The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(51)

Louise hadn’t stopped talking. “And there’s a new Anglo heritage center in Lincoln Heights. It just opened. They even have a play group for children Annie’s age.”

Dorothy frowned and poured her tea, which was getting cold and bitter, down the sink. She wearied of how Louise insisted on calling her granddaughter Annie. Louise even took it so far as to order a baby blanket and ceramic dishes for Annabel’s first and second birthdays, emblazoned with the name.

“An Anglo what?” Dorothy asked.

“An Anglo heritage club,” Louise said. “With the way the world is changing, I thought it would be comforting for Annie to understand where she comes from. Louis said she’s been acting up a bit. I even discussed it with her school and they said…”

“What? What did they say?” Dorothy felt on edge, especially since she hadn’t found an opportunity to discuss Annabel’s worrying behavior with Louis.

“Oh, they said she’s wonderful,” Louise said. “She’s so creative, just like her mother. They just want her to learn to color between the lines, that’s all, and I thought that some added structure might help. I mean, it’s one thing for a child to act out or go through a phase, have a flight of fancy, as they say, but it stops being charming and adorable when those odd behaviors define who they are as an adult.”

Here we go, Dorothy thought. Another episode of Passive Aggressive Theater. She’d learned to tolerate Louis’s mother because she was family and Dorothy knew from painful experience that families are like a school of sharks: it’s a miracle they don’t eat each other or simply swim their separate ways. Something compels them to stay together.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Dorothy lied. A feeble attempt to keep the peace. “Annabel’s doing just fine.”

“Hey, that smells incredible,” Louis said as he breezed into the kitchen for a bottle of sparkling water. “Nice to see the two women in my life getting on so well.”

“I think you’re forgetting somebody,” Dorothy said, and Annabel waved from the dinner table, which was covered with her drawings of ships and airplanes.

“I know you’re talking about me,” she said, then began coloring.

“I was telling Dorothy about a special class,” Louise said.

“An Anglo heritage club,” Dorothy informed Louis, her eyes wide, her arms folded as if to signal, You’d better catch up and be on my side of this discussion for once. “Quick question. Does… Annabel look Caucasian to you?”

“Wellllll…” Louis stretched out that single syllable as far as he could, and Dorothy knew that he was only waiting for his mother to come to his rescue. If she didn’t, he might be elongating that word until his face turned blue for lack of oxygen.

“I know she’s different,” Louise said with an inflection best used for statements like I know he’s in prison or I know they’re addicted to heroin. Her statement was more of an accusation and not one aimed at Annabel. Clearly Louise found fault with Dorothy.

“And she’s special, of course,” Louise continued. “I just thought that considering—and I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’ll just say it—you don’t know who your father was, Dorothy dear, and your mother has been gone for twice as long as Annabel’s been alive. If anything, I’m being optimistic for her future. This could be a clean slate for Annie. A fresh opportunity for her to learn about the other side of her family. Our side. The one that’s still here, still thinking about her potential, still looking out for her best interests in a world that might not always be so… understanding.”

“She is who she is. A precocious little girl. There’s nothing wrong with her,” Dorothy said, with startling conviction. “And I’m fine with letting her be a normal kid, who will grow up and figure out her own definition of who she is and what that means.”

“How’s that worked for you, dear?” Louise said as she poured pasta into the pot of boiling water. Then she looked directly at Dorothy. “How did that work for your mother—what was her name—Greta? Did she figure out who she was? Because the one thing she wasn’t, was a decent, responsible parent, or you wouldn’t be the way you are, now would you? Don’t you want your little girl to at least have a chance to be normal?”

Dorothy turned to Louis, who pretended not to hear, his attention turned to his phone. He glanced up absently. “What?”

Dorothy stormed off to their bedroom, which seemed fitting because as she looked outside all she saw were dark clouds. More rain. More hail. More howling wind lay in her future. As she looked out the window she noticed her reflection. I look like my mother. No, I look like the woman who died in that alley. I look like a ghost.

Dorothy tried to remember and felt an unusual craving—salty French fries with strawberry yogurt—what she’d craved when she was pregnant with Annabel.

“I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant.” Even as she whispered those words to herself, a part of her wanted to run to the nearest pharmacy to pick up an in-home pregnancy test. If I start having Braxton Hicks contractions, I’m going to scream.

Dorothy remembered reading about a woman who showed up at the emergency room at Harborview Hospital in pain, screaming, certain she was in labor. But when the doctors examined her, they realized she didn’t have a uterus. Her medical records confirmed the hysterectomy three years earlier. The poor woman ended up receiving the mental health treatment she badly needed, but lost custody of her children, a fact that haunted and terrified Dorothy as she touched her flat belly.