Gail, dreaming, floated on her back far out at sea, watching funny cloud formations, and sighed contentedly, until ringing interrupted her dream. Awakening in the moonlight, she groped toward the beaded lamp and picked up the princess phone. “Hello?” Against the air conditioner’s hum, her voice was fuzzy with sleep. There was no answer, just breathing.
“Who is it?” she asked, apprehensive.
A young girl said timidly, “Gail? It’s me...Skippy.”
Gail checked the glowing alarm set for 7:00. “It’s two a.m.! What do you want?”
“I’ve run away again from the group home. I’m in Long Island. Can I come over, please?”
Gail glanced at her sleeping husband, sprawled beneath the patchwork quilted bedspread. From the dresser with its lace runner wafted the sweet scents of a cranberry candle with vanilla potpourri. Her mouth felt cottony.
“Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.”
“All right. Get here as fast as possible.”
Hanging up, Gail studied her husband’s fair, plump cheeks, dark blond curls, and magnificent golden eyelashes pressed tightly together. Her adorable cherub. She longed to squeeze him. Instead, she shook him until he stared at her, his blue eyes glazed from sleep.
“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked sourly, sitting up. He scanned the small bedroom and beyond to the open door of his studio.
“Skippy.”
He peered at the clock. “My God.”
To ensure he remained awake, she watched him don baggy trousers and a tee shirt that read: Life is Short, Art is Long. Then, wearing her terry cloth robe, she entered the wallpapered living room with its pine furniture bought on sale. She switched on the wrought-iron chandelier and the petal-shaped sconces flanking the brick fireplace. Seated in the rocker, her back resettled against her crocheted afghan, she fought distress, as during Skippy’s previous nocturnal visits.
Danny, yawning, plopped into the nearby wing chair, opposite the curved coffee table. Wondering when the teenager would arrive, they sipped fresh-perked coffee and waited, Danny reading The Village Voice for art openings while Gail scanned Backstage for casting auditions. Occasionally, they exchanged a warm glance, as if they’d just met at that art exhibit seven years ago.
Blinking to stay awake, Gail shifted toward the foyer’s palm fronds caressing Danny’s impressionist painting of Skippy, and remembered her first visit at age nine. Surprisingly, the child had taken the Philadelphia-New York bus by herself; the driver kindly walked her to Danny’s Murray Hill apartment. Answering the doorbell, Gail had smiled at her with her pixie hairdo, serious brown eyes, and guarded smile. Despite Hilda’s slovenliness, her daughter had worn a clean jumper, plaid coat and beret, and polished Mary Jane shoes. In an arm she cradled a Raggedy Ann doll. She pressed the doll against her chest. “Is my Daddy here? Oh, I see him!” She rushed into the living room.
Danny, beaming, picked her up. “How’s my curmudgeon today?”
“Curmidge! Curmidge!” Skippy giggled when he tickled her underarms.
“Gail, honey, could you get Skippy some milk?”
Gail rushed to set a glass on the coffee table, but felt isolated from the pair laughing on the floral sofa.
Danny, sobering, had questioned Skippy. “If your mother’s boyfriend stays over, where do you sleep?” The child remained silent, staring at Danny’s painting of Gail hanging above the fireplace: tall and willowy at age twenty-five, her long black hair cascading over a hooded sweater and pleated skirt.
“Answer me, honey,” Danny said.
“On a mattress outside in the hall.”
“My God!” Danny, flushing, turned toward Gail. “You see why we must pursue custody?” He glanced at the child whispering to her doll. “You know I raised her until she was five, and I love her. Hilda’s become incompetent; paranoid.”
But they’d been denied custody. Despite Hilda’s deterioration, the wadded hair, the torn clothing, she put up a fierce legal battle to retain her only child, and Skippy had wanted to stay with her mother.
