The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 38

Merganfield School allowed students to learn at their own pace. In most cases, the pressured darlings who’d lived their entire lives being told they were geniuses pushed themselves at warp speed. No one pressured Grace but she discovered that her rate of learning was as quick as her most neurotic classmates.

Midway through the year, she’d completed much of the Merganfield “great books” curriculum with straight A’s but tried to keep her progress from Malcolm and Sophie.

Because once they knew college was the optimal choice there’d be another sit-down.

But by the time she was nearing the end of her first year at the school, her perspective had changed. Approaching sixteen, she found herself craving even more solitude. Tolerating Sophie and Malcolm’s conversation, appreciating them, they were clearly wondrous and wonderful people. But secretly, she found herself wishing they’d leave her alone for long stretches.

This, she supposed, is adolescence. Though it felt like more of being herself.

The psychology books she borrowed from Malcolm’s shelves said “emerging adulthood” was all about establishing “autonomy” and a “sense of self.” One out of two wasn’t bad; she’d never totally depended on anyone but sense of self remained a mystery. Mostly she lived hour by hour, trying to do things she enjoyed. Including those stolen moments with the always-grateful and somewhat clearer-skinned Sean Miller. (Did Grace deserve credit for reducing his zits? She’d heard that was an old wives’ tale, but you never knew.)

Whatever the reason, he was looking better, and she was pleased with her growing sexual skills; Sean was like modeling clay.

She was also viewing leaving for college as a not-tragic possibility. Though another option was staying at home and attending USC, where Malcolm and Sophie taught.

Commuting with them to campus... no, that didn’t feel right.

In any event, there was no sense pushing the issue and when summer came around and she had the possibility of attending summer school at Merganfield, she said sure.

Every one of her classmates was also there. Even the Nigerian twins, who’d heard from Princeton after their Columbia acceptance and were New Jersey — bound, felt impelled to study all summer.

The session went smoothly, go-with-the-flow working for Grace until a morning in mid-June, when Sophie puttered with uncharacteristic nervousness at the Wolf range and Malcolm cleared his throat.

This time they faced her across a table groaning with bagels and Sophie’s aquavit-cured gravlax.

This time she was ready.

Malcolm began with a little speech about Grace’s amazing scholastic accomplishments, singling out her thirty-page paper on the pre-czarist rulers of Russia, her over-the-moon grades, SAT scores that put her in the top tenth of a percentile, nationally.

Grace didn’t argue but she was far less impressed by her own achievements. Everyone at Merganfield got A’s because why should the “highly gifted” perform other than at an “exemplary level”? And among the psychometrics Malcolm had been administering to her for years were various versions of the SAT. Grace had caught on, long ago, to what the test’s designers were after, the predictable vocabulary words, the math problems that allegedly tested abstract thinking.

By now, she could pencil the dots in her sleep. So when Malcolm paused to chew on a poppy seed bagel, she said, “I know. We need to talk about next year. Don’t worry, I’m fine with the change.”

Malcolm, mouth full, chewed faster.

Sophie placed a hand on her left bosom and smiled. “We’re that transparent, dear?”

“You care about me. I appreciate it. I’ve matured and I’m okay with change.”

Sophie blinked. “Yes, well — that’s a relief. But you know, it could be a huge change — much more so than Merganfield.”

“I’m ready,” said Grace. “Have been for a while. The only problem is the money. I can’t keep mooching off you, there has to be a plan for tuition repayment.”

Malcolm swallowed. “Don’t be silly, you’re not mooching.”

“Absolutely not,” said Sophie.

Grace fingered the hem of her cashmere top and smiled. “How would you describe it?”

The kitchen clock ticked. Generally Sophie was the first to break long silences. This time Malcolm said, “I consider your education — we consider it — an investment. Someone of your caliber has the potential to accomplish Lord knows what.”

Sophie said, “It’s also an investment in our well-being. We care about you, Grace. We want to be secure in the knowledge that you’re self-actualizing — oh, scratch that — we’re so pleased you’re growing up...” Her new smile was fragile.

