My Daughter
Amy slunk into her third floor apartment on the Upper West Side just after midnight. She could hear Rory's voice in the kitchen but she didn't stop to eavesdrop. She was too exhausted; too heartbroken. She sat on the toilet as her bath water ran, filling the room with caresses of heavy white steam. White, all around her: she thought of Graystark Hall. But Graystark Hall wasn't warm, it didn't hold her baby girl in tendrils of fairytale mist. Amy felt her face grow wet but she couldn't distinguish if it was steam or tears. She shut the faucet off and began to unbutton her blouse when the door cracked. "Not now, Rory."
"Your son wants to talk to you."
Amy paused, her third button halfway out the button hole, and swished past Rory into their bedroom. She picked up the phone, covered the mouthpiece as she breathed in, and as cheerfully as she could, answered: "Anthony?"
"Mom!"
Amy shook her head, still not used to the way American children didn't say mum. "Hey," she said, forcing a smile that she hoped would reflect in her words. "It's late. Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
"College students don't sleep, don't you know that? We drink Joe and we study!"
There was something strange about his tone. "Sounds like you've had one too many. Maybe you need some tea?"
"You're so British."
"Oi! Scottish!" Amy fell back on the bed. "And what's the matter?"
"What makes you think that?"
"I'm your mother," she scolded. "We have intuition."
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, softly, "S – I can't talk about it right now. Soon, though. Soon. I gotta go. Love you, Mom. Tell Dad I love him too."
"I will." The line went dead, but Amy held the phone to her ear until it began to beep. She set it into its cradle and pressed her hands to her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rory in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light rushing in around him. She covered her eyes with her hands.
It would never been soon for Melody.
