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“No, thank you,” he would nicely refuse.

Because Dan feared that he was being controlled.

Manipulated.

And when he refused her peace offerings, I saw Faith's features and stance wilt. I saw her hope deflate like a busted balloon.

And I remembered something I'd once read: “Never refuse a child's gift.”

Now I knew why. Yet, I understood Dan's raw nerves.

“She's not a child,” he shot back when I suggested he treat her more gently. “She's twenty-nine.” There was, in Dan, a touch of brutality when provoked. And I knew that it only surfaced when stress hacked away at him.

I admired Faith's resilience at such times. From one day to the next, she ricocheted from “I hate that jerk!” to “why doesn't Daddy love me anymore?”

“Just be nice,” I would remind her. “Respect him. He'll have to come around sooner or later.”

I saw her desperation grow. Her eyes shone more blue and intense. Her laughter and speech became more strident and intrusive.

I saw Dan's stress climb. Felt his detachment grow more impenetrable than ever.

Faith could not dig deeply enough to find “Daddy” anymore. He'd shut that door firmly. Instead, when she reached out, it was to an aloof stranger who met her material needs when what she really needed was a hug. Or a simple “I love you, honey.”

“How do I look, Daddy,” she would ask on the rare occasions she dressed up. “Do you like this dress?”

“Hmm. Fine,” he would grunt noncommittally, hardly looking at her. I could not even imagine how badly that hurt Faith because my own father never rejected me.

But I tried to understand where both of them were coming from.

Faith's presence was forceful … like she was limned with a misty light that brightened to blinding as she revved up. For Dan, laid-back and reserved, pragmatic Dan, she was too vivid, too booming. Too intrusive.

Too much.

At times, she was too much for me, too. But I was able to — from my maternal-reservoir — compartmentalize
me
in the midst of Faith's nuances and be conciliatory during the worst of times.

Dan's ability did not stretch that far. Perhaps his abused childhood limited him there. Whatever it was stunted him in that direction. He simply was not able to pigeonhole himself that way. I respected Dan and had to accept it.

Our family's critics are too many to name. We have engaged a spectrum of advisors from policemen to pastors to family and friends to professional counselors. The advice route starts at the police's stern “Do not be her enablers … kick her out. Let her serve time … wash your
hands of her,” and ends up at pastors' and counselors' urging that “everyone can change. Help her as long as she's trying to get her life together.”

Unfortunately, Dan got stuck in the first counsel and I was trapped in the latter.

Dan had, months ago, emotionally cut himself off from our daughter.

Enabler
became his chief negative word.

“Can't handle all this added responsibility at my age and with my work load.”

This followed by him kicking off his work boots and socks, showering quickly and tumbling on the bed, exhausted. “Is it too early to go to bed?” He would joke, meaning it.

“Nope. I'll bring your supper to you on a tray.”

And I would, with him propped in bed, so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open as he ate, sliding me affectionate smiles as I sat in the easy chair, eating with him while watching the news. Dan's asphalt company was taking hard licks with the current economy crisis and instead of retiring as he'd hoped to do by now, he was forced to lay off workers and push himself to help do manual labor he'd once designated to others.

My job as a local newspaper columnist did little to nothing to boost our lifestyle. Writers are notoriously underpaid. But the creativity gave me a sense of accomplishment.

Besides, I figured it warded off endless nervous conniption breakdown fits.

In the early dawn hours, the sultry August heat spell broke and a clash of thunder startled me awake. I squinted at the clock. Six-twenty a.m. Dan slept like the dead beside me as I snuggled and spooned against his back, rapturously listening to the rain that came down in pelting sheets. There was something about the sound that lulled and soothed me.

I wrapped my arms around Dan and nuzzled his neck. He began to slowly stir, then rolled over and pulled me against him. “'Morning, pretty girl,” he murmured and kissed me. I would remain ageless, in his eyes, his eternal
girl.
We snuggled and kissed some more. Then we made love. These private moments were precious. Rare.

Then, sated, we spooned together and dozed again, awakening only when the birds outside our window began to sing their cheerful salutation to bright sunshine that had broken through sometime during the early hours.

Dan tossed aside the covers and his feet hit the floor moving. Even with tousled hair and sleep-glazed eyes, he still looked hunky to me in only his pajama bottoms. “I've slept late.”

“You deserve it, honey.”

He turned and smiled at me, a lazy, flirtatious smile that went to my toes. “Don't look at me like that or you'll end up being even later.”

He chuckled, shuffled back to the bed and leaned over me for one more quick smooch. Then we heard Faith's footsteps upstairs as she moved about. “See?” Dan muttered bitingly. “No danger. No privacy.”

He turned and looked at me. “I can't help but resent that I've worked all my life for this time — for our time. And it's being stolen from us.”

My heart, so light the moment before, plunged. I covered it with a smile. How I wished Dan's every thought of Faith was not limned in disapproval. Then I resolutely pushed it away.

I cannot change anybody except myself.

I would do well to remember that.

