All The Pretty Dead Girls. John Manning
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was Davenport’s stridency that left Sue with a bad taste. There was nothing Joyce had said in the book she hadn’t heard around the dinner table from her grandfather growing up, but the way Joyce put things—she stripped down all of her positions to their lowest and most basic levels and made them seem crass and vulgar. And those who disagreed with her were accused of smearing her—the very same tactic Davenport was using herself. No wonder that people were unable to have civil conversations about politics these days.
Malika rapped on the bathroom door. “I’m out to my first class. Good luck with yours, Sue. Oh, and by the way—the coffee is in the lounge.”
In the shower, Sue thought more about Joyce Davenport. Not so much about her politics or her stridency, but the fact that she was the first person she’d ever met who’d actually known her mother.
Was my mother the same way? Did she think the same way Joyce does? What kind of a person was she?
She’d wondered about her mother so often, alone in her room, all through her girlhood. So many times, Sue had stood in front of the shrine to Mariclare, staring up at the pictures of her mother, and wondered. What kind of a person had she been? What kind of dreams did she have, what did she want from life, what were her hopes and fears?
Sue used to run her finger across one particular photograph of her mother. Mariclare was young, maybe nineteen, so fresh-faced and happy. Was she excited when she discovered she was pregnant with me? Would we have been close?
She was so pretty. So much prettier than Sue considered herself. Did boys line up to take her out? Was she kind, was she sweet, was she nice to people? Did she study hard and get good grades, or was she flighty and bouncy like some of the girls at Stowe?
And then there was Sue’s father. How had Mariclare met him? Were they madly in love? What kind of parents would they have been?
So many times, Sue had wished that her grandparents would talk to her about Mariclare. Couldn’t they understand how much it means to me to know something—anything—about my mother? I know it must be incredibly painful to lose your only child, but wouldn’t that wound ever heal enough? It surely wasn’t healthy to never mention her, never talk about her. And they could help me so much…why didn’t they understand that I need to know about my mother and my father?
She shut off the shower, stepped out, and began towel-drying her hair. This was the result of her grandparents’ years of silence. On Sue’s first day of college, rather than thinking about her classes and what lay ahead, she was still ruminating over the same old questions.
That’s what meeting Joyce Davenport last night had done. It had sucked out all the anticipation about college from her, and left her once again a little girl pining after her unknown mother.
Sue had so envied her friends at Stowe Academy. She was the only student there who was technically an orphan. She would fall silent whenever any of her friends would launch into a litany of their parents’ latest sins against them, always thinking, At least you have a mother, even if she does drink too much or fight with your dad or won’t let you stay out as late as you want. She’s your mother and when you need her she’s there. You don’t have a grandmother trying to take the place of your mother—a grandmother who’s really too old to take care of you and a grandfather who won’t even let you bring up the subject of your parents. You have brothers and sisters and you don’t have any idea of how lucky you are—all I have are my grandparents and when they die—and they aren’t young now—I’ll be all alone in the world.
Her earliest memories were of standing in front of the shrine to Mariclare, thinking how beautiful her mother was and indulging herself in fantasies about the life she could have had with her parents. They would have been a family—a real family—a real family that her grandparents, no matter how much they might love her, had never really given her.
Sue understood her fantasies were just that, but in her mind it was so easy to imagine Mariclare as the perfect mother. Mariclare would understand her. She’d be her best friend. She’d take her shopping and out to see movies. They’d have lunches together in the city, chatting about their lives. Sue would be able to talk to Mariclare about anything, and Mariclare would always understand. Mariclare would be wise and kind and loving, with a soft gentle voice and a wonderful laugh—the kind that made you smile when you heard it, because it was so full of love and joy.
Whenever her grandparents were out, sometimes Sue would lift one of the pictures down from the shrine and carry it into the bathroom. She would hold the photograph up next to her own face and try to see any resemblance there. She never could. All through her teen years, Sue kept doing it, but never did she see a trace of herself in her mother’s face.
But Joyce Davenport said I had my mother’s eyes.
Sue had always assumed she took after her father. But her father was even more of a mystery to her than her mother.
Once, when she was ten, she found a photograph in a drawer. She recognized Mariclare, but the man she was standing with was unfamiliar. A man about her age, with blondish hair and a serious expression. On the back of the photograph someone had written the name James. When Sue had shown her grandmother the photograph, the old woman had snatched it away from her and told her not to go snooping in drawers. But the name lingered in Sue’s mind. She was convinced “James” was her father.
I must have other relatives out there somewhere, she always thought. There must be someone on my father’s side who would know something.
Dressing for class, Sue tried to refocus. This was the day she’d been waiting for—the day she’d dreamed about. Away from home, on her own. In college! She could spread her wings, be her own person, find out what life was like outside the oppressive glare of her grandparents.
But all the excitement of the first day of classes paled before the simple fact that she had met someone who actually knew her mother—and knew her well!
If only it wasn’t Joyce Davenport.
“Maybe she isn’t so bad,” Sue mumbled to herself as she slipped her shoes onto her feet. “She probably goes for shock value because it sells books.”
She glanced down again at the cover of Joyce’s book. The bio on the jacket described Joyce as “witty and vivacious”—though Sue had found the book to be bullying.
She’d score more political points if she didn’t come across so intolerant herself, Sue reasoned. Joyce reminded her of a girl she’d known at Stowe—Lorraine Harrington. Lorraine was just mean. She liked making fun of people—plain and simple. She often would mock another girl right to her face—making fun of her braces, or her clothes, or her accent. Thankfully, Sue had never been a target of Lorraine’s cruelty, but still she’d disliked her. In some ways, she disliked even more the girls who’d been friends with Lorraine—the girls Sue had thought of as the “flunkies.”
Is that what my mother was like? One of Joyce’s flunkies?
She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She wore a pink T-shirt over khaki pants. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Kind of preppy, but not as prepped out as some of these girls here. She flicked on a little mascara.
No matter what I might think of her, Sue told herself, I am going to have to call Joyce Davenport.
“Now,” she said, gathering up the books she’d need for her first class, “where did Malika say that coffee was?”
The lounge. It was next to the bank of elevators, a tidy little room with two plaid upholstered couches, and a big television set mounted to the wall. Girls were all heading in and out, grabbing Styrofoam cups of coffee from the big silver urn set on a table. Sue briefly wondered if any of these girls might be future friends. A few nodded at her as she entered, but most were engaged in animated chatter with their friends. It was going to be difficult breaking into cliques, especially being a freshman in a mostly sophomore dorm.
Sue filled a cup, dumped in some cream and sugar, and took a sip. Not bad.
“Oh, my God!”
It