Good Daughter (9781101619261) Page 2

  “I’d try again,” Cass said in a rush when the clock stopped chiming. “I’ve met with a new specialist, a doctor who thinks he can help me, but Tommy has said no. Says he can’t go through that again.”

  Kit opened her mouth to speak but then thought better of it. She wasn’t married. Had never been married. Wasn’t her place.

  Instead, Mom said carefully, “Maybe he just needs more time—”

  “It’s our eleventh wedding anniversary this year. I want a baby.” Cass’s voice dropped, deepening with emotion. “I don’t want to wait. I can’t wait. I’m ready to be a mom now.”

  “Have you two considered using a surrogate?” Kit asked, feeling Cass’s desperation and aware that her brother didn’t want to adopt. He’d wanted a son to follow in his footsteps, just the way he’d followed in his father’s. The Brennan men had been San Francisco firefighters for six generations, all the way back before the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906, and Tommy Jr. was proud of this legacy. Maybe too proud.

  “Tommy says the Church is against it.”

  “The Church doesn’t support IVF either,” Meg pointed out.

  This was greeted by uncomfortable silence, which stretched until Meg added, “Maybe it’s time you and Tommy revisited the idea of adopting—”

  “He won’t,” Cass said shortly. “It’s our baby or nothing.”

  Meg gestured impatiently. “But when you adopt, that baby becomes your baby.”

  “I know, but Tommy won’t even discuss it. He wants—” Cass broke off as the front door opened and the men’s voices could be heard in the hall. She pressed her lips together, frustration and resentment in her tense expression. “Let’s just let this go. Okay?”

  They did.

  But in the car, driving home, Kit played the evening over in her head. The cheerful dinner conversation where everyone made an effort to be light, kind, funny, and even Meg and Jack seemed to put their differences aside for the night. The fluffy coconut cake on the heirloom. The dimmed lights. The golden glow of the birthday candles. Her dad’s big baritone singing “Happy Birthday.” The bittersweet chorus of “make a wish”…

  Hands flexing against the steering wheel, Kit thought of the wishes that had come to her. Wishes she’d make if it were her birthday…

  For Mom to live.

  For Cass to have her baby.

  For Jack and Meg’s marriage to survive this rocky transition.

  And for Kit herself? What did she want personally? What was her heart’s desire? That was easy. She was selfish. Wasn’t wishing for world peace or clean water for Third World nations. No, she wanted love. Marriage. Babies. She wanted to have her own family. She’d be forty in a couple of weeks. It was time. The clock was ticking.

  And yet, if she had only one wish…and if that one wish could come true…what would she do?

  She’d save Mom, of course.

  The oncologist was astonished that Marilyn Brennan had lasted this long, but couldn’t imagine her making it through the spring. It was January 8 now. That meant Mom had what? February? March? Maybe Easter? Easter came late this year, mid-April. Would Mom be with them then?

  The thought made Kit’s insides churn. She wished she hadn’t had that second sliver of birthday cake. Wished she was already home in bed instead of still driving at ten o’clock at night.

  Kit’s phone rang. It was Meg, her oldest sister. “Home safe?” Kit asked, answering.

  “Just got back a few minutes ago. Sorry we left you with all the dishes.”

  “Not a big deal. Dad helped. Gave us a chance to talk.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “Seemed like it. But it’s hard to tell with Dad. He doesn’t ever complain.”

  Meg sighed. “He doesn’t like to burden us.”

  “I know. But I almost wish he would. It’d make me feel better. Make me feel as if I was helping him somehow.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t help him. Now you can help me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m upset. I’ve been upset ever since leaving the house.”

  “Mom?”

  “No. Cass. Tommy. The whole baby thing.”

  “It’s a mess, isn’t it?” Kit said.

  “I’m worried about them. I can understand why Tommy doesn’t want to do the IVF anymore, but his stand on adoption is ridiculous.”

