I wouldn’t steal her backstory, but she had proven to be a much juicier character than any I could have created. “Who was your second great love?” I asked.
“Pardon me?”
“You told me you’d been in love twice. I know about John—who was the second?”
She shook her head. “No. That one belongs to me.” She stood to leave. “And you won’t find it in those boxes of photographs either.”
I spent the next half hour debating ways to kill her character out of spite. I wouldn’t do it, but there were days when it would be satisfying.
Wednesday came and went.
“It’s a good sign,” Lillian said, patting my hand affectionately. “Truly. It means he’s writing a reply. If he were angry, you’d get a phone call or a telegram.”
Ada said nothing.
Thursday morning, the two of them were in the living room with clients as I applied rubber cement to the back of photographs and then stuck them in the scrapbook. I would be done soon. I had reached the pictures from my mother’s trip by Tuesday. Now I was firmly in my own lifetime, and the last box of pictures was nearing the end.
I hummed along to a song on the radio, turned down low so as not to disturb Ada and Lillian at work, and had just turned to a fresh page when a pounding sound startled me. I poked my head out of my bedroom, listening. Ada would be mad if it was Frannie.
But it was the front door. Heart in my throat, I ran down the stairs, skidding to a stop and narrowly avoiding crashing into Frannie, who was in the process of opening the door.
I righted myself and looked up into the angry face of my father, my mother standing pale behind him.
“Pack your bags,” he said, eyebrows drawn together. “We’re leaving today.”
“Hello to you too, Daddy,” I said drily.
Then Sally ran up and bit his pant leg, tearing at it angrily and growling as my stoic father tried to get away from the tiny little monster.
“Get this—thing—off me!” he said, trying to kick at her with the leg she wasn’t holding.
“Come here, Sally,” I said, scooping her up. She released his pant leg at my touch but growled at him in my arms as Ada entered the front hall.
She looked my father up and down, then observed Sally in my arms. “An excellent judge of character,” she murmured to me as she passed. “Walter. Rose. I do so wish you’d called first. I have clients this morning.”
“We’ll be gone soon. I’m here to collect my daughter.”
“And if she doesn’t want to go?”
I had only seen Daddy’s face go purple once before and that was at the synagogue. He started to sputter something, but Lillian walked out of the living room, took in the scene, and said, “Oh dear. I’ll send the Levines home and call to cancel the rest of today’s appointments. You all go talk in the den. I’ll have Frannie bring some coffee and finger sandwiches.” She took Sally from my arms and returned to the living room.
“After you,” Ada said, gesturing to my parents.
My father stomped into the room, but my mother stopped to embrace Ada, who patted her back in return. Ada and I exchanged a look, but she shook her head and held a finger to her lips, indicating that I should let her talk first. I nodded and followed her into the room.
Mama and Daddy had sat together on the sofa. Ada took one of the chairs opposite, and I took the other.
“Don’t you bother sitting,” Daddy said. “You go pack your things.”
“With all due respect, Walter, she is a guest in my home. I’d like her to sit and for us all to have a discussion.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And you’re married to my niece, if we’re really going to analyze the generational hierarchy.”
If I could have crawled into her skin and become her, I would have. She was fierce and ferocious and feminine all at the same time.
Daddy nodded his assent for me to sit and I did.
“Now,” Ada continued. “Let’s discuss young Marilyn’s future, shall we?”
“There’s nothing to discuss. She’s coming home.”
Ada looked at him. “You’d rob an old woman of her companion in her twilight years? Marilyn has been indispensable this summer.”
“You have a companion,” Daddy said. “That one who’s making the phone calls now. What kind of house are you running if you need two?”
“A business,” Ada said. “Marilyn takes notes on meetings as well as evaluates prospective clients.” It had been weeks since she let me near the business. “I honestly don’t think I could keep doing this job without her.”
“Then retire,” my father said. “You certainly have the resources.”
“I’m afraid I’m not ready to do that.”
“Then hire someone else. She’s coming home. You already filled her head with this writing nonsense. No respectable man wants a woman with a career.”
I was seething. Both at the implication that all I was good for was marrying someone and also at the insult to Dan, who had been clear that if I wanted to write, that was what he wanted me to do.
“Just because you don’t want that doesn’t mean no one does,” I spat. “It’s not 1933 anymore. Times have changed.”
“They haven’t changed as much as you think they have,” he said ominously. “And people don’t change. You want to wind up like her? Alone? Begging for a niece to come stay with you so someone can find you when you die?”
“I beg your pardon—” Ada started, but I put a hand on her arm, silencing her.
“I’d rather be like her than like you! Trying to sell your daughter off to the highest bidder. I’m not some prize cow! I’m writing a book. And it’s a good one. And I’m not going back to your stodgy old life just to rot away like Mama does!”
My mother stiffened, and the purple hue crept back up my father’s neck.
“Your mother is perfectly content—”
“Even you know that’s not true. I don’t believe for one moment that you actually bought THREE ovens just because Mama told you it wasn’t her fault dinner burned. She’s got her nose in a book the whole time she’s cooking because it’s the only escape she has.”
“That’s enough,” my mother said as my father turned to stare at her.
“Rose?”
She glared at me, then turned to my father. “Yes, I read while I cook sometimes. Cooking is dull once the food is in the oven and with the children grown, it’s a way to stay occupied. And sometimes I lose track of time. But that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy.” She looked back at me. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“Fine. Even if you’re perfectly happy, it wouldn’t make me happy. Can’t you understand that?”
“No,” my father said. “Unless you’re trying to tell me you’re some kind of deviant.”
My mouth dropped open. “Some kind of—what?”
“Now, see here—” Ada said.
“No,” Daddy said. “You see here. She’s my daughter. And she’s not spending another night here.”