Duma Key

Same goes for you, Lin, I thought. I had a momentary image of how she'd looked at seven, when she'd been so sick Pam and I both thought she might die on us, although we'd never said so aloud. Back then Melinda had been all big dark eyes, pale cheeks, and lank hair. Once I remember thinking Skull on a stick and hating myself for the thought. And hating myself more for knowing, in the deep reaches of my heart, that if one of them had to sicken that way, I was glad it had been her. I always tried to believe that I loved both my daughters with the same weight and intensity, but it wasn't true. Maybe it is for some parents - I think it was for Pam - but it never was for me. And did Melinda know?

Of course she did.

"Are you taking care of yourself?" I asked her.

"Yes, Daddy." I could almost see her rolling her eyes.

"Continue to do so. And get here safe."

"Daddy?" A pause. "I love you."

I smiled. "How many bunches?"

"A million and one for under your pillow," she said, as if humoring a child. That was all right. I sat there for a little while, looking out at the water, rubbing absently at my eyes, then made what I hoped would be the day's last call.

vii

It was noon by then, and I didn't really expect to get her; I thought she'd be out eating lunch with friends. Only like Pam, she answered on the first ring. Her hello was oddly cautious, and I had a sudden clear intuition: she thought I was Carson Jones, calling either to beg for another chance or to explain. To explain yet again. That was a hunch I never verified, but then, I never had to. Some things you simply know are true.

"Hey, If- So-Girl, whatcha doon?"

Her voice brightened immediately. "Daddy!"

"How are you, hon?"

"I'm fine, Daddy, but not as fine as you - did I tell you they were good? I mean, did I tell you, or what?"

"You told me," I said, grinning in spite of myself. She might have sounded older to Lin, but after that first tentative hello, she sounded to me like the same old Illy, bubbling over like a Coke float.

"Mom said you were dragging your feet, but she was going to team up with this friend you made down there and get you cranking. I loved it! She sounded just like the old days!" She paused to draw breath, and when she spoke again, she didn't sound so giddy. "Well... not quite, but it'll do."

"Know what you mean, jellybean."

"Daddy, you're so amazing. This is a comeback and a half."

"How much is all this sugar going to cost me?"

" Millions, " she said, and laughed.

"Still planning to drop in on The Hummingbirds tour?" I tried to sound just interested. Not particularly concerned with my almost-twenty-year-old daughter's love life.

"No," she said, "I think that's off." Only five words, and little ones at that, but in those five words I heard the different, older Illy, one who might in the not-so-distant future be at home in a business suit and pantyhose and pumps with practical three-quarter heels, who might wear her hair tied back at the nape of her neck during the day and perhaps carry a briefcase down airport concourses instead of wearing a Gap-sack on her back. Not an If-So-Girl any longer; you could strike any if from this vision. The girl as well.

"The whole thing, or-"

"That remains to be seen."

"I don't mean to pry, honey. It's just that enquiring Dads-"

" - want to know, of course they do, but I can't help you this time. All I know right now is that I still love him - or at least I think I do - and I miss him, but he's got to make a choice."

At this point, Pam would have asked Between you and the girl he's been singing with? What I asked was, "Are you eating?"

She burst into peals of merry laughter.

"Answer the question, Illy."

"Like a damn pig!"

"Then why aren't you out to lunch now?"

"A bunch of us are going to have a picnic in the park, that's why. Complete with anthro study notes and Frisbee. I'm bringing the cheese and French bread. And I'm late."

"Okay. As long as you're eating and not brooding in your tent."

"Eating well, brooding moderately." Her voice changed again, became the adult one. The abrupt switches back and forth were disconcerting. "Sometimes I lie awake a little, and then I think of you down there. Do you lie awake?"

"Sometimes. Not as much now."

"Daddy, was marrying Mom a mistake you made? That she made? Or was it just an accident?"

"It wasn't an accident and it wasn't a mistake. Twenty-four good years, two fine daughters, and we're still talking. It wasn't a mistake, Illy."

"You wouldn't change it?"

People kept asking me that question. "No."

"If you could go back... would you?"

I paused, but not long. Sometimes there's no time to decide what's the best answer. Sometimes you can only give the true answer. "No, honey."

"Okay. But I miss you, Dad."

"I miss you, too."

"Sometimes I miss the old times, too. When things were less complicated." She paused. I could have spoken - wanted to - but kept silent. Sometimes silence is best. "Dad, do people ever deserve second chances?"