Malcolm said, “All right, then, we’re all on board, no more chatter about repayment. However, a core issue remains—”

Sophie broke in: “Please don’t take this wrong, dear, but our relationship — not the emotional aspect, the legal aspect — is ambiguous.”

Grace’s gut lurched and filled with acid. She was almost certain what they were getting at. She hoped she was. But with people — even good people — you never knew.

Plus, she’d read enough of Bulfinch’s Mythology to know happy endings were for babies.

So if she was misreading, no sense embarrassing herself, making it awkward for everyone. She put on her best calm smile.

Malcolm said, “What would you say to formalization?”

Sophie said, “He means adoption, dear. If you so choose, we’d like you to become a legal member of our family, Grace.”

The same gut that had constricted now blossomed and filled with honeyed warmth. As if a gentle light — a soft, soothing night-light — had been implanted inside Grace.

She had been right! This was the stuff of which dreams were made, she felt like whooping and cheering but her jaw had locked and all she could produce was a weak, “If that’s what you want.”

Oh, how stupid!

“It is,” said Sophie. “But the key is what you want, Grace.”

Grace forced out the words. “Yes. Of course. It’s what I want. Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

“Thank you, Grace. It’s been a wonderful experience having you here.” Sophie got up and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. In an instant, Malcolm was also standing behind her and Grace felt his massive hand rest lightly upon her shoulder before withdrawing.

Grace knew her body was stiff, knew she should be reacting differently — appropriately — but something stopped her. As if a barrier, a neurological levee — what did the physiology book call it? — a septum had been inserted between her brain and her mouth.

She said, “It’s been great for me, too.” Then, finally: “You’re wonderful people.”

Sophie said, “That’s so sweet,” and kissed Grace’s hair, again.

Malcolm said, “Here, here. I want some of that cake left over from last night.”

Despite the way that morning had begun, the topic of college and its financing slipped away and Grace wondered if Malcolm and Sophie felt she wasn’t mature enough.

A few days later, at dinner, Sophie announced that Ransom Gardener, the lawyer, would be stopping by at nine.

Grace said, “The hippie, too?”

Sophie and Malcolm laughed and Sophie said, “Good old Mike? No, not tonight.”

Good; Leiber never noticed Grace, anyway. Recently, he’d been arriving with a BlackBerry and rarely taking his eyes off the screen.

Mr. Gardener, on the other hand, always took the time to greet Grace and smile at her. Grace wondered if Mike Leiber was his ward, someone with a disability that the attorney took care of. Someone whose biological parents were unfit. Or uncaring, they just felt like ditching a weirdo.

Did lawyers do that? Grace supposed they did anything that paid well.

Gardener arrived right on time, wearing a black three-piece suit and a thick gold silk tie and carrying two large briefcases. More like suitcases, really.

“Evening, Grace.”

“Hi, Mr. Gardener.”

He hefted the cases. “This is what we lawyers do, make simple things complicated.”

Sophie led everyone to the big table in the dining room, where she’d set out store-bought cookies and bottled water. Malcolm appeared, as if on cue, and everyone sat.

Ransom Gardener was the first to speak, pulling a sheaf of papers from one of the cases. “Congratulations, Grace. I’ve got the paperwork for your adoption. You’re a minor but someone of your age and brains needs to know what they’re involved in. So, please.”

He slid the papers to Grace. She said, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’d read it if I were you,” said Malcolm. “For all you know, you’re signing away your books and your clothing to Hare Krishna.”

Ransom Gardener chuckled. Sophie smiled and Grace did as well. Everyone on edge, eager to fake levity.

Grace took the papers. Small print, big words; this was going to be a drag.

Sophie said, “Yes, dear, it’s a chore, but learning to be meticulous with documents is a useful skill.”

“Punishment for success,” said Malcolm. “Unless you’re an attorney.”

“Now, now,” said Ransom Gardener. “Unfortunately, you’re right, Mal.”

