Letter to My Daughter: A Novel - By George Bishop Page 0,52
scapegoat. Just look for the person with the lowest standing, someone a bit scruffy who lives at the edge of society. In Hester Prynne’s day they might have locked the culprit up in the stockade, or tarred and feathered him and run him out of town on a rail. We, though, being an advanced civilization, have a thing called the criminal justice system. Within a week, Greg Renfroe, big gentle Greg, was arrested and his tattoo parlor shut down. He was quickly brought to trial and sentenced to nine months in the parish jail on trumped-up charges of corruption of minors and moral turpitude.
And Sister Mary Margaret, the kindest, most compassionate nun at Sacred Heart, and the only one who, as far as I was concerned, was really worthy of her habit—what became of her? At the end of the school year, Sister M&M was quietly transferred to an elementary school in El Paso, Texas, on the Mexican border. In a letter to me that summer, she sounded amazingly sanguine about the whole affair. She was looking forward to meeting her new students, she wrote. From what she’d seen so far, any skills she had as an English teacher would be especially useful there. She counseled me to stick to the Romantics; they’d never let me down, no matter what anyone else said. She closed, “Be good, and if you can’t be good, at least be sensible.”
Well. That’s about it, the essentials anyway. It hasn’t always been a pleasant story, I know. I suppose that’s one reason I haven’t told any of this to you until now. And I’m afraid it’s fallen short of my promise to give you the “truth about life.” At best, I’ve only given you the truth, or at least part of the truth, of one life. But maybe that’s the closest any of us can get to knowing the big Truth.
It’s approaching midnight. Your father has made chamomile tea for us. He came in and rubbed my shoulders for a minute. He sits watching from the sofa now, sipping his tea, wondering when I’ll put down the pen. He looks at me curiously. Soon, soon.
My tattoo, thirty years old, has faded with age, but sometimes I swear I can still feel it throbbing, like it wants to tell me something. I seem to feel it now telegraphing a message as I sit by this window waiting for you to come home—a reminder, maybe, or a warning: “I shall but love thee better … I shall but love thee better …”
I ran into Greg again after that, by the way. It was in the admissions office at LSU, where I went to work while I studied for my BA. He had enrolled in the school of social work, and would drop by from time to time to say hello. He was hired as a counselor at Louisiana Training Institute, the place where they send juvenile delinquents. He’s still there, as far as I know.
And even today I’ll meet a charity case now and then. Soo Chee, Anne Harding, Christy Lee: we all turned out all right, every one of us. We pass each other at the mall, or pushing our shopping carts down the aisle of the supermarket. We nod and smile at one other like we’re sharing a secret. Look at us, the smile says. We survived. The scarred ones. The lucky ones.
Because it’s true, Liz. We’ve been so lucky until now. So lucky. I keep thinking of those poor women on TV, crying and shaking their fists in the air. It’s not for themselves they cry, you know. Mothers don’t care about their own pain, but for the pain of the son who was tortured, or the husband who was shot. The pain of the daughter who’s run away.
You never tell me, Liz, but I know. You’re fifteen, you’re a girl, so you hurt. It’s the fate of all girls, and it’s what in the end makes us women. Small consolation to you now, perhaps, but what else can a mother say? Things will be better. Things will be better. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, I promise.
Well. I’ll finish this letter now. I intend to leave the pages on your bed so you can find them when you come home. Maybe you’d prefer a new cellphone for your birthday, but this is what you’ll get. Know, though, that all this doesn’t begin to say how much I love you.
It’s never too late to change, Liz. We could begin now by simply deciding to talk to one another. That’s all, just talk. It’d be as easy as taking a breath. As easy as turning the page.
I hear a car approaching. Your father sits up on the couch. Is it you? It could be you. I imagine your return. Lights sweep through the living room as you turn up the drive, and we rush out to meet you. Tears, hugs, forgiveness.
Welcome home, daughter.
Love always,
Mom
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GEORGE BISHOP holds an MFA from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, where he won the department’s Award of Excellence for a collection of stories. He has spent most of the past decade living and teaching overseas in Slovakia, Turkey, Indonesia, Azerbaijan, India, and Japan. He now lives in New Orleans.
Letter to My Daughter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by George Bishop, Jr.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Hal Leonard Corporation for permission to reprint excerpts from Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me). Words and music by Norman J. Whitfield and Barrett Strong, copyright © 1970 (renewed 1998) Jobete Music Co., Inc. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Blackwood Music Inc. on behalf of Stone Agate Music (A Division of Jobete Music Co., Inc.). All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured Used by Permission
eISBN: 978-0-345-51975-7
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