The Sometimes Daughter

  Outstanding praise for Sherri Wood Emmons and PRAYERS AND LIES

  “From the first sentence, the voice of the narrator, Bethany, rings true and never falters. I loved the rich cast of characters, each with his or her own history, each distinct and colorful but never a caricature. Sherri Emmons has created a large extended family and put me down right in the middle of its messes and miseries. By the end of the book, I cared for every aunt and cousin, mother and sister, even the most troubled and dangerous. Prayers and Lies is the story of a family that knows how to love and forgive and get on with life.”

  —Drusilla Campbell, author of The Good Sister

  “Prayers and Lies is a sweet, revealing tale of family, friendship, long-held secrets and includes the all-important ingredients of forgiveness and love.”

  —Kris Radish, author of The Shortest Distance Between Two Women

  “When I was reading Prayers and Lies, the voice was so genuine, so sincere, I felt like Bethany was standing right before me, barefoot, earnestly telling me her story, alternately laughing, crying, wondering, confused, and scared. I was on the edge of my seat, listening, every scene coming into full, bright, Technicolor detail as one prayer was heard, one lie was shattered, one family’s raw, haunting life laid bare. I loved it.”

  —Cathy Lamb, author of The First Day of the Rest of My Life

  “Prepare to stay up all night reading! Sherri Wood Emmons perfectly captures the devastating impact of family secrets in her beautifully written—and ultimately hopeful—debut novel. With its evocative setting and realistically crafted characters, Prayers and Lies is a must read for fans of rich family drama.”

  —Diane Chamberlain, author of The Lies We Told

  Books by Sherri Wood Emmons

  PRAYERS AND LIES

  THE SOMETIMES DAUGHTER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The Sometimes Daughter

  SHERRI WOOD EMMONS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Outstanding praise for Sherri Wood Emmons and PRAYERS AND LIES

  Books by Sherri Wood Emmons

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART 1 - LIFE WITH MAMA

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  PART 2 - LIFE WITH DADDY

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  PART 3 - MAMA’S NEW LIFE

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  PART 4 - MAD WORLD

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Teaser chapter

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Copyright Page

  In loving memory of Lambrini Stergiopol, my second mother, who took me to the L. S. Ayres Tea Room and told me I could be a writer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  What I have discovered is that one of the best parts of writing a book is getting to thank the people who have helped along the way. And so ...

  To my fabulous editor, John Scognamiglio; my publicist, Vida Engstrand; and the other great people at Kensington Books—thank you for making it all possible.

  To my wonderful agent, Judy Heiblum, and the other good folks at Sterling Lord Literistic—thank you for working so hard on my behalf.

  To Patricia Case, Verity Jones, and Marti Steussy—thank you for reading the manuscript and for your helpful critiques and comments. The book is better for your efforts.

  To Shirley Aschen, who created and maintains my beautiful Web site, thank you.

  To my amazing circle of friends—Tina Burton, Mitra Akhavan Spicklemire, Resa Robertson, Rhonda Hooks Tyner, Maureen McCrae, JoAnn Kriebel, Elizabeth Winningham, and Kaye Edwards—thank you for keeping me sane and always being there. Special thanks to Mitra, for schooling me on Persian Bahá’í culture, and to JoAnn for sharing recipes from the L. S. Ayres Tea Room.

  To Mary Crenshaw, for researching those amazing Snow Princesses, thank you.

  To all the readers who wrote kind reviews of my first book, blogged about it, left messages on my Web site, and e-mailed me, thank you.

  To the funny, kind, and amazing women at the Mother House of the Sisters of Lorreto, in Nerinx, Kentucky, and to the wonderful people at the Chrysalis Retreat Center in Lynchburg, Virginia—thank you for your gracious hospitality while I worked on this book.

  To my parents, Thomas and Peggy Wood, who have always been there for me, even when I was trying hard to push them away, thank you.

  To my children, Zachary and Kathryn Spicklemire and Stephen Emmons, who make my life so much more fun and interesting, thank you.

  And to my husband, Chris Emmons, who makes me happy and loves me even though, thank you.

  I love you all.

  PART 1

  LIFE WITH MAMA

  1

  I was born at Woodstock.

  At two minutes past three on the morning of Monday, August 18, 1969, I made my squalling appearance in a tent pitched on a muddy field at Max Yasgur’s farm in rural Bethel, New York.

  My mother, blissfully stoned, put me to her breast and nursed me while Crosby, Stills, and Nash opened their now-famous set with “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.”

  And so she named me Sweet Judy Blue Eyes, even though my father told her my dark blue eyes would probably turn to brown, like his. Most babies are born with blue eyes, he said, but usually they turn brown after a few days. She would not be swayed. Sweet Judy Blue Eyes Webster is the name on my birth certificate. Mother: Cassie Skylark Webster. She changed her name from Cassandra Elaine when she married my dad. Father: Kirk Alan Webster. He did not change his name, despite my mother’s pleading.

