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"Thank you," I said, standing. "For telling me everything. I'm sorry you're so sick, and I hope it does make you feel better."

"That's sweet of you, child. Funny," she said, taking my hand and looking up at me, "you're the grandchild Mrs. Cutler would want the most, and you're the one she gave away."

16

PRIVATE COVERSATIONS

I returned to the hotel slowly, my head spinning, my whole life whirling by. Every few moments I would stop the wheel of fortune and read off something that now made sense—Momma's last words in the hospital, asking me not to hate her and Daddy, my grandmother's unhappiness at my return, my real mother's cowardice and nervous condition—all of it began to fall into place to create a picture that I didn't like, but that at least made sense.

Lunch had just ended at the hotel. Guests were meandering about the grounds, sitting on the front porch, enjoying the beautiful day. Younger guests were at the tennis courts, and many had gone to the pool. Across the way at the docks other guests were getting into and out of boats that took them for scenic coastal rides. There were smiles and laughter all around me. I was sure I stood out because of the clouds that hovered over me and cast dark shadows over my face.

But I couldn't help it. The bright sunshine, the warm ocean breezes, the happy peal of laughter coming from children, the excitement and energy of the tourists—all of it only pointed up my own sadness. Cutler's Cove was no place to be depressed, I thought, especially not today.

My grandmother was sitting in the lobby smiling and talking to guests. They laughed at something she said and then listened closely as she went on, their attention glued to her as if she were some celebrity. I saw the way other guests were drawn to her, eager to listen. She didn't see that I had entered, so I was able to look at her without her knowing it.

But suddenly she set eyes on me, and her expression frosted. I didn't turn away first. She did. Her smile returned as she continued to talk to her guests. I proceeded through the lobby. I had something to do before I would speak with her, someone else to speak with first.

Clara Sue was behind the front desk. Some of the teenage guests were standing there and talking to her. They all laughed, and then Clara Sue turned my way, her face full of curiosity and without any remorse.

But I didn't care about her right now. Right now she was insignificant to me. I ignored her and walked across the lobby. She made some snide remark about me, I'm sure, because a moment later she and her friends laughed even louder than they had been laughing. I didn't look back. I went to the old section and hurried through the corridor to the stairway.

There I paused, and then I walked up slowly, my eyes fixed ahead of me, my determination building with each step. All I

could hear were Momma's last words to me in the hospital; all I could see was Daddy with his head bowed in defeat when the police had arrived.

What I was about to do I was to do for them.

I paused again at the door of my mother's suite, and then I walked in slowly and found her seated at her vanity table, brushing her golden hair and gazing admiringly at herself in the oval mirror. For a long moment she didn't realize I had entered. She was too entranced in her own image. Finally she realized I was standing there staring at her, and she spun around on her stool.

She was dressed in a light blue negligee, but as usual she had on earrings, a necklace, and bracelets. She had been making up her face and wore lipstick, rouge, and eyeliner.

"Oh, Dawn, you frightened me, sneaking in like that. Why didn't you knock? Even though I'm your mother, you've got to learn to knock," she said reproachfully. "Women my age need their privacy respected, Dawn honey," she added and put on her friendly smile that now looked more like a mask to me.

"Aren't you afraid Grandmother will hear you call me Dawn and not Eugenia?" I demanded. She looked more closely at me and saw the angry gleam in my eyes. It unnerved her quickly, and she put her brush down and turned around to get up to go to her bed.

"I'm not feeling too well this morning," she murmured as she crawled over her silk sheets. "I hope you don't have any new problems."

"Oh, no, Mother. All my problems are old ones," I announced, moving closer. She looked up at me curiously and then pulled her blanket over her body and fell back against her fluffy pillows.

"I'm so tired," she said. "It must be this new medication my doctor has prescribed. I'm going to have to have Randolph call him and tell him it's making me too tired. All I want to do is sleep, sleep, sleep. You'll have to leave and let me close my eyes."

"You weren't always like this, Mother, were you?" I asked sharply. She didn't say anything; she kept her eyes closed and her head on the pillow. "Were you, Mother? Didn't you used to be quite a lively young lady?" I asked, stepping up to the bed. She opened her eyes and blazed a wild look at me.

"What do you want? You're acting so strange. I don't have the strength. Go see your father if you have a problem. Please."

"Where shall I find my father?"

"What?"

"Where do I go to find him, my father?" I asked in a sweet, musical voice. "My real father."

She closed her eyes and lay back again.

"In his office, I'm sure. Or in his mother's office. You shouldn't have any problem locating him." She waved a hand dismissively.

"Really? I would have thought it would be very hard to find my father. Wouldn't I have to go running about from hotel to hotel, nightclub to nightclub, listening to entertainers?"

"What?" She opened her eyes again. "What are you talking about?"