Gail then remembered Skippy when eleven: a waif with a strange half-smile, unable to make decisionsÑvanilla or chocolate... pink or blue pajamas. “You pick it,” she’d said sullenly. A child who never spoke unless spoken to, expressed no fear, no hate, no enthusiasm, no love...whose silence sometimes seemed deafening. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Skippy had laughed at those absurd television horror films, and excitedly hugged Gail with “Thanks!” over her birthday gift, ice skates. Surely, Gail thought now, she could raise a teenager with emotional problems, the way her Illinois grandmother had raised her after her father died and her mother abandoned her.
An hour slipped past. The fourteen-year-old finally rang the doorbell, her narrow shoulders slumped from exhaustion; she lugged a heavy shopping bag. A dirty shift hung on the slender frame, the bobbed brown hair disheveled. “Hi,” she responded to their hello, and headed toward the sofa. She leaned against the fringed cushions, her shopping bag thudding against the braided rug protecting the parquet.
A heavy stillness prevailed while the couple observed the child focused on the rug, perhaps preparing herself for questions, explanations, scolding. But I won’t lose my temper, Gail thought. No, we’re sensible adults. We can handle a troubled child.
“Why did you run away this time?” Danny finally asked.
The girl paused, as if pondering how to phrase her anxieties. “During group therapy, Mr. Williams’s assistant called me illegitimate.” She contemplated her ragged nails. “He told me you married Hilda so I’d have a father figure.” Skippy nervously twisted a hair strand, and suddenly leaned toward him. “Are you my real daddy?”
He replied slowly, “When I met Hilda at a party, she was fifteen years older than I, attractive, and pregnant. She’d been alienated from her family, and wanted you very badly. I’d just graduated from college, full of ideals about painting and art. Well, I thought it was a noble thing, marrying her to give you a name and be a father. I would have told you sooner, but you were too young.”
The girl nodded thoughtfully, an index finger tracing the sofa’s floral patterns. “Who is my father? Did you ever meet him?”
“Hilda slept around so much, she wasn’t sure.”
“Oh.” Skippy stared at the mantel’s pitcher of pink peonies between pewter candelabra.
Danny shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly, Gail thought. But why didn’t Skippy cry? Get it over with. It made Gail feel awkward. “How about a tuna fish sandwich?” she asked, hoping to convey sympathy.
“I’m not hungry,” Skippy replied. She twisted the friendship ring on her third fingerÑanother birthday gift from themÑand turned toward Danny. “Hilda used to hint you weren’t my daddy, but ask her outright, and she says no.” A fierce anger flared unexpectedly in the girl’s eyes and just as quickly died. “May I have some milk, please?”
Rising, Gail reminded herself that Skippy had repeatedly refused to live with them; her unhappiness wasn’t their fault. But they should do something! She poured milk in the kitchenette while Danny questioned the girl.
“Why didn’t you call sooner? What were you doing in Long Island?”
“Dolores... an older friend of mine at the homeÉhad some Puerto Rican friends, boys, living near there. After dinner, we picked up more Puerto Rican boys and drove around ‘till we left Pennsylvania and got to New York about ten o’clock.” Skippy paused, twisting the ring, and continued. “Well, one of the Puerto Ricans asked Dolores if she wanted to sleep at his place in Jamaica and I figured oh, boy, I don’t want any of that business so I said let me out here please, and called you.” Leaning back, as if drained by the long explanation, she sipped milk.
Gail seated in the rocker, said, “Skip, what happened between ten o’clock last night and two this morning?” The Spanish Inquisition, she thought wryly. The girl plucked a tissue from the end table box, folded the tissue and placed it on the coffee table doily, and set the glass atop the tissue. “Well?” Gail asked.
“I told you.” Their eyes met; Skippy shifted her gaze to Danny. “I’m so tired... I can’t remember.”
“Finish your milk,” Danny said in a warm, fatherly way, as if trying to put the girl at ease.
She sipped slowly, perhaps stalling.
Gail, determined to learn the truth, said, “Skip, what were you planning to do in New York? Finish school here, or what?”
“I was going to be a waitress. Yeah, we were all going to get jobs. Only Dolores was very depressed. She just broke off with her boyfriend, and that’s why she wanted to leave the home. She kept mentioning suicide.” Skippy gazed at her nails.