  Kit changed lanes to let a faster car pass her. “I agree.”

  “He’ll lose Cass if he’s not careful.”

  “I know.”

  “Now’s the time for them to explore all their options if they want to become parents. But I don’t think Tommy wants to be a parent at this point. I think he’s decided that he’s okay without kids.”

  Dad had said something similar to Kit while they washed dishes. Apparently Tommy had told Dad tonight that he was ready to move forward and just get on with life, as he’d come to terms with Cass’s infertility and he was good without kids. “He’s worn out,” Kit said. “He needs a break from the focus on making babies.”

  “Which is great, but Cass is a labor and delivery nurse. She wants a baby of her own. Needs to be a mom.”

  Kit understood. She loved kids. It’s one of the reasons why she’d become a teacher. She’d been in the classroom seventeen years now, the last sixteen at Memorial High, a Catholic school in east Oakland, not far from San Leandro. She’d recently been promoted to head of the English department, which would look great on a résumé, but wasn’t much of an honor if you knew there were only three English teachers at Memorial. “What do you think about them using a surrogate?”

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” Meg said. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think anyone in the family does. I wish they’d look into it. It’s expensive, but Cass and Tommy already have the frozen embryos.”

  Remembering her conversation with Dad, Kit rubbed at her brow, easing the tension headache. “I just can’t see Tommy ever agreeing to it. I don’t know if it’s a control thing, or a society thing, but Tommy’s against taking any more extreme measures to make a baby.”

  “Adopting isn’t extreme. I’d adopt, if I couldn’t have kids.”

  “I would, too. Let’s just hope Cass can convince Tommy to reconsider all their options.”

  Monday was Kit’s least favorite day of the week. It was hard to rally Monday morning after a weekend away from school. She knew her students felt the same way, and so she made a point of making each Monday morning’s lessons interesting, trying to hook her students’ attention quickly, painlessly. Or as painlessly as possible considering that most of her students were sleep deprived and school started early.

  Fortunately, as the head of her very small department, Kit was able to pick the classes she wanted to teach and she chose to teach everything—from basic freshman English to the very advanced AP British lit. It meant she had six different preps, but she liked it that way, as the varied curriculum held her interest and allowed her to teach far more novels, poetry, and plays every year than she’d be able to teach otherwise.

  Kit loved books. Reading was her thing. But being a teacher wasn’t just about sharing great books with young, bright minds. It was also about managing, controlling, organizing, disciplining, advising, as well as assuming extra duties to keep the school’s overhead down. At Memorial, the faculty all had duties outside their classroom. Yard duty, cafeteria duty, extracurricular jobs, adviser jobs, coaching positions. Teachers wore many hats. Kit was spending her lunch hour in her classroom wearing her Drama Club adviser hat now.

  Kit had founded the Drama Club her first year at Memorial High, and for the past fifteen years it’d been one of the school’s most prestigious clubs, putting on wonderful, if not extravagant and exhausting, productions every spring.

  But this year she was beginning to think there wouldn’t be a production. The club was small, with less than a dozen students. Her die-hard thespians, the most talented kids she’d probably ever
worked with, had graduated in June, and she—and the club—missed those nine kids. The seven students who’d remained in the club had managed to recruit only one new freshman, and the eight club members couldn’t agree on anything.

  “You’re running out of time,” Kit said from her desk, raising her voice to be heard over the rustle of paper bags and crumpling plastic and conversation taking place at the student desks. “You don’t meet again until next month, and then it’s auditions. So you really need to discuss what kind of production interests you and get some consensus. If you can’t agree, then I think it’s time you accepted that there won’t be a spring show.”

  “What kind of show can we do again?” one of the sophomore girls asked.

