Free Call My Name by Barbara Delinsky Page B

left him, then, horror of horrors, filed for divorce. If for no other reason than that abysmal pride, he would take her back in a minute.
    Then her mother paused as a new thought crossed her mind with fleeting urgency. “He’s still sending you money, isn’t he?” Whether it was maternal concern or the hope that some small link still existed between the two that prompted Mary Abbott’s question, Daran couldn’t say. Not that it mattered; the question had a very simple answer.
    “I suppose he is. The lawyers handle that lovely matter.” For an instant, the months of bickering until, ironically, her stepfather, Hugh, had interceded to settle the matter of alimony, returned with all their unpleasantness. Bill had fought the divorce to the end—quietly, of course, and in the total confidence of the lawyer’s offices. It had only been Hugh’s final plea, framed in terms of Bill’s own political career, that had turned the tide. Everything had been hushed, as it was to this day.
    “What do you mean, you suppose he is. It’s your bank account, isn’t it?” There had been times when, as exemplified by this protectiveness now, Daran had suspected that, had it not been for her mother’s supreme devotion to her husband and the limelight they shared, she would have sided wholeheartedly with her daughter in this ugly matter. But those times had been too few and far between to give them full credence.
    “Mother,” she explained a final time, “I do not keep track of it. I am not interested. In the five years we’ve been apart, I have not touched one cent of that money. I told you I wouldn’t, and I meant it. Fortunately, thanks to the money that came to me from Father’s trust when I turned twenty-one, I have never needed anything. Now I can support myself.” Suddenly the conversation was more than Daran wanted to handle on this Sunday morning. “And speaking of which, I have a meeting in an hour or so.” She lied. “So I’d better go and get dressed. I’ll talk with you next week?” The pattern repeated itself all too often. When the give-and-take with her mother reached a dead end, Daran feigned an excuse to sever it. Inevitably she was swamped with guilt soon after.
    Miraculously Mary Abbott took the hint. “Of course, dear,” she murmured with an unusually genuine sigh. “Take care of yourself, now, and, Daran—” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself.
    “Yes, Mother?”
    “Do call me if you feel like talking. It gets very … lonesome … out here sometimes.”
    Taken totally off guard by the poignant plea, Daran could only muster a soft, “I will,” before she hung up the phone. Then, to her dismay, she burst into tears. It was the first truly spontaneous confession, indirect as it was, that her mother had ever made to her. Perhaps Daran was the selfish one. Perhaps her mother, despite all pretenses, did have some needs that were unfulfilled. Daran was her only child; they were so far from each other both physically and emotionally. Would things ever be different? Now that Daran was a mature woman in her own right, perhaps the two could find some common ground on which to unite. Sniffing, she stopped to ponder how she would handle her own children one day—then the true emptiness set in. Would there ever be any children upon whom Daran could shower that intuitive mother-love which was a part of her? Would there ever be a man for whom she could feel a very different, but equally as all-abiding love? It seemed an open-ended question, one which she could in no way come close to answering. Rather, with a vow to take the initiative and phone her mother herself, perhaps later in the week when her own emotions had steadied, she returned to the garden and its therapeutic demands.
    *   *   *
    “The same fellow has just called again, Dr. Patterson.” The soft voice of MaryAnne Steubings filtered through Daran’s preoccupation with a problem posed by one of the students in her morning