Keeping Faith

How could he not care enough to ask about his daughter?

“Nothing changes, does it?” The words shot out before Hannah could think about them. “Your daughter’s doing fine, by the way.”

He stared at her. “My daughter?”

“Yes, your daughter. Who will be six on Saturday. Probably just slipped your mind, huh?”

“You…you ended the pregnancy. You had an abortion.”

Hannah blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Your mother told me you had an abortion.”

“My mother?” She gaped at him. “My mother told you that! And you believed her?”

“You were very upset the day you told me you were pregnant,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “You said we were too young. We had a fight and you left. When you didn’t come home that night, I went to see your mother. She said you’d gone away and she wouldn’t tell me where. But she definitely gave me the impression that you’d gone to have—”

“My God, Liam. Why would she tell you that? There was never any thought of having an abortion.”

“Obviously, that’s a question you’ll have to ask her.”

Dear Reader,

As a parent or grandparent, we want only the best for our children and grandchildren. But conflicting opinions can result in a painful and emotional tug-of-war. In Keeping Faith, six-year-old Faith is the center of a universe that includes her mother, Hannah, her grandmother Margaret and three aunts. All would do absolutely anything for her. And so would Faith’s father, Liam.

In this book I’ve tired to explore issues of trust and boundary setting, and the complexities—and, of course, the numerous joys and rewards—of the mother-daughter relationship.

I love to hear from readers and try to write back whenever possible. Please visit my Web site at janicemacdonald.com and let me know how you enjoyed this book.

Best wishes,

Janice

Keeping Faith

Janice Macdonald

To my mother, Dorothy, my daughter Carolyn and my granddaughter Emily.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

HANNAH RILEY HAD NEVER actually experienced a gun going off at close range, but when she opened the Long Beach Press Telegram Monday morning and saw Liam Tully’s picture, she figured the effect would have to be pretty similar. Around her, all sound and movement ceased. Oxygen seemed sucked from the room. The picture blurred.

Liam Tully? It couldn’t be.

It was. A little older than the last time she’d seen him—six years older, to be exact—but definitely Liam. Thin face, too thin to be conventionally handsome. Deep-set eyes. Terrific smile.

The caption beneath the picture read: Liam Tully, lead singer for the Celtic folk group, The Wild Rovers. The group from County Galway will perform next Friday through Sunday at Fiddler’s Green in Huntington Beach as part of a four-week California tour.

Hannah read and reread the announcement. Stared at Liam’s picture as though it might reveal something the caption didn’t. Stared at the picture and saw herself as she’d been the last time she’d seen Liam. Twenty-five, pregnant and scared to death. Of everything. God.

Carefully, as though it might detonate, she set the newspaper aside and smiled up at the dark-haired woman who had just walked into her classroom. Hannah stuck out her hand and searched through her brain, suddenly gone blank, for the woman’s name. Becker.

“Hi, Mrs. Becker.” She glanced at her watch. “You’re a little early, but if you give me a minute, I’ll find Taylor’s assessment results.”

Four-year-old Taylor had flunked a mock prekindergarten screening test two days ago. The real test, in which he would be put through his paces—skipping, hopping, wielding scissors and filling in the blanks to questions like “A bed is for sleeping and a table is for…”—was a few weeks away, but his mother had called to ask Hannah what could be done to improve her son’s performance.

As she retrieved Taylor’s folder, Hannah had an insane urge to propose to Mrs. Becker, a brittle-looking blonde in a black pantsuit, that Taylor be allowed to be himself. An easygoing child who delighted in running through the sprinklers on La Petite Ecole’s manicured lawn and showed little enthusiasm for mastering the alphabet.

She resisted the urge. Parents who paid thousands of dollars a year to send their children to La Petite Ecole, who crammed their kids’ schedules with extracurricular classes in early math and classical music appreciation, did so in order to crush the competition when it came time for kindergarten.

And, as Hannah continually had to remind herself, most parents—however misguided their motives might seem—really only wanted the best for their children.

Most parents.

She dragged her mind back to Taylor Becker’s mother, who had just asked her a question and was waiting for an answer.

