recognized the familiar quote from Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire. She lifted her mug into the air, clicked it against his. “To the kindness of strangers.”
Liam’s smile was unexpectedly shy. “To finding your daughter,” he said.
EIGHT
IT ALWAYS STARTED THE same way.
With soft words and a seemingly simple request.
“Darling, come lie beside me for a minute,” her mother might say, welcoming Marcy into her bed, although it was almost noon. “I know you’re just a little girl, but you’re so wise and thoughtful. You understand so many things. Do you think you could help me out with a little problem I’m having?” Or “Sweetheart, you know how much I value your opinion. Come sit on the bed and tell me which dress you think I should wear for the party tonight—the red one or the blue?” Or “Marcy, my sweet angel. I know you’re much too young to be thinking about boys, but I need your advice about what to do with your father.”
Marcy turned over in her too-soft double bed in her room at the Doyle Cork Inn, wrapping the lumpy foam pillow around her ears to keep from hearing the exchange of dialogue that inevitably followed. But it was too late. Her mother was already beside her, whispering in her ear, asking for help she didn’t want, opinions she quickly discounted, and advice she never took.
“I think you should wear the red one,” Marcy might have answered, sitting on the end of her mother’s bed and watching her mother rifle impatiently through her closet, dragging clothes off their hangers and tossing them unceremoniously to the pearl-gray broadloom at her feet.
“You really think the red is better, darling? Why is that? Do you think I look better in bright colors? Does the blue dress wash me out? Does it make me look fat?”
“You could never look fat.”
The sudden threat of tears. “Do you think I’ve put on weight? Is that it?”
“No, I—”
“My clothes have been feeling a little tight lately, although you know, I think it’s all the manufacturers’ fault with their ridiculously inconsistent labeling. I mean, you buy the same size you always buy, and suddenly it doesn’t fit, and I’m wondering if it’s some sort of conspiracy, a conspiracy to confuse women, make them feel vulnerable and helpless, because you can never rely on sizes anymore. You have to try absolutely everything on. Which is very time-consuming and unnecessary. You shouldn’t have to try everything on. It shouldn’t be that way. You should be able to go into a store and pick out a pair of pants, for example, say you want a pair of pants, and you’ve always worn a size six or maybe an eight, there’s nothing wrong about being a size eight or a ten or even a twelve or a fourteen or a sixteen. There’s nothing wrong with that. What’s wrong is that the manufacturers are deliberately confusing women, they’re playing games with our heads, mind games, and they’re making us feel insecure about our bodies, making us feel fat when we’re the same size we’ve always been. We’re not fat at all. Do you think I look fat?”
“I think you look beaut—”
“I worry about Judith. She looks as if she’s put on a few pounds. She has great legs but she has a tendency to put on weight.”
“No, she—”
“I’m sure she’s put on a few pounds. Around the hips and thighs. And you can’t dismiss it as being baby fat anymore. Not when you’re almost fourteen. You’re not doing her any favors by telling her she’ll outgrow it. You have to tell her the truth. I told her that unfortunately she has the same body type as her grandmother, your father’s mother, not my mother, my mother was always very slim and elegant, but the women in Daddy’s family have all tended to pack on the pounds, especially around the hips, and Judith takes after them, poor thing, so she has to be especially vigilant, she can’t afford to get lazy, because society is very cruel to women who don’t take care of themselves. You always have to look your best. Designers don’t make clothes for fat people, I told her. And it’s not easy because the manufacturers are conspiring to confuse women, and it’s not fair. It’s just not fair.” The threat of tears became a reality. Her mother began pacing back and forth in front of Marcy.
“Mom, what is it? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“I’m crying because it’s so