“Why do you pick friends like Dolores?” Danny said, exasperated. “People like that certainly can’t do you any good.”
“She’s not really a friend... I mean, I hardly knew her. Anyway, I wasn’t going to stay with her forever.”
“Then why did you go to Jamaica?” Gail asked gently, glad to receive some information, at last.
Skippy looked up and said solemnly, “Well, see, I wanted to get to Hilda in Philly, but Dolores’s friends wouldn’t drive back to Pennsylvania, and I didn’t have any money, so we got to Jamaica and... I called you.”
“In other words,” Danny said coldly, “you hadn’t planned on coming here at allÑjust as a last resort.”
Skippy twirled her hair hard, making a knot. “I didn’t have any other place to go,” she said, sounding desolate.
“Do you want to live with us or not?” Danny’s voice had risen an octave.
“I don’t know,” the girl said softly.
“Well, what do you expect us to do!” Danny finally spat out. “Hilda makes you sleep on a mattress on the floor like an animal while she entertains boyfriends, but when we tried to get custody, you told the judge I couldn’t take care of you.” Angrily he turned to Gail. “How do you like that! A painter must be irresponsible.” He stared past the ruffled curtains at the shadowy brownstones across the street.
The girl sat still, her face frozen in an eerie half-smile.
“Hilda probably brainwashed her,” Gail said. “She’s bitter about the divorce, and determined to wreck our marriage. You said she became paranoid.”
Remembering Hilda at Danny’s divorce, Gail felt revulsion. That squat, fat
woman of fifty, wearing a filthy skirt and blouse, Skippy’s mother! No drama, Gail reminded herself, she must stay calmÑfor the child’s sake.
Danny swiveled to face Skippy. “We must know: do you want to live here?”
The girl’s fingers curled in her lap. “If I...go back...they might send me to reform school...”
“Suppose they don’t?”
“I don’t know...”
“Mr. Williams told us about your sneaking off after hours, God only knows where, and playing pranks on the other kids. We’re more than willing to take you, but it’s not easy. Although our apartment’s rent-controlled, my drafting job and Gail’s bookkeeping work don’t earn much. Yet, we’re willing to sacrifice and pursue custody because we love you. It’s up to you.”
“We really want you with us,” Gail said earnestly, trying to convince herself to please her husband.
“Mr. Williams treated us like prisoners,” Skippy said. “And he beat us... all the time... horrible bruises.”
Danny looked skeptical. “Let’s see them.”
“I put some stuff on and they healed.” Her thin mouth puckered in a pout.
They’ll never learn the truth with Danny’s sarcasm, Gail thought. Still, who could blame his impatience? Questioning Skippy was like a broken record: endless questions, polite answers, and learning no more than before.
Danny said eagerly, “Skip, we’ll turn my studio into your bedroom. A girl your age needs privacy. We’ll enroll you in a good school. Someday, Gail and I will be a successful actress and artistÑyou’ll be proud of us.” He paused. “We’re anxious to have you with us. Why are you breaking our hearts?”
The girl noisily emptied the milk glass, and set it on the tissue. “I don’t know. Honest.”
Danny shook his head in bewilderment. Gail smiled at him sympathetically. He was Skippy’s only father. Perhaps the girl refused because she didn’t trust themÑor anyone.
“I want to go to Hilda,” Skippy said. “Tomorrow. By bus.”
Danny’s pudgy hands trembled. “Look, Skip,” he said with a forced smile, “we’re not psychiatrists, but we know you need love and a good home. Haven’t I always given you sound advice?” She nodded obediently. “Sure it’s upsetting, living
in a group home with emotionally-disturbed children, but eventually we’ll wincustody and you’ll adjust to a normal life with us.” He paused. “Don’t decide now. Think it over. You’ll see that I’m right.”
Skippy’s body stiffened; her fingers drummed on the wooden sofa arm. The trio quieted then as wailing fire trucks pounded along a nearby street.
