Author's Note: Greetings to those who are still following this story. I have finished writing "My Mother's Daughter" and will be posting the remaining chapters in quick succession. I apologize for how long it's taken for me to complete this story. I never intended to take so long, but I promise that the end is near. Thank you for your patience and please continue to have patience through the following chapters as I promise answers are coming - I just take the long way getting there.

- Celica


I don't see Dawn for a couple days.

She had no life when we met a few weeks ago, and now suddenly, she has a life that goes on without me. On Tuesday, the day after our visit to Elsa Matheson, Dawn's mother takes the day off work to drive Jeff and his friends to a big water park up near New Haven. Dawn tags along. On Wednesday, she goes sailing with Abby and Kristy and their SDS friends. I stay home and try not to be lonely.

I begin screening my calls again. Mari calls twice Tuesday morning and once Wednesday evening. By Wednesday, her voice rings into the answering machine with irritation and annoyance. I ignore her, still smarting from the perceived slight suggested by Dawn. Perhaps she chose me for the wrong reasons and now, she can pursue me. I let the phone ring on.

Gran leaves me alone on Tuesday and I suspect, with a twinge of disappointment, that she's given up on me already, so very easily. But she calls Wednesday afternoon right before General Hospital starts. I leave the room while she speaks to the answering machine, but when I come back, I play her message three times, listening to the cadence of her voice, its smooth familiarity, and knowing that I know nothing about my grandmother. It makes me sad and angry and eventually, I walk away. There is no one to tell me how to feel.

Stacey and Mary Anne never call. Presumably, they have written me off. Blacked out my name. Forgotten me. I miss Emily and Julie in the span of those two days very much.

I wake in the early morning hours on Thursday before the sun has risen. I roll over to check the time. It's a little before five-thirty. I tumble out of bed, regain my legs, and go into the bathroom. When I come out, I slip out into the darkened hallway and begin downstairs, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. My throat is dry and scratchy, probably from the ceiling fan and the air conditioner running all night.

There are lights on downstairs. I hear my parents clattering around in the kitchen. I glance at the clock as I cross through the living room. They're running late for the six o' clock train.

I'm about to push through the kitchen door and point out their impending tardiness when I hear my father say, "I'm concerned about Grace."

I stop dead in my tracks, hands poised to push open the door. I catch my breath in my chest and tilt my head against the wooden door and listen.

"I told you, Harold, I took care of it," comes Mom's reply.

"You didn't take care of anything," Dad challenges, which surprises me almost as much as the fact that he's apparently concerned about me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mom demands. There's a sharp clinking that follows, like a spoon hitting against a ceramic bowl. They're eating breakfast together at the table. I didn't know they did that. It seems too normal for them, to sit together at the kitchen table eating cereal and drinking coffee. "We had a very nice talk. I took care of things."

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. What does she think she's taken care of? We haven't spoken much in the last two days. They came in quite late the last two nights and neither had much to say. They downed their drinks, ate their Lean Cuisines, and headed up to bed. Mom cast several suspicious looks in my direction, but nothing more. Does she mean Monday night? What else could she mean?

"That's what you always say, Fay. Honestly, I don't know what you say to her, but it doesn't really seem to help."

"If I'm such a failure as a mother, then maybe you should talk to her, Harold," Mom replies, her voice edgy and cold.

"Me? What am I supposed to say to a teenage girl?"

"I thought you would know, Hal, since apparently, you know everything."

"There's no need to get snippy, Fay. I'm trying to have a serious conversation about our daughter."

"All right, what do you think is wrong with her? I don't think there's anything wrong with her. Please, enlighten me."

"You never take me seriously when I want to – " Dad stops and there's a short silence, then he starts again, apparently deciding to abandon that particular argument. "I think Grace has become increasingly odd since the summer began," he tells Mom.

I narrow my eyes at the doorframe. I am not odd.