  Irritation beat at Kit. She hadn’t slept well last night, had woken late, and had dashed to school without breakfast and was starving right now. Her gaze fell on her sandwich. It was looking bruised inside its plastic baggie but it made her mouth water. But she couldn’t eat it here, in front of them. She might get grape jelly on her white blouse. She might need to answer a question. She might choke…and these kids, helpless as they were, might let her die. Or worse, they might try the Heimlich maneuver on her.

  Better to go hungry.

  “You can do virtually anything,” Kit said, hiding her exasperation with a wry smile. They were just teenagers, after all. Fourteen-, fifteen-, and sixteen-year-olds searching for identity, meaning, and clear skin. “Remember the list you brainstormed last month? You could choose a comedy, musical, drama, a series of one-act plays…it’s up to you. Perhaps you’d like to take a vote?”

  Alison Humphrey, the current president of the Drama Club, and the only senior in the club this year, came to life. “We’re going to vote now,” she said decisively. “It’ll be anonymous. Write down on a slip of paper what you’d like to do for the spring production, fold the paper up, and pass it to the front, and then we’ll tally the votes. Okay?”

  The classroom door opened while the students were scribbling down their preferences. It was Polly Powers, one of Memorial’s math teachers and Kit’s closest friend, in the doorway and she gestured to Kit.

  Kit left her desk and stepped out into the hall.

  “Are you going to be stuck in there all lunch?” Polly asked.

  “Looks like it. They can’t agree on anything.”

  “Which club?”

  “My little thespians.”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “No wonder.” She didn’t get theater, or theater kids. Thought they were weird.

  And perhaps they were, but Kit liked that. “How was lunch? Anything interesting happen in the staff room?”

  “Lunch was boring. Fiona stayed in her room, too.”

  Fiona Hughes was one of the science teachers, and Polly’s and Kit’s close friend. The three of them hung out together a lot. “Why?”

  “Chase is being a dick. She was crying. Didn’t want anyone to see her.”

  Kit frowned. Fiona and Chase had been married for only eighteen months but it’d been difficult from the start. “What’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know. The usual. But she needs some cheering up. Think we need to take her out after work. Have a drink. Are you free?”

  “Yes.” Kit peeked into the class, saw that Alison was now recording the votes, and turned back to Polly. “Let’s head out as soon as the staff meeting’s over.”

  Two

  They met at Z’s Cocktail Lounge in Alameda after the school staff meeting ended. It was one of their favorite places to go since it was far enough from Memorial High that they didn’t risk bumping into other teachers or parents, and quiet, as Z’s was a bar that only locals knew about. The outside was nondescript and drew little attention from the street. Inside, it was small, cozy, and upscale, with just a few tables along the walls, the stools at the bar, and the requisite piano.

  “I don’t think I could do it again, not knowing what I know now,” Fiona was saying, her Irish accent pronounced as she pushed her empty beer glass around on the table. “It’s too hard, this blended family thing. I was so naive thinking I could make it work. Thinking that we could all get along.”

  This wasn’t new news. Kit and Polly were aware that Fiona, a Dublin native and brilliant science teacher, had been struggling for a while. The problem was the kids. Chase’s kids. She’d never been married before, but he had, and he came into the marriage with three children, two teenagers and a preteen. Fiona knew that the kids had been scarred from a bitter divorce and a poisonous mom, but she’d thought that with patience and love they would warm up to her. They hadn’t.

  “I’m trying so hard,” Fiona added, blinking back tears. “I honestly couldn’t try harder.”

  Polly couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. “That’s the problem,” she said tartly. “You’re too good to them.”

  “No,” Fiona protested, but unconvincingly.

  “Yes!” Polly slammed her fist onto the table, making the glasses bounce. “They’re little shits, especially the youngest, Alexander. They’re trying to break you and their dad up, and they’re winning. It’s time you fought back. Turned the tables. Taught those brats a thing or two.”

  “Polly!” Kit choked on smothered laughter. She’d taught with Polly for years now, and loved her sense of humor, but to call Fiona’s stepkids brats and little shits?