  I have a grainy Polaroid photo to record the event of my birth. My mother’s blond hair hangs limp around her pale face; her green eyes are heavy-lidded and tired. She looks terrible. I guess that’s what three days with no baths and then birthing a baby will do to a woman. My father, wearing a ridiculous dashiki and sporting a scraggly beard, sits beside her on the ground, his arms wrapped around her tiny figure. I am wrapped in a Vietcong flag. My fleetingly blue eyes stare suspiciously at the camera.

  A few hours later, Mama took me to the pond to baptize me. My father trailed behind her, fairly certain that dunking a newborn in a cow pond was not a good idea but unable to stop the force of nature that was his wife.

  Hundreds of people cheered as my parents waded into the muddy water, then submerged me briefly in the shocking cold. Their yells drowned out my screams. My mother cried, then passed out.

  My earliest memories of Mama are in our little apartment on Whittier Place in Indianapolis. Daddy worked at a guitar shop and took college classes at night, so mostly it was just Mama and me.

  Our attic apartment was sparsely furnished with threadbare furniture—a faded blue futon, ratty wicker love seat, Formica table, and three red-vinyl chairs. The o
nly new item was a stereo, which constantly blared the music Mama loved—the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, Janis Joplin, and of course, Crosby, Stills, and Nash. She twirled me around the living room, dipping and spinning till she fell to the couch, dizzy and laughing. The music of Woodstock filled my days and my nights; the sweet smell of pot was the incense of my nursery.

  Mama had lots of friends, who variously lived with us for periods of time. I never wanted for a lap to sit in or a willing playmate. Sometimes we took our games outside, confusing the neighbors with our elaborate entertainments. Mama always made the rules, and she changed them at a whim. Sometimes we played at charades, other times we simply ran for the joy of running, whooping and leaping down the quiet side street, some adult or another stopping to swoop me up as I toddled along behind.

  In the summers, Mama set up an inflatable pool in the front yard and let me splash about naked ... until one of the neighbors said she’d call the police if Mama didn’t put some clothes on me.

  That night, Mama and her friend Derrick made spaghetti for dinner, sitting me in the bathtub naked to eat mine, so she could wash me afterward. I was three years old.

  Lifting me from the tub, Mama swayed slightly, her bloodshot eyes sparkling bright.

  “Come on then, my Sweet Judy Blue Eyes,” she whispered as she wrapped me in a towel. “Let’s go have a moonlight swim.”

  Running naked from the house to the wading pool, carrying me on his shoulders, Derrick laughed as he dropped me into the pool, then plopped down beside me, his black skin shining in the moonlight. Mama, equally naked, joined us, carrying two cans of beer. Derrick lay back and rested his head on the edge of the little pool, Mama lay with her head on his chest, and I rested my head on her stomach. We lay in silence, watching the stars blink in the dark sky.

  “Always remember, my sweet baby girl, rules were made to be broken.”

  Ten minutes later, the police arrived.

  I screamed as they hustled us back into the house, screamed as the officers watched Mama and Derrick get dressed, screamed as they handcuffed my mother and pushed her head down as they shoved her into the police car. I screamed as our neighbor from downstairs held me on the porch while we watched the police car pull away, Mama’s wide eyes staring at me from the back window. I screamed until Daddy came home from his class and retrieved me from the neighbor’s apartment, returning me to our own home, still strewn with the dirty dishes from supper.

  Daddy drove me to his parents’ house, where I spent the night crying, despite my grandmother’s hugs and shushing.

  The next morning, Mama arrived, laughing and unrepentant, to collect me. Grandma glared at her as she scooped me into her arms and danced me around the room. My world was safe again. Mama was home.

  That night, no music wafted into my room from Mama’s stereo. Instead, I lay awake listening to the unfamiliar sounds of my parents’ angry voices.

  “For God’s sake, Cassie!” My father’s voice shook. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking it would be nice to let our Sweet Judy Blue Eyes play in the water and look at the stars.”

  Mama’s voice was lower, but it had the tinny, sharp tone it sometimes took when she’d had a bad trip ... or a run-in with our next-door neighbor.

  “You can’t just traipse around naked in public,” Daddy yelled.

  “Why not? Why the hell can’t I traipse naked in public? That’s the way God made me! Being naked is the natural way to be.”

  “Maybe in Borneo, Cassie, but not in Indianapolis! Not with a baby ... and not with another man!”

  “God ... poor Derrick.” Mama sighed. “I can’t believe you couldn’t bail him out. He’s probably still sitting in that cell.”

  “Look, it was all I could do to get the money for you. I couldn’t very well ask my parents to bail out your lover, too!”

  “Not my lover, my friend. Derrick is my friend.”

  “Yeah, right,” Daddy huffed. “The friend you’re screwing!”

  “Look, Kirk, I’m your wife. That doesn’t mean you own me. When we got married, we both agreed ...”

  “We agreed when we were eighteen years old, Cassie. We were kids. We didn’t have a baby. When are you going to grow up?”

