The Secret in the Daisy

By Carol Grace

A novella based on Carol Grace's experiences as a foster child.

“Just a wisp of a reminiscence makes an ingenuous return to a girl's growing up and this is her childlike prattle of memories and moments which bring her to the brink of maturity (some might question this). For from the time when the daisy tells her that her mother loves her not—there are other intimations:—the many moves- and maids with whom she is left; her mother's trips to Europe-—"on business"; the phone calls and the sorties. And so for her this childhood is untenanted except by her thoughts; there's an even lonelier year at boarding school; out of school, at 16, she meets "him"—and there's the ecstasy of a short affair so that her efflorescence is complete. To complete this—there's a footnote—by the author; "I was born in New York City...I think I am well-educated, because...most of my life has been something of an education. I have been married twice and divorced twice—to the same man. (Saroyan) I have been asked what made me think of this book. I don't know." One might suspect Bonjour Tristesse, but the petals aren't going to say hello again.”—Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barakaldo Books
• Release date: May 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839744327

Carol Grace

Carol Grace was born with wanderlust. She was raised in Illinois but longed to go other places so she spent her junior year in college at the Sorbonne in Paris. After grad school in L.A. she went to San Francisco to work at the public TV station where she met her future husband. At KQED she was the switchboard operator and did on-the-air promos (in French) for her idol, Julia Child, thus proving to her parents that French was a useful major after all. She left TV and went on board the hospital ship Hope for 3 voyages - Guinea, Nicaragua, and Tunisia. Then after finally marrying, she and her husband went to Algeria and Iran to work. They loved the excitement of living abroad but eventually came back to California to raise their two children in their mountain-top home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Carol says that writing is another way of making life exciting.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

The Secret in the Daisy

CAROL GRACE

Table of Contents

Contents

Table of Contents 4

DEDICATION 5

PART ONE 6

1 6

2 8

3 11

4 13

5 18

6 21

7 23

8 24

9 25

10 27

11 28

12 29

13 31

14 34

15 36

16 40

17 45

PART TWO 46

18 46

19 48

20 50

21 51

22 52

23 53

PART THREE 54

24 54

25 55

26 60

21 61

28 63

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 64

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 65

DEDICATION

to my father

CHARLES MARCUS

INFANT INNOCENCE

The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild;

He has devoured the infant child.

The infant child is not aware

He has been eaten by the bear.

A. E. HOUSMAN

PART ONE

1

The first room was a hall—a long hall, empty and dark, except for the shafts of light that came from the opened doors of the rooms that went up and down the hall. There were no windows.

I don’t know how old I was but it’s my first remembered memory. I think I was a baby. I know that I knew that I was a stranger in a strange place, that my Mother was gone and that I wasn’t home.

I wondered about the other rooms; who was talking in them, and if there were things to look at and play with.

I found a toy in the hall. I would run suddenly into one of the shafts of light and stand in it and feel warm and as if someone were looking and then lean back into the dark, alone and cool.

Sometimes I’d stand half in the light and half in the dark and sway back and forth and watch the light and dark on my hands and dress. When the light was really light it would look like gold and diamonds if I squinted. And I had pleasure squinting just right so that it looked all full and rich and beautiful.

For a long time, while I was little, I thought the reason gold and diamonds were so rare and valuable was because some tiny skillful workman had to rush into somebody’s squint and bring out a diamond or a beautiful shimmering piece of gold. It had to be done with great speed and delicacy because even when I saw the gold and diamonds they fell back and forth into luminous designs like a kaleidoscope.

But at night when the shafts of light disappeared I missed my Mother. I thought it was my Mother I missed. It was a feeling like laughing and kissing. I knew I missed something.

I felt desolate trying to fall asleep at the foot of a big bed. They breathed a lot. I didn’t really want to fall asleep because I was afraid that some part of me might touch some part of them while I was sleeping. But I used to sleep some sort of watchful, careful sleep.

The long days in the halls (there were quite a few different ones because my Mother kept getting poorer and poorer, and I kept going from place to place) were broken up by occasional visits from my Mother. She’d call me her baby, and she’d cry and she’d sneak out.

The different places were all alike. I don’t remember very much. The people weave back and forth in my memory without names or faces. I remember it only as winter, as if there had never been a summer. I can’t remember one warm day.

I remember standing on a crowded street and a big hand giving me a piece of bread with jam on it, at a time when I was longing to eat.

And I do remember a big fat lady standing on a stepladder trying to get something off the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard. I looked up and she wasn’t wearing pants. I only wanted to get my beanbag to play with, when she hollered down that I was a bad girl for looking. I held my face up to her with my eyes tightly shut until she came down. I kept them shut and went looking for my beanbag.

But I remember one thing that couldn’t possibly be true. I must have made it up or dreamed it. I remember being in a cage. I remember looking out through the wire at big people. Maybe I was dreaming I was an animal.

I wondered what all the trouble was. Sometimes just before I’d fall off into the rigid sleep I slept, I thought that I knew something. All the pieces, like a puzzle, would fall into place in slow-motion silence. And for an instant something was revealed to me. But I could never hold it; I was always swallowed into the sleepless rest. I so wished I could tell my Mother about that instant, so she would know that I understood, because I thought maybe then she wouldn’t cry. But each time I saw her I’d forget what I knew and be lost in sweetness and warmth, busy with candy and all scared inside because I knew she would soon go.

I would be so good and quiet and glad if she would only take me with her when she went out into her life.

One afternoon she came wearing a black coat with silver fur on the bottom, and she smelled sweeter than ever. Her hair looked brighter too and her fingernails were pink. That day I left the halls and went with my Mother, out into the world.

2

In my Mother’s house even water tasted better.

Everything was clean.

The people who came to see my Mother saw me too and would call me by my name.

I had my own bed in my own bedroom; and my room was blue. I even had my own bathroom and it