“Sorry.” Hannah smiled at the woman.

“I was asking if there’s anything else we can do.” She hesitated, her face coloring slightly. “I bought him this darling T-shirt to wear for the test. I’m sure it sounds silly to you, but I started thinking that if he were dressed in a really hip shirt it might set him apart from the others.” Another pause. “We don’t want him to fail again.”

Hannah looked at her for a moment. “If I can give you a piece of advice, Mrs. Becker, I would strongly suggest that you don’t use the word fail. Especially to Taylor. And I’d also suggest that you try to relax. If he sees you’re stressed, he’ll get anxious and maybe not do so well. Children pick up on negative emotions.”

IT WAS CRAZY, but all afternoon—ever since she had read the article about Liam—she’d had the fantasy that when she got home, Liam would be waiting for her. At one point the feeling was so strong she’d actually picked up the phone to make an appointment at the beauty parlor—this was not one of her better hair days. And then, remembering that he was probably still a few hundred miles to the north, she’d put the phone down and revised the scenario. There would be a message to say he’d called. She could still recreate the sound of his voice. Even after six years, she could conjure it up. Let’s get together, he’d say in her fantasy. Let’s talk about what happened. I miss you, I still love you. But as she opened the front door, Hannah knew Liam wouldn’t be waiting inside and, as she stood in the kitchen doorway watching her daughter, she knew, too, that there had been no call.

Faith, a week shy of her sixth birthday, sat at a large wooden table in the center of the room. Brow furrowed, she was squeezing pink icing onto a row of cookies. A California girl, all tanned limbs and sun-bleached hair, worn now in a tightly controlled ponytail that set off her clear skin and blue eyes.

Liam’s eyes.

Children pick up on negative emotions.

Most parents only want what’s best for their children.

Liam wasn’t most parents.

Hannah didn’t need Liam in her life.

Faith didn’t need Liam in her life.

Children pick up on negative emotions.

Hannah consciously slowed her breathing, stayed in the doorway, smiling now as she waited for either her daughter or her mother, who was on the phone, to look up and see her.

Her parents had moved into the large Spanish-style house a block from the ocean in Long Beach just after Hannah’s first birthday and, of all the rooms in the house, the huge square kitchen figured most prominently in her childhood memories.

She’d learned to walk by pulling herself up to the cabinet edges, knocked out a tooth on a pantry shelf after roller-skating across the polished floor on a dare from her sister Debra. A large cast of dogs had eaten from various bowls that were always set out by the back door, and litters of kittens had taken their first breaths under the kitchen sink.

Nothing much had changed. After her father died, her mother had traded in the avocado-green appliances and ditched the old wallpaper with its repeating pattern of yellow kettles and orange teapots. The walls were peach now, or as Margaret insisted, apricot bisque; the refrigerator and stove stainless steel, but something was always in the oven or on the stove and, until last week when he’d gone to doggy heaven, Turpin, the family’s elderly black Lab, had still been eating from the bowl by the door.

The henhouse, her mother called it these days. Hannah and Faith and Margaret lived there. Sporadically, Margaret’s sister Rose and her own sister Debra came to stay. Helen, the youngest of Hannah’s aunts, had her own coop, a guest cottage behind the rose garden, but always joined them for meals. Males were conspicuously absent.

“Who needs them anyway?” Margaret would say. “We’re just a bunch of hens cooing and clucking around our baby chick.”

So while Margaret’s friends were dealing with the empty-nest blues and converting extra bedrooms into sewing areas, Margaret kept busy as she had all her adult life—cooking, cleaning and caring for her brood. “My family is my life,” she’d say when Hannah or Debra would urge her to expand her horizons with a part-time job or volunteering. “This is what makes me happy. My daughters and my granddaughter. Why would I want to do something else?”

If there were times when Margaret’s fussing and clucking made Hannah question the living arrangement, Deb made no secret of the fact that Margaret drove her nuts. Deb’s biggest fear was that she’d turn out like Margaret. “If you ever catch me acting like Mom,” she’d say to Hannah, “just shoot me, okay?”