Mom laughs. She actually laughs. "Odd? She isn't odd, Harold. She's a teenage girl! This is how teenage girls behave. Like complete lunatics. If you had spent any time with teenage girls when you were a teenage boy, maybe you would know what to expect. And I mean, girls other than your fat high school girlfriend who let you put your hands up her skirt."

I might vomit.

"We've actually been quite lucky with Grace," Mom continues. "Aside from throwing rackets at tennis tournaments, she isn't nearly as prone to histrionics and dramatic meltdowns as I was at her age. I did dumb things much more frequently than Grace."

"Stealing dogs and running your underwear up flagpoles far pale in comparison to driving cars into people and things," Dad snaps and I'm surprised at the anger in his voice.

There's a long pause and I can almost hear Mom suck the air in between her teeth, although maybe I imagine it. Finally, Mom says, "That was Sue's underwear, not mine." I suspect she's purposely trying to upset Dad, needle him, see how far she can push. We're alike in that. "Grace makes bad choices. The only thing wrong with her is the people she chooses to hang around. She follows them into trouble."

"Grace isn't an imbecile."

"No, but she's quite gullible," Mom says with a conviction that wounds me deep. I flush red hot from far within.

Dad doesn't argue, which makes me even more furious with him. Odd and gullible. How nice to know what he thinks of me.

"She's a strange girl," Dad says, plunging the knife further. And twisting it. "I told you from the beginning, I didn't want her hanging around your mother."

"This again? I told you, I took care of it," scoffs Mom, sounding completely unconcerned with the unfounded accusations Dad has made about me. "I told Grace, she's not allowed over there anymore."

"You're the only person in this house who thinks Grace actually obeys your rules."

"Of course she does," Mom snaps. "I told her to not go over there. She'll listen."

Of course I'll listen. I am stupid and gullible after all.

"I didn't want her over there in the first place."

"What did you expect me to do? Chain her to the bedpost? Rehire Nanny Catherine? She's too old for a baby-sitter. I can't watch her every minute of every day any more than you can."

"Allison is deranged."

"That's a bit harsh, Hal," says Mom.

"Nevertheless."

"Well, she won't be filling Grace's head with nonsense any longer. I put an end to that."

"I don't think you've listened to a word I've said, my dear."

"I always listen to you, Hal."

Dad's response is muffled behind the door, though I strain to hear it. It's getting harder to eavesdrop as their voices have reverted to a more normal volume. Fortunately, for my mother, a normal volume is louder than most.

"Perhaps you should call her up and tell her that," Mom suggests, answering whatever Dad said that I missed.

"I have no interest in speaking to Allison."

"Why not? She likes you. I think she has a crush on you."

"Not while I'm eating, my dear."

Mom chuckles, forgetting their tense words, forgetting the terrible things they've said about me. These things they think they know about me are all wrong.

"We're going to miss the train, my dear," Dad says and I hear him push back his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the linoleum. His bowl and coffee mug clatter in the sink.

"That train is never on time," replies Mom, her own chair scraping against the floor. They move on so easily from me.

I duck through the nearest doorway, which leads to the dining room. But my parents don't come through the kitchen door. After a minute or so, I hear the garage door open and close. They are gone into the dawn.

I retreat to the stairs. I can't climb upward. I sit down, fold my arms over my knees. I would like to cry, but cannot.

I go to Gran's after lunch.

I don't call first. I show up unexpected, always a gamble with my grandmother. It's strange to not have her greet me on the front steps. I knock on the front door, wait a few seconds, and when I don't hear the sound of her footfalls, lean on the doorbell. I stop after four chimes and wait. When she doesn't come, I press the bell twice more. It's too late in the day for her to be in the backyard. I begin to worry when I finally hear footsteps crossing the foyer.

Gran opens the front door and her eyebrows arch in surprise. "Grace!" she exclaims, a bit breathlessly. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Am I disturbing you?" I ask. After all, I never know what I'm going to get with Gran.