“Now and always, Ran.” Malcolm ate a cookie, then another, brushed crumbs from his sweater vest.

Grace read. The documents were even worse than she’d expected, repetitive, verbose, dull, devoid of humanity. All of it boiling down, by the final page, to the fact that Malcolm Albert Bluestone and Sophia Rebecca Muller (heretofore to be referred to as “the Applicants”) wanted to adopt Grace Blades (heretofore to be referred to as “Said Minor”).

Stating the obvious while murdering the English language. Grace knew she’d never be a lawyer.

She finished and said, “Clear as a bell. Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Gardener.”

Gardener gave a start. “Well, that’s a first. Someone appreciating me.”

Malcolm said, “Feeling emotionally needy, are we, Ran?”

Gardener chuckled again and lightly cuffed Malcolm’s shoulder. Their interplay suggested a personal relationship. Gardener had white hair and sunken cheeks, as if his teeth had receded, and Grace had always thought of him as an old man. But seeing him next to Malcolm made her realize they were around the same age, could be longtime friends.

Or perhaps not, and she’d just witnessed banter between two gregarious men. She’d never seen them socialize, only the meetings that she assumed were about business, the privileges and obligations of wealthy people.

Then again, Malcolm and Sophie never socialized with anyone. Ever.

Something else that made living with them ideal.

Gardener said, “Well, you’re very welcome, young lady. And as I said, you’re a minor, which unfortunately gives you little by way of rights. But I have drafted a brief document that I’d like you to sign, if you agree. It’s not binding but I felt you deserved it because of your high intelligence.”

A single page slid across the table.

The same obtuse legalese. This one said Grace knew what was going on and consented to being Malcolm and Sophie’s adopted daughter.

She signed it, using her best penmanship. Thinking: This is the most important document of my life, make it elegant. Memorable, the way John Hancock had.

My declaration of wonderful dependence.

Nothing really changed, no pressure to start calling them Mom and Dad, no further mention of the new legal status. On the one hand, Grace liked that. On the other, it was a bit of a letdown.

What had she expected? Glass slippers and a pumpkin coach?

On weekdays, breakfast was generally a do-your-own-thing affair. Everyone rising at different times, Malcolm not much of a breakfast eater, period. Sophie tried to sit down with Grace as she nibbled cereal and bolted down orange juice squeezed from trees out in the garden, before Grace walked to Merganfield, but often her schedule on campus made that impossible.

Several mornings after signing the adoption documents, Grace came down and found a formal breakfast set up. Starched linen draped over the table, soft-boiled in porcelain egg cups, neatly arrayed chunks of French cheeses on the good china, triangles of whole wheat toast lined precisely in a silver rack.

Coffee and tea, no room for error.

Malcolm and Sophie were already seated. Another production? Oh, boy. Grace knew the thought was brutally ungrateful but sometimes all she wanted was to be left with her thoughts and fantasies.

This morning, it was more a matter of fatigue; she hadn’t slept much, alternating between flights of glee and pangs of anxiety. Wondering obsessively: What did her new status really mean? Would they at some point want to be called Mom and Dad, were they just waiting for the right psychological moment?

Mom and Dad.

Mother and Father.

Mater and Pater.

Your Lordships... was she now officially a Bullocks Wilshire and Saks Fifth Avenue princess? Had she ever been anything else since arriving on June Street?

Would some prince appear now that she qualified socially?

Would he remain a prince or turn into a frog when she kissed him... worse, a toad.

A lizard.

A serpent.

What did all this mean?

The most terrifying question of all: Is this a dream?

No, it couldn’t be. Because she was wide awake, lying on her back in a big, luxuriant bed in a big, luxuriant room, a place they said was hers but was it really?

Was she anything more than an honored guest?

Did it matter?

Now, at the breakfast table, Grace rubbed her eyes and sat down, watching soft-boiled egg shimmy as her hand bumped the cup.

Sophie said, “Tough night?”

As if she understood.

