IT WAS AFTER two in the morning when he reached Carmel. The streets were deserted. He found the intersection Samantha had named, spotted the phone booth, pulled up fast, and saw nothing. He left the car, looking in every direction, thinking she might have been standing, waiting, somewhere else, when he heard her call.
“Daddy?” For all her maturity and bravado, she was a wisp of a girl, huddled on the floor of the phone booth, her tear-streaked face looking green in the night light. “I messed up the number,” she cried; “couldn’t remember. It wouldn’t go through. I tried everything.”
He knelt, lifted her up and into his arms. Hope ran beside him and helped him fit her into the front seat and strap her in, then ran around the car and snaked behind the driver’s seat into the back. He slipped off his jacket and covered Samantha up, because she was trembling, bare armed and bare shouldered in the nippy night air. Then he put a hand on the top of her head.
“Do we need a hospital?” he asked softly. He hadn’t seen bruises or blood, but he wasn’t looking at the places that scared him most.
She shook her head. “I just drank too much.”
“Where’s your date?”
She began to cry. “He wanted—to do things—I didn’t.”
Jack’s heart ached. “Good girl,” he said, softly still. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, then turned the car for home.
HE DROVE to Big Sur slowly and sensibly, despite the hour. The car seemed a safe place between wherever it was that Samantha had been and whatever Jack was going to have to face when they got home. For most of the drive, Samantha huddled under his jacket and slept, and it seemed a natural thing to do with the fog rolling in. He touched her head every few minutes. He told her to tell him if she felt sick and wanted to stop. But her eyes remained closed and her breathing even. She didn’t look drunk. She wasn’t convulsing, and the way she stirred every so often suggested sleep, not unconsciousness. He could tell that she had thrown up, and assumed she had lost whatever hadn’t already made it into her bloodstream. He guessed that whatever manner of sick she was had to do with heart as well as body.
He wanted to do things I didn’t, she had said, and it haunted Jack, ate at his stomach, what those things might be. But he didn’t ask. He remembered being grilled by his father when he was Samantha’s age—worse, remembered his sister being grilled by his father, guilty until proven innocent. Jack wouldn’t do that to Samantha.
So, was the alternative silence? Jack had been taught silence by a father who needed to place blame and a mother who loathed dissension. Rachel had been taught it by a mother who knew everything about everything. When Jack met Rachel, they had been like souls freed from confinement, talking at length and with substance. Then time passed and old habits returned. Yes, that was what had happened. He saw. He understood. But silence wasn’t the answer in dealing with Samantha. They couldn’t sweep what had happened under the rug. There had to be talk.
WHEN THEY got home, he carried her to her room. While she showered, he stared out at the forest through the living room glass, wondering whether she was washing evidence away. She claimed she didn’t need a hospital. If he insisted, he would be saying he didn’t believe her, didn’t trust her. It was a no-win situation.
The water went off. He gave her enough time to get into bed, then went to her room to make sure she was all right. He didn’t turn on the light. After a minute, he adjusted to the dark and made his way to her bed. The window was hand-high open. The smell of moist earth, leaves, and bark drifted in. It was a cool, familiar comfort.
Samantha had the quilt up to her chin. If she had been sleeping he would have left, but her eyes were open and wet. He hunkered down by her face.
“What I need to know most,” he said gently, “is whether he … touched you in ways he shouldn’t have.” He wasn’t sure how else to ask. The truth was that he didn’t know for sure whether Samantha had been a virgin to begin with.
She didn’t answer at first. So he said, “If it was rape—”
“No.”
“Date rape.”
“No.”
He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “Talk to me, Sam. I’m worried. I’m scared. You’re upset. I want to help.” After another minute, he said, “If your mother was here, she’d be doing what I am. She’d be sitting right here talking to you. It’s not prying. It’s not accusing or finding fault. It’s trying to make sure that you don’t need medical care, or that we don’t need legal help. But I have to tell you,” he added with a small laugh, “I’ll strangle the guy if he raped you.”
“He didn’t,” she whispered.
“But you ended up alone in a phone booth in the middle of town.” He tried to tease her into talking. “Want to tell me what happened—I mean, as much as you think my sensitive ears can take?”
She closed her eyes. One tear, then another slid out of the downward corners. He felt the pain of each. When she covered her face with a hand and broke into long, deep sobs, he felt that, too—felt it in helplessness, inadequacy, and fear.
He wished Rachel was there. He didn’t know how to talk to a fifteen-year-old girl. This was woman stuff.
But Rachel wasn’t there and might not be for a while. He didn’t like that thought, but it was a reality he had to face. Besides, Samantha wasn’t telling him to leave. That seemed significant.
Sitting back on his heels, he continued to stroke her head until her crying slowed. Then he blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t want to be your age for all the tea in China.”
She sniffled. “Why not?”