"Of course not," Gran replies, stepping aside to hold the door open for me. "Come in. Have you been out here long? I was upstairs and didn't hear the bell."

I step inside and can now hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner running upstairs. "Are you vacuuming?" I ask Gran. She's done stranger things.

"No. That's Brigitta."

"Oh."

Gran shuts the door behind me and then slides her hands into the front pockets of her white slacks. She has on a white shirt with thin horizontal navy stripes, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She looks like she's ready for a day of sailing, not for simply sitting around the house, doing whatever it is she does all day, reading dusty old books and thinking about all her past sins. Gran smiles slightly, the corners of her mouth inching upward, but never quite reaching her eyes.

"This is a surprise," Gran says. I know she knows I've been avoiding her. I've never gone so long without coming over or calling, not since I entered my post-Cokie life. Not even after she threw me down the stairs. "Would you like something to drink, Grace?" Gran offers, not knowing what else to do with me.

"No thanks." I should have thought of what to say, of how to break the ice. I am useless in these things.

"Would you like to see what I've done outside?" Gran asks and charges out of the foyer, leading me to the back of the house.

I don't know what else to say or do, so I follow her. We step out onto the patio and Gran leads me across the freshly mown grass to a corner behind the swimming pool. There are two young trees still sitting in their buckets atop a cleared section of the flowerbed, the dirt neatly smooth around them.

"Crape myrtles," Gran tells me. "Dr. Gates gave them to me. He's digging up his backyard and putting in some kind of pond. He asked if I would like anything and I took the trees. He tried to give me some rose bushes, but you know how I feel about rose bushes. I had to move the rhododendron and I'll eventually clear some more space when the trees begin to grow. I'll put the purple one here and then I'll dig out that birch back there and replace it with the white one. I've done my best, but that birch is a losing battle. What do you think?"

I think she could have planted these trees and I never would have noticed the difference. But she watches me, waiting for my reaction, waiting for me to care. "I like the purple one," I tell her, lamely, and it's true. The flowers are a rich, deep purple and very pretty. "You picked a good spot," I add just as lamely. "You aren't going to plant them yourself, right?"

"Of course not. Felipe is coming tomorrow to do it," Gran replies. Felipe is the man who mows her lawn. "And I didn't dig out the rhododendron either. I'd be laid up in bed for a week if I tried to do that."

"Okay, okay."

"I'm not foolish," Gran says and slides her hands back inside her pockets. "You should have come by a littler earlier," she tells me. "You missed Corinne."

"Aunt Corinne was here?" I ask. I haven't seen Aunt Corinne since before I left for Fiji. I'm sure she's still ticked off about the phone call from my mother.

"Yes, she stopped by to return the leaf blower Cullen borrowed. She had the children with her, but left them in the car. She knows how I feel about children running around my house. I went out to the car though and gave Amber her birthday check. She seemed pleased."

I forgot about my cousin Amber's birthday.

"Corinne mentioned that you have yet to RSVP to Amber's birthday party. She thinks it's a bit rude," Gran informs me. When I open my mouth to protest, Gran says, "Don't worry. I never respond to the invitations I receive either." Gran wipes her brow with the back of her hand. "I'm melting. July is an evil month." And with that Gran heads across the lawn again.

Inside, Brigitta's still vacuuming upstairs, the sound drifting down the steps. Gran tells me to wait in the living room, so I sit down on the pristine white couch, stiff beneath me, and wait, looking about the room. Gran returns with two tall glasses of iced tea, hands a glass to me, and then takes a seat on the couch, leaving a large space between us. She takes a small sip and then sets her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. I copy her.

"Grace, dear," Gran starts, "have I done something to offend you?"

I glance at her in surprise. I am not surprised that she wondered, but surprised that she asked.

"What could you have done to offend me?" I answer.

Gran hesitates and I know that's exactly what she has pondered for the last week.