Maybe she did. Maybe Malcolm did, too. He was a psychologist, trained to read emotions, though, to tell the truth, sometimes he seemed oblivious to the world around him; Sophie was the perceptive one. The one who shopped with her. Started off selecting her clothing, then gradually eased out of the process, allowing Grace to make her own decisions.

Sophie made her medical and dental and hairdresser appointments. Sophie had found her the dentist, the pediatrician. Now a gynecologist, a pretty young woman named Beth Levine, who examined Grace gently and offered her the option of birth-control pills.

It was Sophie she smiled at now. “I’m okay. This looks yummy.”

She ate a bit of egg, a nibble of toast, drank most of a cup of coffee, then stopped and smiled at both of them. Letting them know she was patient with whatever they had in mind.

But hopefully, not another bunch of emotion, please no more of that. Yes, her fortune had turned golden, but at some point it was like overeating: You paid with heartburn and sleepless nights.

Malcolm said, “We’re feeling great about everything.”

“I am, too. Thank you.”

“Your being happy is all the thanks we need, Grace. We should be thanking you—” He laughed. “Oh, hell, talk about maudlin — hey, let’s everyone go round the table and hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ and thank everyone else, we’ll have a group encounter Thank-a-Thon.”

Grace laughed with him.

Sophie said, “If you don’t mind, we do need to talk about college. The way I see it, there are two options: Stay another full year at Merganfield, which would be a holding pattern, but that’s okay should you choose it, you’re way ahead of the game. Or you could apply for spring acceptance at a college and if you got in, spend only half a year at Merganfield. You’d still be barely sixteen when you started so if that sounds daunting, I — we understand. We just don’t want you getting bored.”

“I could get a job.”

“A job?” said Malcolm. “Let me tell you something, work’s highly overestimated.”

Chuckling and turning to Sophie for appreciation. She was dead serious, fixed on Grace. “What kind of job?”

“I haven’t really thought about it, I’m just offering it as a possibility.”

“Would you prefer to have some time to consider that, dear? Though, frankly, I’m not sure what you could do other than work at a fast-food joint. Not because you’re unqualified. It’s simply the way things are set up in this society.”

“Flipping burgers, hmm,” said Grace. Flashes of restaurant leftovers in a double-wide caused her to sway. “Maybe not. What’s that spring acceptance like?”

“It’s tough to pull off, dear. And it can be difficult socially, because you’d be stepping into an environment where everyone else has had months to get acquainted.”

As if I’m going to socialize any more than you do. Than I do.

Grace said, “Why’s it tough to pull off?”

“Colleges and universities are the most procedure-bound institutions around and they revolve around fall acceptances. Exceptions are made but they’re few and far between.”

Grace said, “There must be empty slots due to people who drop out.”

“There are,” said Malcolm, “but they’re mostly filled with transfers from other universities.”

Sophie said, “Still, as I said, exceptions are made. For people such as yourself.” She licked her lips. “I’m going to level with you, dear: We’ve taken the liberty of inquiring and though it’s not a certainty, it is a possibility. There’s a problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Your choices would be limited. There are only two places where Malcolm and I have received positive responses: USC and Harvard.”

“Where you work and where you went to school,” said Grace.

“Go Crimson,” said Malcolm, as if nothing mattered less than attending Harvard. But he read everything Harvard mailed him and wrote occasional checks to various endowments.

Sophie said, “Well, technically, I went to Radcliffe, women weren’t accepted at Harvard, back then, but yes, those are places where we have personal relationships. Princeton might be a possibility but they and Stanford refuse to commit to a level where I’d be comfortable taking the risk. Meaning if we turned down USC and Harvard, we might be left with nothing.”

“USC and Harvard,” said Grace. “There are worse choices to make.”

“You need to understand,” said Malcolm. “If you endured the full year at Merganfield and applied for the fall, you’d likely get in everywhere. The Ivies, Stanford, anywhere you choose. Hell, anyplace stupid enough not to take you doesn’t deserve you.”

Sophie said, “So you’re narrowing your options, considerably.”