  Polly shrugged. “I’m right,” she said, successfully catching the eye of the waitress and indicating that she’d have another round. She’d already finished two strong key lime daiquiris but was by no means drunk. Polly could hold her liquor. “Those kids totally manipulate you, Fiona, just as they manipulate their dad, their mom, and everyone around them. It’s time you turned the tables. Put them in their place. Taught them a thing or two.”

  Fiona’s forehead wrinkled. “But wouldn’t that just give them more ammunition?”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “They’re already armed and dangerous. You’re the one who’s vulnerable. You have to stop playing nice.”

  Kit’s phone suddenly vibrated from within her coat pocket and quietly she retrieved it and checked the message under the table.

  It was from Sebastian.

  Kit’s heart fell. She didn’t enjoy being mean. She was the proverbial good Catholic girl, and she’d grown up to be a good Catholic schoolteacher, but Sebastian Severs would not take a hint and his frequent, flirty texts were driving her crazy. Tonight’s text was just like the others:

  Hey, gorgeous, you’re a sorceress and you’ve got me under your spell! Let’s get together Friday night and make some magic happen.

  Kit shuddered rereading it. There were so many things wrong with the message—and Sebastian—that she didn’t even know where to begin. She should never have given him her cell number. Why hadn’t she realized that once you gave a man your number, he could, and would, haunt you for the rest of your life? But then, why had she thought that meeting men online was a good idea either?

  Annoyed with Sebastian, angry with herself, Kit turned off her phone, slipped it back into her purse beneath the table, and kicked herself yet again for joining Love.com in the first place.

  She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to join back in September—

  No. Not true.

  She knew exactly what had possessed her.

  Desperation.

  In September, three months after the end of her ten-year relationship with Richard, a relationship that had probably stalled out eight years earlier, Kit did some serious, if not panicked, soul-searching, and concluded that action was needed. Desperate action. She was closing in on forty—the big birthday was January 28—and Kit couldn’t wait for love to find her. She’d have to find it for herself. And so, after watching a late-night TV commercial promoting Love.com, she signed up for a one-year membership, since she had no idea how long it’d take to find true love.

  At first it’d been exciting poring over profiles, exchanging messages, setting up the first few dates. But it had taken only a f
ew dates to realize many men weren’t truthful on their profiles. They either used photos from ten or twenty years ago, or padded their height while decreasing their weight. But weight and height discrepancies weren’t a serious issue. The personalities were. Or lack of.

  Kit had never thought of herself as particularly difficult to please—after all, she ended up staying with Richard for ten years—but her dates from Love.com were invariably uncomfortable. Some were boring. Others made her uneasy. And then there were the few that were plain humiliating. But Kit, Irish Catholic and from a sprawling opinionated family, was made of stern enough stuff that she attempted to endure all, determined to at last find the Real Thing. The Real Thing being love, marriage, and babies—and preferably in that order.

  But after three months of online dating hell, Kit no longer craved True Love. She just wanted to be left alone.

  So in December, after a particularly horrifying date, Kit closed her account at Love.com, and her profile promptly disappeared. But the damage was done. A dozen different men had her number and e-mail address. And while most of those dozen men had moved on to greener, fresher pastures, there were a few like Sebastian who couldn’t.

  Kit suspected it was time to change her number. Such a shame since she loved the order of the digits. It’d been her cell number for twelve years now and the numbers looked good together. They suited her. But difficult times called for difficult measures.

  Resolved to take action, Kit forced her attention back to the conversation.

  “Now I’m supposed to go home and make dinner and smile and act like everything is okay,” Fiona was saying. “But I can’t. Everything isn’t okay and I’m sick of acting like it is.”

  “Then don’t go,” Polly answered.

  Kit frowned. Polly wasn’t helping. Of course Fiona had to go home. Fiona was married. “You can’t avoid going home, but you can, and should, talk to Chase. You have to make him understand how you feel. Does he know how unhappy you are?”