What am I to say? That I read the letter from Dr. Abbott? That I visited Elsa Matheson? That I know she watched my grandfather die? That I know she is a hypocrite and a liar? She is a sinner. She is who they tell us at church to watch out for.

It would be easy if I could just ask about the letter. It would be easy if I thought she would give me anything. I can understand about my grandfather. I probably would have waited and read a book, too.

Gran waits for me, hands resting on the knees of her white slacks. Her carrot-colored hair cascades over her shoulders. She is the same on the outside. I wonder how she looks on the inside.

Sullied like me.

"I've been so busy," I lie. "And you told me to get a life."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Gran replies. She leans forward for her glass. She takes a drink. She doesn't press the issue further. If she suspects anything, she'd rather not know.

"How is Aunt Corinne?" I ask.

"Corinne? She's fine. She brought me a new photograph today." Gran stands and crosses to the mantle, removing a dark wood-framed photo from its place in front of Aunt Margolo's graduation picture. Gran brings the photo to me and I accept it. It's a family portrait. Aunt Corinne and Uncle Cullen have one taken every year. My parents and I have never taken a family portrait, at least not with a professional photographer at a studio. Mom says family portraits are silly and awkward.

Aunt Corinne's dressed in a beige suit, the lights of the studio picking up the natural highlights in her short hair, making it appear much redder than it is in life. She smiles for the camera, corners of her mouth turned upward, showing no teeth. Aunt Corinne usually looks quite pleased with herself. Mom would be pleased to know, if I were speaking to her, that Aunt Corinne's gained a few pounds. Uncle Cullen's beside her, his dark hair longer than Aunt Corinne likes, flashing a very bright, white smile for the camera. He has a prominent chin that my mother calls "frightening". My little cousins mostly resemble Uncle Cullen without a hint of red in their dark hair, although my cousin Troy has Aunt Corinne's old ears. They all have Uncle Cullen's chin.

"In August, Corinne and Cullen are going on a cruise with a couple from their church," Gran says, hovering beside the couch. "They're going to the Bahamas."

I've been to the Bahamas. "Are the kids staying with you?" I ask Gran. Aunt Corinne doesn't believe in nannies.

"Heavens no!" Gran exclaims. "Corinne knows better than to ask. Cullen's mother is coming from Fairfield."

"Aunt Corinne's ears still stick out," I tell Gran, handing back the picture. I hold my own grudge against Aunt Corinne that flares up sporadically. She never should have told me that my parents didn't want me.

Gran peers down at the picture. "I should hope not," she says, somewhat indignantly. "Ian paid a lot of money to have them fixed."

Gran places the frame back on the mantle, again crowding out Aunt Margolo. Gran doesn't seem to notice. She returns to the couch, unbothered, and reclaims her seat. I continue looking behind me, at the mantle and the shelves beside it, neatly cluttered with picture frames. I see what always should have been obvious to me, but only jumps out now as my eyes sweep over the faces, some faded, some new.

"You don't have any photos of Grandfather," I observe.

"I know what Ian looked like," Gran responds, flatly.

I turn back to her. I recognize my opening and charge through.

"What happened to all his pictures?"

"I put them away somewhere. I suppose I could look for them if you want to see them."

"No, no, that's okay." I've seen pictures of him before. There are some in my mother's photo album and more on the walls at Aunt Corinne's.

"What did you do when Grandfather died?"

"I hired a decorator and bought a car," Gran promptly replies.

"What? No, I mean, what did you do when he died. He died here, right? He had a heart attack?" I ask, feigning stupidity.

Gran regards me, blankly. "Why would you want to know that?" she asks.

I shrug. "I'm wondering what it's like to be in an emergency. I don't know what I'd do. I'm curious," I lie. Then I add, "I think I would be useless."

Gran still stares at me with that blank expression on her face. I wonder what she's thinking. I can never guess.