I live in a narrow world. Boundaries keep me safe.

Grace said, “I understand. But trust me, this is great, I’m fine with it. Which do you think I should choose?”

Sophie said, “We can’t make that decision, dear. It’s really up to you.”

“All right, then. How about some parameters?” Using a word she’d learned from one of Malcolm’s statistic books. Great word, she used it at Merganfield whenever she could. Even with Sean Miller. Time for some new — ahem — parameters.

“USC,” said Malcolm, “is a fine, fine institution. Harvard is... Harvard.”

He seemed to be struggling. Grace wanted to save him. “Could I apply to both?”

“Sorry, no, they’re both insisting acceptance means commitment.”

“I bear all the risk.”

“Welcome to the world of higher education, Grace.”

Sophie said, “Let’s back up a bit. Give you parameters. We’re talking apples and oranges, on more than an academic level. In one case, you’d stay in L.A., would have the option of dorming in or continuing to live here. In the other you’d be clear across the country and learning to deal with some extremely cold weather.” She smiled. “Though I suppose the opportunity of some nice warm winter clothing isn’t half bad. Think shearling, dear.”

Grace smiled back. “Would I get the same education?”

Malcolm said, “You’d get an excellent education at both places. Anywhere, really, the crucial ingredient is the student, not the college. There are plenty of smart kids at USC but it’s more... heterogeneous. And while there are stupid people at Harvard, you’d be more likely to meet blocs of individuals closer to your level.”

Who cares?

“There’s also,” said Sophie, “and I shudder to say this, the matter of prestige. A Harvard degree is given a lot of weight by employers and such.”

“Far more than deserved,” said Malcolm. “Didn’t know a blessed thing when I graduated. Didn’t prevent consulting firms from wanting to hire me.”

“You remained there for your Ph.D.,” said Grace.

“I did. I’d planned to go to Chicago or Oxford but I met a gorgeous girl from Radcliffe who was also pursuing her Ph.D. at Harvard.” He shrugged. “The rest is domestic history.”

Sophie said, “Romantic twist, he tells everyone that story. The truth is, he’d decided well before meeting me.”

“I dispute that.”

“Darling, you know we’ve been through this. When we moved and I cleaned out the apartment, I saw the correspondence between you and Professor Fiacre.”

“Letters of inquiry,” said Malcolm, “are not letters of intent.”

Sophie waved him silent. Their fingers touched. Talking about their student days, however briefly, had brought a flush to their cheeks.

Maybe Harvard was an interesting place.

Grace said, “How would you feel about my staying in L.A.?”

“Of course, we’d be fine with it,” said Sophie. “Whichever you choose.”

“The same goes for Boston?”

A beat.

Sophie said, “Absolutely. We could visit you.”

“Give us a chance to revisit old haunts,” said Malcolm.

Grace waited.

Sophie understood the silence. “Would we be insulted if you left? Think you ungrateful? Absolutely not. At your age it’s normal to want to attain autonomy.”

“Develop a sense of yourself,” said Malcolm. “Not that you don’t have one, of course. But... it’s a growth process. Your self-image at twenty-five won’t be the same as it is at sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” said Sophie. “I must confess, I keep thinking about that. Not only would you be stepping into an already established social scene, you’d be younger than almost everyone.”

“But she’d also be a helluva lot smarter,” said Malcolm.

“What would I need to do to apply?” said Grace. “In either place.”

Malcolm said, “Fill out a form, send your transcripts and your SAT, sit for an interview with an alumnus.”

That sounded pitifully simple. Grace said, “There’s still the matter of money.”

“The old moochery thing? Don’t give it a thought.”

Grace didn’t reply.

Sophie said, “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?”

“All right,” said Grace. “I appreciate your setting up contingencies in both places. Could I have a couple of days to think?”

“I’d expect no less than careful contemplation from you,” said Malcolm.

Grace finished her soft-boiled egg.

She’d let the time pass. Ask for a third day in order to appear contemplative.

But she’d already made up her mind.