And Deb in turn drove Margaret nuts. Deb was the problematic chick in the nest; prickly and demanding, always flying away only to return a few months later, torn and tattered but still defiant. Margaret had been thirty-eight when she gave birth to Debra and had once, in Deb’s hearing, referred to her youngest daughter as “an afterthought.” Debra had never forgiven her.

Still the relationship had a weird kind of synergy. Debra could tell herself that however screwed up her life might be, at least she wasn’t like Margaret, leading some nutso June Cleaver existence, ironing sheets and baking pies while her husband cheated with women half his age as Hannah’s father had done. And Margaret’s tales about her problematic daughter always got a sympathetic hearing from the women in her Wednesday Weight Watchers group. “I give Mom a sense of purpose,” Deb would say, only half in jest.

So, too, did Faith. In fact, Faith was so thoroughly the center of her grandmother’s life that Hannah worried what Margaret would do if she and Faith ever moved away. Not that she had any plans to do so. She was happy. Sort of, kind of, basically. A job she enjoyed—well, maybe she would rather be a landscape gardener, but somehow that hadn’t worked out. A guy she liked. Allan was sweet and thoughtful and if he didn’t make her heart beat faster, so what? Chemistry wasn’t everything.

More importantly, Faith was happy.

And if Liam didn’t care that his little girl was just about to turn six, that was his loss. Hannah tiptoed into the room and came up behind her daughter. Arms wrapped around Faith’s shoulders, she nuzzled her neck.

“Hey, baby. Who loves you more than anyone else in the world?”

“Ow, Mommy, you’re squeezing too hard and don’t call me ‘baby.’” Faith wriggled away. “Look.” She held up a large colored tin for Hannah to see. “Grandma bought me these cookie cutters. They have all the letters of the alphabet. See, I’m writing my name with cookies.”

“Wow, that’s terrific.” Hannah pulled up a chair and sat down next to her daughter. The cooking gene had skipped a generation, gone from her mother to her daughter. Both loved long days in the kitchen, Margaret’s cookbooks spread out across the table, the KitchenAid whirring. Impulsively Hannah brought her face up under Faith’s. “I’m the kissing monster.” She puckered her lips. “And I won’t go away until I get ten thousand kisses.”

“Momeee.” Faith pushed Hannah’s head away. “I can’t see what I’m doing.” Up on her knees, she began fishing small vials of silver balls and candy confetti from the tin. “Look. Grandma bought me all these decorating things. We’re having so much fun.”

“I can tell.” Hannah glanced over at her mother, still on the phone. Margaret, sixty, and the oldest of the three sisters, had wiry, gray-blond hair tied up with an orange scrunchy. From Margaret’s careful tone and turndowned mouth, Hannah guessed that the caller was Deb and that the crisis du jour was gathering strength.

“God.” Margaret carefully set the phone back on the wall holder, leaned against the sink and folded her arms across her chest. “I swear Debra will drive me to an early grave.”

“No!” Eyes wide and troubled, Faith looked at her grandmother. “I don’t want you to go to an early grave, Grandma.”

“Oh, honey,” Margaret laughed, and hugged Faith. “That’s just one of those silly things grown-ups say. Grandma isn’t going anywhere. She’s having too much fun with you. Did you tell Mommy what a great day we had? We shopped and baked and talked girl stuff,” she said, addressing Hannah now. “And next week—”

“We’re making all the cookies for Grandma’s friend’s party.” Faith sprinkled blue sugar onto a pink cookie and sat back to look at the results. “Six kinds. Chocolate chip, lemon bars and I forget the rest.”

“Oh, all different kinds.” Margaret started clearing the knives and spoons from the table. “Poor Bella, she’s got the garden club coming and she’s overwhelmed so I offered to make the desserts. Somehow I’ll manage to squeeze it between the birthday cake I promised to bake for Rose’s friend and…damn, I know there’s something else. Please God don’t let it be something I promised to do for Deb. She’s already upset because I forgot to ask what happened with that job interview she went on…” Margaret wiped the table and waited until Faith had gone to watch cartoons, then slowly shook her head at Hannah. “Tell me where I went wrong with Deb. Why can’t I do anything right for that girl?”