"Ian had just returned from a tennis match at the club," Gran answers in a measured tone. "He had a heart attack in the library. It wasn't a shock. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. It's a miracle he lived as long as he did." Gran pauses. Everything about her has gone flat. "Elsa called the ambulance. There was no point. Ian was dead. Some of the neighbors came rushing over like it was some sort of crisis – Charles and Rita, and Will O'Hare from next door. Such a fuss over nothing."

"Well, he was dead."

"Everyone dies. There's not anything special or noteworthy about it."

Gran fainted when she found Aunt Margolo. There's something noteworthy about that.

"When I finished speaking with the paramedics, I called Cullen at his office and told him to tell Corinne – "

"You didn't call Aunt Corinne yourself?" I ask. I would never forgive my mother if she delegated that to someone else.

"No. I was in no mood for hysterics," Gran replies and surprisingly, continues on, for once not so reluctant to speak up. Perhaps, she takes delight in it, remembering that my grandfather is dead, remembering how it all unfolded after she watched him die. "Then I called Fay and asked her when she could come."

"You called Mom?" I ask, which surprises me more than anything else. Gran calls me. Sometimes she calls my father. She doesn't call Mom. "Not Dad?"

"Why would I have called Harold? Fay wasn't going to have a breakdown over Ian. They barely spoke."

"And then what happened?"

"Fay took the train in and we buried Ian," Gran replies. "Then I hired a decorator and bought a car."

"What about Elsa?"

"She retired. We've been over this before."

"Do you ever visit her?"

"No, I do not. She's lost her mind and I don't care to see her like that." Gran crosses her legs and folds her hands over her knee. "You are the nosiest girl."

"Curious," I correct.

Gran shrugs. "Curious, nosy. It's the same difference."

"I thought elderly people liked talking about the olden days," I reply. My father's Aunt Muriel in Maine never shuts up about the past.

Gran snorts. "I'd hardly describe myself as elderly," she informs me.

While seventy-two isn't as old as eighty-two or ninety-two, it's still…old. Although Gran's aging quite gracefully thanks to the subtle work she's had done around her eyes and under her chin. Her face is smooth and younger than her years, but still, she is old.

"You don't look elderly," I tell her.

"I shouldn't," she says and a hand flutters to her neck, pressing against the tight skin. Then it floats back down to her knee. "Dr. Irving is a miracle worker, much better than any Manhattan doctor. But he'll be long dead before you ever need him, Grace, dear. You'll stay young and beautiful like Fay. I doubt Dr. Irving could do anything about your forehead though."

My jaw drops slightly.

Gran picks up her iced tea and takes a sip. "Would you like a cookie, Grace?" she asks me. "Brigitta bought some at a bakery in New Hope."

"No, I don't want a cookie."

"Maybe later," Gran says and smiles vaguely. "Would you like to work on your summer reading? What book are you reading now?"

"The Portrait of Dorian Gray. And I don't need any help. It's dumb, but I think I get what's going on."

"I think you mean The Picture of Dorian Gray."

I shrug.

"And it's not dumb at all! It's wonderful! I have a copy in the library, of course. I could read the book again and we can discuss it when you're finished. In fact, I believe I have an annotated copy in the library. I can show it to you…" Gran leaps up and dashes toward the library. Not so old, maybe. She returns a minute or so later with a paperback book in her hands. "There's a very interesting analysis at the end of the book that you may find helpful," Gran tells me, sinking onto the couch beside me.

"Can you see all right?" I ask her. "My enormous forehead isn't blocking the light?"

"No, I can see just fine," Gran answers. "Look here…"

I don't care about the stupid book.

"Do you like my father?" I ask Gran.

"I have no problem with Harold," Gran replies, not taking her eyes off the book.

"But you like him better than my mother?"

"What does that have to do with Oscar Wilde?"

"Who?"

"The book, Grace."

She only cares about books.

I slump back against the couch cushions.

"Sit up straight," Gran orders. Then she slaps my bare thigh.

