his face. “I thought so. Probably a commissioned sales woman.”
“What difference would that make?” he demanded. “I got the best for my sister. Darla doesn’t need to alter her own clothes.”
“She might be happier if she could tear them all apart,” she mused.
“What? Where is this going?” He looked defensive and frustrated. That was not her goal. Susannah straightened, leaned forward.
“After she cut her dress, Darla told me she wore black the day of her mother’s funeral. Then she talked a lot about spilling and messes.” She inhaled a deep breath for courage. “Did you notice when you were in her room how many of her clothes are black, brown or gray?”
“Good serviceable colors,” David said.
“For men’s suits!” Susannah blew the straggling wisps of hair off her forehead and tried again. “Your sister is, what, three years younger than me? Can you imagine me in any of her clothes?”
“No.”
Susannah surveyed her jeans. “I don’t have good clothes, David. I bought most of mine at a thrift store. But you’re right,” she said flatly, “I wouldn’t wear Darla’s clothes if you gave them to me.”
David glared at her. “Why don’t you just come right out and say what you mean?”
“Did Darla choose any of those clothes?”
“I don’t recall.” He frowned, his gaze on some past memory. “Her arm was still bothering her and she had some bandages yet to be removed when we shopped. We went for snaps and zips she could manage.” Then he refocused. “Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“Because?” He waited, shuffling one foot in front of the other.
“Because she should be young and carefree. Instead she wears the clothes of a forty-year-old,” Susannah snapped, unable to hold in her irritation. “Because she needs to dress in something that lets her personality shine through. Because Darla is smothering under this blanket you keep putting over her.”
“Well. Don’t hold back.” David stiffened, his face frozen.
“I wouldn’t even if I could,” she assured him. “I’m here to help Darla. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“I’m not sure you fully understand Darla’s situation,” David said crisply. “Until about eight months ago, she could barely walk. She’d been wearing jogging suits while she did rehab. By the time she finished that, she’d outgrown everything she owned.”
He’d done his best. That was the thing that kept Susannah from screaming at him to lighten up. No matter what, David Foster had done the very best he could for his sister. Because he loved her. Connie was right. He did have integrity. How could you fault that?
But Darla was her concern, not sparing David’s feelings. Susannah leaned forward, intent on making him understand what she’d only begun to decipher.
“Darla is smart and funny. She’s got a sweet heart and she loves people. But she doesn’t have any confidence in herself.” Susannah touched his arm. “She gets frustrated because she wants so badly to be what you want, and yet somehow, she just can’t get there.”
“I don’t want her to be anything,” he protested.
“You want her to be neat and tidy.” Susannah pressed on, determined to make him see what she saw.
“That’s wrong?” David asked.
“How many teens do you know who fit that designation? By nature teens are exploring, innovating, trying to figure out their world. Darla is no different.” Susannah said. “Except that she thinks you’re embarrassed when she spills something.”
“I’m not embarrassed about anything to do with my sister.” She saw the truth in his frank stare. “I thought…”
The complete uncertainty washing over his face gripped a soft spot in her heart.
“David, listen to me and, just for a moment, pretend that I know what I’m talking about.” She drew in a breath of courage. “Most teen girls love fashion, they love color. They experiment with style, trying to achieve the looks they see in magazines. It’s part of figuring out who they are. I’ll bet Darla used to do that, didn’t she?”
“She always liked red,” he said slowly.
“I didn’t see anything red in her closet.”
“No.” His solemn voice said he’d absorbed what she’d hinted at. “Go on.”
“With her current wardrobe, Darla couldn’t experiment if she wanted to,” Susannah told him. “Her clothes are like a mute button on a TV. They squash everything unique and wonderful about her.”
“But—” David stopped, closed his mouth and stared at her.
His silence encouraged Susannah to continue, though she softened her tone.
“I think her accident left her trying to figure out how she fits into her new world. She’s struggling to make what she is inside match with those boring clothes.”
“So how should she dress?” he asked, his eyes on her worn jeans.
“I want her to express herself. If she’s in a happy mood, I want her to be able to pull on something bright and cheerful. If she’s feeling down, I want her to express that, instead of becoming so frustrated she blows out of control and tantrums.”
A timid knock interrupted.
“Are you mad at me for cutting my dress, Davy?” Darla peeked around the door, her big brown eyes soulful as a puppy’s. “I’m sorry.”
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