Hannah carefully set Faith’s decorated cookies into a tin, resisting the urge to bite into an extra letter A. Deb was twenty-two and she was thirty-one, but to Margaret they were always the girls.

“So what’s up with Deb now?”

“She says she’s moving in with Dennis.”

“The bartender who sells marijuana?”

“This isn’t funny, Hannah.”

“I’m not laughing, Mom.” Actually she’d been wondering whether or not to mention the news about Liam. “I thought she was through with Dennis.”

Margaret reached for a jar of hand cream on the windowsill and began massaging it into her elbows. Margaret was always slapping alpha hydroxy on her neck and face and complaining that everyone called her ma’am.

“I thought she was through with him, too,” Margaret said. “Now she tells me she’s moving in and when I start asking her about it, she accuses me of nosing into her business. I swear to God, I can’t win. Either I’m not there for her—her words—or I’m nosing into her business.”

“She knows she can jerk you around and get away with it.” Hannah reached into the cabinet for a box of chamomile tea. Easier to analyze her mother’s problems than to figure out why she kept looking at the phone and willing it to ring. “Listen, don’t we need to get this chicken going?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Margaret removed plastic-wrapped chicken from the fridge and carried it to the stove. “Rose said she had indigestion all night after that last thing you made.”

“Tuna casserole?” Hannah looked at her mother. “How could she get indigestion from that? I used the same recipe you always use.”

Margaret grinned. “Well, doll-baby, no one ever accused you of being Julia Child. Faith made me promise that I’d never get old because she didn’t know who would make the kind of food she likes.”

“Little brat.” Hannah shook her head. “I tried really hard with those potato skins she wanted.”

“I know.” Margaret’s smile turned conspiratorial. The chicken breasts flattened out on a cutting board, she began slicing them into strips. “Don’t worry, Hanny, you have plenty of other talents, my love.”

Feeling disgruntled now, Hannah resisted the urge to ask Margaret to name the other talents. She knew Margaret would list qualities like sweet and generous, which had never struck Hannah as much to crow about. They certainly hadn’t been enough to keep Liam interested. Margaret was back on Deb again.

“…and she just didn’t sound happy about Dennis, so all I said was I’d like to see her married and she immediately flew off the handle and went on and on about how she’ll get married when she’s ready and she’s not about to do something stupid like…well, you know what I’m saying.”

“Yeah.” Hannah put her teabag in a cup of water, put it in the microwave and stood passively, watching the seconds count down. She knew only too well. Something stupid like Hannah did when she ran off with Liam Tully, then compounded the foolishness by marrying him in a Las Vegas chapel, only to return home three months pregnant and on her own.

Debra could run off with an Elvis impersonator and set up housekeeping in a Ralph’s supermarket parking lot and no one would be surprised. But not levelheaded, dependable Hannah. If she spent the rest of her life in chaste contemplation, she would never live down what the family referred to as her Liam Lapse. Her father’s death from a heart attack had been blamed on it and Margaret, who had never previously touched alcohol, dated the start of her evening consumption of wine to that time. “We all suffered,” her aunt Helen frequently reminded her.

“Just talk to Deb, will you?” Margaret asked. “At least she won’t yell at you.”

Hannah took her tea from the microwave. The temptation to remind Margaret that it was up to her to work out her problems with Deb blazed briefly, then died. Even feeling as she did right now, kind of let down and confused about Liam coming back, her inclination was not to cause an argument. Ms. Congeniality, Deb called her. The downside was that Hannah often did things she didn’t really want to do. Like last Saturday, when she’d gone with her aunt Rose to the World’s Largest Singles Mixer because Rose hadn’t wanted to attend alone.

God, what a nightmare that had been. A guy with a toupee that looked exactly like a small furry animal napping across his scalp had refused to believe Hannah didn’t want to dance with him. She’d stood her ground, though, and eventually he and his furry friend had disappeared into the crowd. It wasn’t quite so easy to say no to her mother.