Later that morning, Priss came by to visit. We sat at my kitchen table sipping coffee, scarfing fresh Krispy Kreme donuts Priss had brought and catching up on family happenings. “How's Faith doing these days?” she asked quietly. Faith had gone to a movie matinee with a friend, a rare occurrence.

“Oh, fine. Same old same old. You know Faith.”

Priss laughed. “Yeh. I know Faith. Do you know how much I love her, sis?”

“I do.” I looked at her and sighed. “You are so — so extraordinary, Priss. What would I do without you?”

“You'd do just fine, Deede. Remember what Mom and Dad always taught our Eagle clan to say when times got tough?”

I nodded and in unison, we pealed, “Eagles always fly high!”

I laughed, as she'd intended. “Do you ever miss teaching ?” I asked as I went to the stove and poured us more caffeine.

“No. Not any more. Earl makes enough money to keep up three females, don't you know?”

“You're lucky.” And she was. Earl's hardware store was successful enough that after her first baby's birth, Priss had retired from the classroom forever.

“Yeh. I am. Actually, with Ginger and Betty already into their own careers, that takes a lot off of us.” Her girls,
always close, now co-owned and operated their own gift shop in downtown Brattsville.

“You're lucky there, too. Wish Faith would find work.”

“Is she looking right now?”

“Not really seriously enough.”

“She does have health problems, though, Deede. I see her struggling to get it all together. I really do.”

I looked at her, truly grateful. “Thanks, Priss. I just wish — ”

“What?”

“I just wish Dan could see Faith as you do. To at least try.”

“He will, honey.” She reached over to take my hand. “Dan has his own problems. He's like Earl. Men see things more in black and white, I think. And really? Dan takes good care of Faith, financially. He may fuss, but he won't let her down in crucial times. You can take that to the bank.”

“He's trying so hard to make ends meet, Priss.” I measured cream into my coffee. “But even with my pittance salary, Faith's needs gobble it all up.” I added Stevia sweetener and stirred.

In drug addiction, Faith had, in the end, landed at the very bottom of the pit. It included alienating family and friends to criminal activity to support her drug habit.

“Priss, now, even after drug rehab all last year, she hasn't bounced back. You know that.”

“But she will, Deede. Give it time. She will.”

“Dan's finally thrown up his hands and turned his back. Emotionally. Now I feel completely alone.”

“Oh, Dan's there. Just in a different way.”

“But I need somebody I can talk to without setting off a Civil War each time.”

“You have me, honey. And let's not forget the Man upstairs. He's always there.”

“I know. That's what keeps me going. I hate this turmoil. I can't live with it. I'm so desperate for some respite, Priss.” Tears burned my eyes. “I can't even put it into words.”

“I understand, sis. I really do,” she reached across the table to squeeze my hand reassuringly. “In time, it
will
all work out.”

“Dan and I walk on eggshells much of the time in the name of peace. But now, it's not just Faith I tiptoe around. I have to soft pedal around Dan, too. Seems he has this knee-jerk reaction to any defense I put up in her name. So I have to approach him just right.”

“I know, Deede,” Priss said, wiping moisture from her own eyes. “But I think that's a man-thing, the tough love. That's needed here, too. But it'll get better. You'll see.”

The autumn morning started beautifully. Sun poured through the den's open blinds, and when I stepped outside, I smelled the crispness of fall in the air, tingeing the foliage and trees red, yellow and gold. I wrapped a sweater around my shoulders only to find, minutes later, that I did not need it. And somewhere deep inside me, a memory stirred of Dan's and my early courtship days and USC football games. I hugged the recall to my heart, whiffing again that unique bouquet of bonfire smoke blended with
Brut
and Prince Matchebelli's
Wind Song.

“Good morning,” I said to Faith as she came out on the porch with her cup of coffee and pack of Newport 100s.

“'Morning,” she mumbled, stone-faced. Faith does not do mornings. Her lighter's
click
emitted an angry punctuation.

But something about the day brought out the youngster inside me, the one who loves everybody and wants everybody to be happy. That child is into new beginnings.

Fresh starts.

“You sure don't look happy,” I gently teased Faith.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped and drew heavily upon her cigarette.

Something about the succinct rudeness crushed the joy inside me. Like a deliberate pin prick bursts a balloon, so did the rejection pierce my heart. A knot immediately clogged my throat and tears burned my eyes.

“I didn't mean to — ” I started an apology for being intrusive.

“Just leave me alone, will you? Please?” The cold words, echoes of Dan's to her, hit me like a tidal wave. Her rebuff was so unexpected that I had no defense.

I stood abruptly and said quietly, “I'll leave you alone, darlin' daughter. Sweetie pie. I won't bother you any more.”

You see, there is not one atom of Mildred Pierce in me.

And truthfully? Faith is not Veda, the daughter born into evil. At least, this version of Faith did not appear until drugs decimated the original.

As the door slammed behind me, I heard her cut loose with a diatribe of profanity. This time, I was the one who called Priss to come and get her.

“I'll be right over,” she said. “Since you two probably aren't speaking right now, I'll ring Faith — for her to get her things ready.”