When Willow had been younger, she’d occasionally asked her mother about her parents and why they never visited. Other kids’ grandparents did. They showed up in droves for plays andGrandparents’ Day and other school functions. They came in all shapes and sizes, these other grandparents, but they had one thing in common: the moment they spotted John or Julianne or whichever grandchild was theirs, their faces would light up and break into the biggest smiles ever.
“We’re not on speaking terms,” Willow’s mom had said, lowering her eyes. “They’re not... they don’t approve...”
“They don’t approve of anything except the Lord and their place at His table,” Willow’s father had once interjected, taking her mother’s elbow and leading her away. “Go to your room and leave your mother in peace.”
They sounded dreadful, Lemuel and Elizabeth Ann Whitmire. And to change a baby’s name after adopting her... wasn’t that kind of messed up?
Lark? What kind of name is Lark?Willow imagined her grandfather saying as a younger man.There are noLarksin the Bible, I can tell you that.
We’ll call her Mercy,her grandmother might have pronounced, with a self-righteous nod.Because we are merciful, and she is a child of sin.
Willow pictured Elizabeth Ann holding baby Mercy in her arms, with Lemuel standing stiffly behind them as congregants from their church filed by, paying their regards and praising the Whitmires for being such fine, upstanding Christians. They would have seen raising Willow’s mother as a good deed—which it was. But how awful to be a charity case rather than a child.
Willow shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. In her parents’ fine house, the party droned on, a polite hum of privilege and practiced laughter. Willow drew her thumb to her mouth, wondering if she should check on her mother. Maybe bring her a cup of tea? Usually, when Willow’s mother had one of her spells, Willow’s primary reaction was annoyance. The darkened room, the breathy whispers, the tremulous smile thatinvariably made Willow want to say,Good grief, Mom, give it a rest. Be a martyr, don’t be a martyr—I don’t care. But stop pretending to be brave, because you’re not. If you were, you’d open the curtains, take some aspirin, and get on with it!
Miriam’s story cast her mother’s upbringing in a new light, and Willow felt ashamed of the things she’d thought and felt. Maybe her mother was braver than Willow gave her credit for. Maybe she’d had to be just to survive her childhood.
Then again . . .
The familiar weight of impotent rage dropped over Willow, making her shoulders sag. When Willow had needed her mother the most, her mother had failed her.
No. She would not bring her mother tea.
She jumped when her father’s voice cut into her thoughts.
“Willow, come say hello to Judge Baylor,” he said, beckoning to her from several feet away. It wasn’t a request, and Willow knew it.
She stepped forward, plastering on a smile as she joined her father and Ash, who stood poised and perfect beside him.
“So,” Judge Baylor said, clapping a hand on Ash’s shoulder, “I hear Ash is planning on getting a PhD in biomedical engineering. Already has an internship lined up for the summer. That’s quite an accomplishment!”
“Thank you,” said Ash. “I try to stay on top of things. You know how it is.”
“I do indeed,” said the judge. He shifted his focus to Willow. “And you, young lady? What are your plans for the future?”
Oh no. Really? Even on a good day, Willow found it difficult to articulate what her goals were. Tonight, still reeling from her conversation with Miriam Candler, she found it difficult to remember how language worked. Words, sentences—what were they again?
The silence stretched out.
The judge shifted his weight from one foot to another.
Her father cleared his throat. “Willow... Well. We don’t quite know what her plans are. I’m not sure she does either.”
“Oh, she does,” Ash cut in. “Willow used to want to be a famous actress, but she gave up that idea for something more practical.” She smiled sideways at Willow. “Now she wants to be a fairy when she grows up. That’s why she wears bells on her skirt.”
Judge Baylor looked perplexed.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Willow managed to say.
“No?” Ash pressed. “But not even an hour ago, you told me that—”
“Ash!” Willow cried. She fisted her hands, and her breath came hot and fast.
“Girls. Enough,” their father snapped.
“Perhaps some aptitude testing would help you focus,” the judge said to Willow, then turned back to Ash. “Have you thought about a specialty yet? Graduate school is a ways away, but as you said, it’s smart to plan ahead.”
“I want to do something that makes a difference in people’s lives,” Ash said. “Something real. Something tangible. Cochlear implants, for example. The technology isn’t there yet, but surgeons anticipate being able to correct an infant’s hearing within the first month of life. A baby born deaf would never know what deafness is, would never experience deafness at all. Isn’t that remarkable?”