I should insist she live here, Gail thought guiltily. Then she remembered Skippy saying once with sincerity, “If I leave my mother, she’ll die.” Other memories surfaced: last summer, when they’d caught Skippy sniffing glue for kicks. Danny hadn’t scolded her, but they’d been upset. And two short years before that when Skippy developed bleeding ulcers after Family Court declared Hilda an unfit mother and transferred the child to the group home. Skippy needed themÉ But should they press for custody? There would be expensive lawyers’ fees, time lost from work, constant aggravation.
“It’s late, folks,” Gail said, exhausted. “Let’s finish tomorrow.”
During the flurried activity she transformed the sofa into a bed with extra blankets and a pillow from the foyer closet. While Skippy undressed in the living room, Danny followed Gail into the bathroom to chat while she brushed her teeth.
“I think she’s mentally ill,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to handle that.”
“She needs the psychiatric counseling at the home,” Gail said.
Later, lying against her husband’s soft, warm body, she suddenly sat up, listen-ing. Through the wall she heard muffled sobs. Poor Skippy... Gail felt terrible. She should comfort the child who’d just been dealt another crisis: Danny wasn’t her biological father.
“What is it?” he asked, rolling over.
“Skippy’s crying.”
“Oh, she’s just pretending so we’ll feel sorry for her.” He stared up at the ceiling, and whispered angrily, “She doesn’t love usÑonly her mother who treats her like garbage.” He closed his eyes.
In seconds, despite the emotional upheaval, Gail fell asleep, floating again, watching the same funny cloud formations. Except this time it was different, but why? Wait a minute. She couldn’t swim! The undercurrents became robotic hands, viciously pulling her under. Her arms flailed wildly, she gasped; the water filled her. I’m drowning, she thought. Her fright awakened her.
In the heavy silence, she rose and stood by the window, gazing beyond the gingham curtains at the tree-lined street, and shivered in her thin nightgown. She
remembered Kalil Gibran: “pride and vanity saith the preacher...” They could help Skippy by being loving parents. “I should have comforted her tears,” she whispered.
“Come to bed,” Danny mumbled, half-asleep.
“Soon,” Gail replied, gazing at the street. But a custody suit might drain them financially and emotionally. Why sacrifice their dreams to help a disturbed child who didn’t seem to care about them? Besides, despite Danny’s protestations, did he love Skippy? Probably when he’d lived with her, but that was nine years ago. Perhaps by now he subconsciously realized that Skippy and her mother weren’t family, really, but strangers. And that’s why Skippy, sensing the truth, refused to live with them. Gail nodded, and sighed deeply. With professional caregivers’ help, a resourceful child like Skippy could probably resolve her problems.
Relieved at her decision, Gail returned to bed, snuggling against her snoring husband, and soon fell asleep.
The next day Danny put Skippy on a bus for the group home, and the couple dropped their custody suit, convinced they’d done their best for the child. But two weeks later, while Danny and Gail were preparing for bed, Mr. Williams called from the home, his voice faltering.
“Danny? I have sad news for you about Skippy.”
“What is it?” Danny said at the bedroom phone, his body trembling. Gail, plaiting her hair, rushed to the phone and bent her head to hear the conversation.
“Skippy committed suicide this afternoon.”
“Oh, my God. HowÉ”
“She walked headlong into a moving truck. The driver didn’t have time to stopÉ She died on the way to the hospital.” He paused as Danny began weeping softly. “I’m sorryÉwe’re sending the body to her mother. If there’s anything I can doÉ”
“NoÉ Thanks forÉcalling,” Danny said. He dropped onto the bed’s edge, and held his head in his hands. “If only she’d stayed with us,” he sobbed.
Shocked, Gail embraced her husband. “Honey, it wasn’t our fault. She didn’t want to stay with us. We did all we could.”
He nodded, his blue eyes bewildered as he stared at Gail. “For some reason she didn’t want to stay.”
Gail coaxed him to go to bed, assuring him there was nothing more they could have done, and they’d get over it. But after learning of Skippy’s suicide, Gail never forgave herself.