"Why are you hitting me?" I demand, crossly.

"Because you're slouching. It's what I did to Margolo," Gran explains and slaps my thigh again.

"And you thought that would help?"

"Sit up straight, please."

Grudgingly, I pull myself up. I don't want her to slap me again. Her palm stings red on my white thigh already.

"Are you interested in this book or not?" Gran asks.

"No."

Gran gingerly places the book on the coffee table. "Maybe later," she says. She sits back, but doesn't move away from me on the couch, doesn't open up the space. She recrosses her legs and refolds her hands and regards me with that blank expression.

"Don't you want to know why I asked about my father?"

"You'll tell me if you want to tell me," Gran replies.

Of course.

"Dad thinks I'm weird."

"Harold told you that you're weird?"

"Not exactly. I overheard him tell Mom."

"You were eavesdropping."

"No," I answer, tartly. "Do you think I'm weird?"

"I think all teenagers are weird," says Gran. "But you're not any weirder than the rest. You ask a lot of questions though. Have you been asking Harold questions?"

"No," I say. It never occurred to me that I should ask him anything. Maybe he knows things. But he'd just rat me out to Mom if I asked.

"Have you done anything particularly bothersome to make him say that?"

"No," I say, which isn't exactly the truth. I just figure Dad doesn't pay attention. "I haven't done anything."

"Hm."

"He said I'm strange and odd and gullible. I'm not gullible." And he called Gran deranged and I have to wonder why.

"You must have done something for Harold to say that. It isn't like him to toss around unfounded accusations," Gran tells me, even though she should be on my side.

It's true, though, that my father is usually quite fair. It makes me wonder about Gran even more.

"Was Mom weird when she was my age?"

Gran rolls her eyes dramatically.

I don't know if that's meant to be an answer.

"Did Mom ever steal a dog?" I try again.

"Fay doesn't like dogs," Gran replies. Gran turns around on the couch. "Speaking of which…where is Penelope?" Gran asks, more to herself than to me. She snaps her fingers. "I locked her in the closet." Gran rises and leaves the room.

"The closet!" I call after her.

I hear a door open at the back of the house, followed by a long string of sharp yips, and Gran's raised voice shouting, "Down, Penelope! Down!" then the back door opens and closes. Gran returns, brushing off her white pants. She opens her mouth to speak.

"I know," I interrupt before she can begin. "You don't know why Aunt Corinne thought you needed a dog."

"She meant well, I suppose," Gran says and sits down, leaving space between us. "It's almost time for General Hospital."

I'd forgotten about General Hospital. Usually, in the summertime, I watch almost every day at Gran's and during the school year she tapes it for me. I haven't watched much this summer. It hasn't seemed very important.

Gran picks up the remote and turns on the television. The television is already set to ABC. Gran hardly ever watches television, except for those boring stations like the travel channel or something. She'd never watched a soap opera before I started coming around.

"I don't know what's happening," I inform Gran.

"I'll fill you in," she promises.

I sit back and watch. Gran speaks over much of the dialogue, but I am lost regardless. Afterward, Gran makes me go into the kitchen where she feeds me cookies and lemonade. She rambles on about books. Then I watch from the back door as she follows the pool guy around the swimming pool, pointing things out to him and shaking her head. I have never seen her use the pool.

When it's time for me to leave, Gran walks me to the front door. "I'm glad you stopped by, Grace, dear," she tells me. "Will you be over tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll watch for you," Gran says, placing a hand on the small of my back. She turns her head and lightly presses her lips against my right temple.

Sometimes she acts so much like a grandmother that I am almost fooled.

I return home to a silent house. The light flashes on my answering machine. Mari has abandoned hope, written me off. Dad has left two messages and Mom one in between his, wondering where I am and how my day is going. I slam a finger on the delete button. Then Dawn's voice streams from the machine, telling me to call at once - she too has spent the day with her grandmother.