother more than twice a year since she was eleven? She wouldn’t venture a guess, but she was certain life would have been different if her mother hadn’t been committed to Byberry.
Sunny set the iced tea on the wrought-iron patio table decorated with scrolls and flowers that always reminded Lillian of her childhood birthday cakes. Sunny wiped the condensation on the glass with her hand and dried her hand on the corner of her apron. “Send the girls in when they get home—I made cookies,” she said.
“They could do with half a grapefruit.”
Sunny disagreed. “On the first day of school, they deserve to be happy.”
Happy? Why did that word keep coming up today? Lillian had assumed her daughters were happy, but truthfully, she’d never thought to ask.
The gate creaked open and Pammie and Penny sauntered through, shoulder to shoulder, giggling. This connection was what Lillian had wanted for her daughters ever since Penny was born. Lillian had woken up after the delivery to the words she’d hoped for: “It’s a girl.” Sometimes, though, Lillian felt like an outsider in her own family, which she reasoned was absurd. She was their mother, not a third sibling. Still, an absence of understanding between them saddened her.
“What’s so funny?” Lillian asked.
Her daughters quieted and turned, almost in unison. As Pammie stood straighter, her medium-brown hair splayed onto Penny’s shoulder, almost replacing Penny’s darker locks. At these moments, the two years between her girls dissolved. They looked so much alike, so much like Peter, with easily tanned skin, long noses, and wide, light-brown eyes with long, dark lashes. Passersby often mistook them for twins.
“What’s wrong?” Penny asked.
“Who died?” Pammie snapped.
Penny elbowed her big sister in the ribs.
“Ouch!” Pammie rubbed her side. “What? The last time Mother met us outside after school, Great-Aunt Minnie had died.”
Lillian hadn’t realized her behavior patterns were so predictable. “No one died. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“Speak for yourself,” Penny said. “I haven’t done anything.” Here’s where the sisterly camaraderie ended. Pammie rolled her eyes.
Lillian chose to ignore the bait. They were good girls, even if Pammie sometimes snuck off to see her boyfriend instead of studying at the library. If that girl studied as much as she claimed, she’d earn higher grades—maybe be class valedictorian.
“No one’s in trouble,” Lillian said. “I just want to ask you a question. Sit down.”
Pammie and Penny set their books on the table, pulled out chairs, and sat. They avoided eye contact with Lillian, and it hurt that her daughters felt discomfort at the notion of talking to their mother. Lillian forced three little coughs. “I want to know if you’re happy.”
“Happy with what?” Penny asked.
“Your lives, I guess.” Lillian wasn’t sure. She’d never been asked about her overall happiness and wasn’t certain she’d ever contemplated it. But recently she’d noticed an apprehension in her days; she didn’t know what she was waiting for, just that it felt more akin to waiting for a punishment than a present.
Perhaps that vague anxiety she’d felt had been unhappiness. She’d only ever been asked if she’d been happy with a specific dress, or pair of shoes, or the outcome of a dinner party. She wanted more for her daughters.
“Are you happy with your plans for the future?” She should include Peter in this discussion. “Daddy and I wouldn’t want you to have any regrets.” Probably. Lillian figured Peter had never considered this. He likely assumed his daughters would be content to marry well. What if they wouldn’t?
“I have a cool boyfriend, and I’m sure Donald is going to propose after graduation,” Pammie said. She did look pleased with this, yet her sister looked stricken.
Lillian remained silent, though it took some effort. The child was fourteen!
“Did you and Daddy change your minds about sending me to teachers college?” Penny asked.
“No, of course not,” Lillian said. Penny had wanted to be a teacher since her first day in kindergarten. Peter didn’t view this job as an impediment to marriage, but as a placeholder.
“Then I’m happy,” Penny said.
Lillian looked at her older daughter. “Pammie, would you like to go to college?”
“Why?”
“To be educated, silly,” Penny said.
“You don’t need to be educated to be a housewife, smarty-pants,” Pammie said.
Lillian cringed. Apparently Pammie viewed Lillian’s own bachelor’s degree in history as a waste. It’s true—the girls had never seen her use that education, and she rarely even mentioned it.
“You can meet smart boys in college,” Penny said.
Sunny stepped outside, grasping two Coke bottles and carrying a plate of cookies. She set it all on the table and pulled a bottle opener from her apron pocket.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I’d say smart boys are good,” Sunny said.
Pammie and Penny bit into their cookies, chewed with their mouths closed, and nodded. “We’re talking about college boys,” Penny said after she’d swallowed.
Sunny smiled as if she’d been in on the conversation all along. “My husband went to college. I always thought it made him sophisticated.” She swept at her shoulders as if she’d somehow been accumulating dust. “There’s a lot more to being smart than what you learn in class.” Sunny opened the Cokes and handed one to each girl. “The people you meet, the discussions. It can make someone—anyone—much more interesting. That’s what I think it did for Harold.”