“I’ll talk to Deb,” she said. “This time. After that, you’re on your own.”

Lately, Hannah reflected, it seemed as if she and her mother had reversed roles. As a kid, Hannah had needed constant reassurance from Margaret that one day boys would pay attention to her, that the pimples would go away and that, as unlikely as it had seemed at the time, she would actually get breasts. Now she was constantly doling out reassurances to Margaret and monitoring her mother’s wine consumption much as Margaret had once sniffed for signs of teenage drinking. She hoped to God that by the time Faith needed monitoring and reassurance, Margaret would need less.

She decided not to say anything about Liam.

AFTER THE GIG, Liam shoved the sweaty clothes and boots he’d worn during the performance into a duffel bag and joined the other musicians making their way to the bus. The equipment had been packed up and stowed while he and a few of the others had gone next door for a couple of pints. The mike stands, lights and speakers. The guitars and drums, the audio effects and mixing console, T-shirts and merchandise. Packed up, stowed away, ready to start all over again.

In the bus, he sat up front for a while chatting with some of the others, then made his way down the aisle to the lounge in the middle. Yawning, he stretched out on one of the couches, hands pillowed behind his head. As buses went, this one was pretty plush. Microwave cookers and hi-fi. Mood lighting and couches. A far cry from the VW van they’d use in the band’s early days. That one had been reliable only for breaking down at least once a day.

But now they were touring internationally. The Wild Rovers, all eight of them. No chartered jets yet, but this wasn’t bad. Three days out and, as always, he felt the rhythm beginning to develop. Another day, another town. Pile off the bus, pile onto the bus. Stopping sometimes in the wee hours to traipse into an all-night place in the middle of nowhere for hamburgers and chips. Blinking in the fluorescent lights, bleary-eyed and half-asleep. Then back on the bus, collapsing into the bunk to fall asleep, rocked by the motion of the road. Waking to blinding sunlight creeping in around the black window shades. On the bus, off the bus. Set it up, tear it down. Different day, different town. He loved it. If there was a better way to live, he didn’t know about it.

Someone pushed his feet off the seat, and he looked up to see Brid Kelly, long red hair streaming down her back and skin so white that in the murky light of the bus she looked luminous. She had on jeans and a thin sleeveless top. If there’d been enough light, he knew he’d be able make out the outline of every bone in her rib cage. Brid could be a poster child for famine relief. He worried about her and not just—as she sometimes claimed—because he’d never find another singer who understood his music the way she did.

She was holding a large plastic bowl and a beer, which she held out to him.

“Thanks.”

She smiled and dropped down beside him. “How you doing, Liam?”

“All right.” He sat up and eyed the bowl. “Is that cabbage salad you’re eating again?”

“It is.” She waved the plastic fork. “D’you want some?”

He drank some beer. “Have you eaten anything but cabbage salad in the last three days?”

“I have.” She grinned. “Yesterday, I ate a carrot and three radishes.”

He shook his head. She’d nearly collapsed after yesterday’s show and he hadn’t bought her excuse that it was the heat. “You’re a skeleton, already, for God’s sake. You’ll make yourself ill, the way you’re going.”

“Ah, come on.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed his concerns. “I’ll be fine. Nice and slim for when I walk down the aisle with Tommy Doherty.”

“Tommy Doherty.” Liam swung his feet back up on the couch and over her lap. “You’ve been talking about walking down the aisle with Tommy Doherty ever since I’ve known you.”

“This time I mean it. I’ve had it with all this.” She dug her fork into the cabbage. “I’m ready to start making babies.”

“Another thing I’ve heard at least a hundred times.”

“Right, well, it’s time now.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“You’ll see, Liam. I’ve had enough of it. On the road for weeks at a time. What kind of life is it anyway? Always away from your friends and family.”

He didn’t answer. He’d heard her sing the same song so many times he could recite it by heart. She’d get back to Ireland and insist she was through. They’d have to find a new singer. But then plans for the next tour would get underway, and he’d see her wavering. The truth was, the music was as much a part of her life as it was Liam’s. She was every bit as addicted to the life.