Daisy Fay

Every inch of Daisy Buchanan is safe and warm and happy. Every breath and every smile and every low, raspy word is taken and smiled and spoken with the knowledge that she is safe with Tom, warm in his embrace, happy and comfortable and home. She wakes in his arms and he kisses her softly, chastely, and they spend days talking about nothing, holding each other, forgetting the past and firmly grounding themselves in the present.

Every inch of Daisy Fay is cold and sick and hateful, and sometimes it’s her that Tom comes home to, and it’s her who shrugs out from his embrace and stares at their daughter as if she’s a foreign, dangerous creature. Daisy Fay hates the world, hates the cruelty of people, hates her husband, hates herself. Daisy Fay sleeps with one eye open, waiting for the ghosts of the past to catch up with her.

Daisy, just plain Daisy, doesn’t know where she is any more, or what she’s doing, or where she wants to be, and as she brushes the tangles from Pammy’s silk-spun hair she wishes she was as much a fool as her daughter. Because that’s the best thing a girl can hope to be.