  “Never!”

  Mama’s voice grew louder.

  “Not if it means worrying about what the old bag next door thinks. I am never going to grow up, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Cassie!” Daddy was shouting now. “You have to grow up sometime. You can’t just keep smoking pot and drinking every day, and sleeping with whoever you want. You’re a mother now.”

  “Hush,” Mama hissed. “You’re going to wake Sweet Judy.”

  “Judy?” Daddy laughed. “That child sleeps through the damned music you blare every damned night! She’d sleep through a hurricane.”

  But Daddy was wrong. I wasn’t sleeping.

  “Look, I’m sorry you had to come bail me out. I’m sorry you had to borrow money from your parents. I’m sorry you don’t like the way I take care of the baby.” Mama’s voice sounded tired.

  “But mostly I’m sorry for you,” she said. “What’s happened to you, Kirk? You used to be so much fun. Now you’re just ... God ... you’re getting to be just like your father!”

  With that, the angry voices stopped, the front door slammed, and the music began. Soon, I drifted off to the strains of Paul McCartney singing about a blackbird learning to fly.

  2

  Just before I turned four, Daddy graduated from college. The picture Grandpa took that day shows Daddy in a black robe, smiling broadly. His hair is cut short and the scraggly beard is gone.

  Mama stands beside him, holding me. She is wearing a skimpy top and a brightly patterned skirt she’d made for the occasion. I’m wearing a dress made from the same fabric. I am smiling at the camera, too. Mama is looking off toward something else.

  “You need to put Judy in preschool,” Grandma said as we sat in her backyard eating grilled hamburgers after the ceremony. “She’s almost four. She needs to be around children her own age.”

  Mama just laughed, waving a fly away from my sandwich.

  “My Sweet Judy is just fine,” she pronounced airily. “She’s better off at home, with me.”

  “I don’t know, Cassie,” Daddy said. “Maybe she should be in preschool.”

  “I am not turning my daughter over to the thought police. She’s too young.”

  Mama squirted ketchup onto my burger and smiled down at me.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I might just keep my Sweet Judy Blue Eyes at home ... maybe I’ll homeschool her, you know?”

  Daddy laughed, but Grandma did not look pleased.

  “Cassandra,” she began.

  “My name is Cassie, Anne.” Mama frowned at her mother-in-law.

  “Whatever.” Grandma sighed. “You can’t keep the child at home forever. She needs to go to school.”

  “Why?” Mama demanded, raising a can of Budweiser to her lips. She drank deeply, then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “So they can turn her out at eighteen thinking like a damned robot?”

  “Come on, Cassie,” Daddy began.

  “No, Kirk. I’m serious. They take in these innocent children and beat all the creativity and free will out of them, so they can mold them into sheep ... sheep who won’t question authority, sheep who will follow their generals into war. That is not going to happen to Sweet Judy.”

  “You have to send the child to school,” Grandma said firmly. “The state says so. Besides”—she smiled at Daddy—“the school system didn’t do so badly by Kirk.”

  “Oh, Kirk.” Mama spat. “There’s my prime example! Look at how ... conventional he’s gotten!”

  Daddy laughed, but his eyes looked sad and tired.

  “Come on, honey,” he said. “A college degree doesn’t make me conventional. It makes me educated. And with a law degree I can do a lot more to help people than I could without one.”


  “You’ve sold out.” Mama rose, lifting me from the picnic bench. “You’ve sold out to the man.”

  With that devastating pronouncement, she carried me the four blocks to our little apartment, where she turned on the stereo and lit a joint.

  I didn’t know who the man was, although Mama spoke about him often. The man held people down. The man squashed people’s rights. The man sent people to war. I imagined the man must be like an overseer. Mama had told me all about slavery—how men with dark skin like Derrick had been slaves. And not just grown-up men; women and children, too, had worked for the man. And if they tried to run away, the overseer hunted them down and beat them.

  Mama told me all about it one evening, after we’d had a bad experience at the park. Mama had been pushing my stroller and Derrick was singing a Bob Marley song, and then someone threw a beer bottle from a passing car. The bottle crashed on the sidewalk at Mama’s feet, and a man yelled from the car, “Nigger lover!”

  So that’s why Mama told me about slavery and racism.

  Now, I couldn’t imagine why Daddy would sell anything to the man.

  “Don’t you worry, sweetie,” Mama said, plopping down onto the floor beside me. “I’ll always be here. I won’t ever sell out.”

  Later, when Daddy came home, Mama kissed him on the mouth, her arms draped around his neck.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said, smiling up into his brown eyes. “Your mom just sets me off, you know?”

  “She means well.”

  “I know.” Mama sighed. “But she worries at me all the time about Sweet Judy. I shouldn’t take her to demonstrations. I shouldn’t let her stay up so late. I shouldn’t tell her about the war and racism. No”—she waved her hands in the air—“according to Anne, I should treat Judy like a china doll and protect her from everything that’s going on in the world.”