“It’s in between nowhere.” How well he remembered. “You aren’t a child anymore, so you can’t just play and be cute and play dumb when things go wrong. Your body is doing weird things. You feel grown-up, but you’re not that either. You can’t drive a car, or make the kind of money you want to spend, and you can’t do what you want when you want it, even though that’s just what you want to do. You’re expected to do a lot of grown-up stuff because you need the experience, only you don’t have the experience, so half the time you don’t know what in the hell you’re doing. No. I’d like to be twenty-seven again. But fifteen? Not on your life.”
“What was so great about twenty-seven?”
He thought about that. “Your mom.”
Samantha started to cry again.
He moved his hand on her head.
“I need her.”
“I know. But she isn’t here, so we’re going to try to work this through together the way she would. Want to tell me about tonight? Or do you want to sleep?” He kept expecting to be tired himself, but he was all keyed up.
She grunted. “I slept in the car. I’m not sleepy now.”
He thought about putting a light on. But there was something about the foggy dark, something so dense as to be a buffer. “Tell me, then. I want to hear.”
“That’s because you love knowing”—her voice caught—“what a loser I am.”
Fiercely, he said, “You aren’t a loser. If you were, you’d still be at some party with kids making fools of themselves, drinking and laughing at nothing and dancing on tables and taking off their clothes—”
Her eyes went wide. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been there, sweetie. Your music may be different from what mine was, and God knows there are more beer labels to choose from these days, but human nature hasn’t changed much.”
“Did you know Teague would have beer in his car?”
“No. I didn’t want to know that. It doesn’t surprise me, though.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“How could I? He didn’t even tell you how pretty you looked. And you looked pretty, Sam—prettier, I’d bet, than most everyone at that prom. So. Did he just leave you at the phone booth, or what?”
“I ran there. He was somewhere … blocks away. He probably went back to the party.”
“Nice guy,” Jack muttered, but couldn’t leave it at that. “If he was cool, he�
��d have followed you and driven you home. If he was really cool, he’d have kept his hands to himself in the first place. You’re a minor. We’re talking statutory rape.”
“It didn’t get that far. Besides, it wasn’t all his fault. I let him, a little.”
Jack had figured that. He took Samantha’s hand and kissed it. It smelled of soap, good and clean and healthy. Quietly, he said, “Letting him, a little, is okay as long as you trust the guy and there isn’t booze involved. I’m guessing there was more than beer.”
“Punch.”
“Spiked with vodka.” When she didn’t deny it, he said, “That was what made you sick. The rule of thumb is that if you have vodka first, the beer’s okay. Beer first, and vodka will make you sick. Mind you, I’m not saying drinking’s all right. It isn’t. Drinking makes people do dumb things. It makes them do tragic things.” His voice rose. “I didn’t smell anything on Teague when he got here. When did he start drinking? Was he drinking in the truck? At the end there, was he drunk?”
In that split second, Jack heard his father’s voice. In the next second, he regained control of himself. “Don’t answer,” he said softly. “It’s over and done. And maybe I shouldn’t be telling you how to drink and how not to drink. Maybe that’s giving the wrong message. Only, kids do drink sometimes, and if I want you safe, you need to know. Knowledge is the key. It’s right up there with experience.” He paused. “See, the downside of being a grown-up is that you’re held accountable for your actions. Okay, so you weren’t raped. You could have been killed if Teague crashed the truck. You could have died of alcohol poisoning, or an overdose of something that someone slipped into that punch. Someone else could have died. That’s the kind of thing you carry with you all your life. I don’t want that for you, Samantha. I really don’t. A big part of growing up is learning when to be cautious. It’s realizing that there are consequences to everything you do.”
She was quiet for so long that he wondered if she had fallen asleep, and part of him felt that was fine. He liked the note he had ended on. For a father muddling his way through, he wasn’t doing so bad.
He should have known better.
In the same quiet, very grown-up voice he had used, Samantha asked, “How does all that fit in with the divorce? Are you accountable for your actions in a marriage, too?”
It was a minute before he said, “Yes.”
“Then you accept the blame for that?”
“No. It takes two to make a marriage, and two to break it.” Which was what Hope said Rachel had said, and quite an admission on his part. Two weeks before, he would have blamed the breakup of the marriage on Rachel. She was the one who had walked out.
Only, her leaving San Francisco was a symptom, not a cause. He could concede that now. The cause of the breakup went deeper. Rachel may have been abandoned in the broadest sense. He may have put his work first.
“But how could you guys just let it go?” Samantha asked, and there were tears in her voice again.
“We didn’t.”
“You did,” she cried with a vehemence that reminded him of something. Katherine had said that she was obsessed with the divorce. Katherine might be right. “You didn’t argue about it, you just split,” she charged. “What was your side of the story?”
He wasn’t sure he should say, not without Rachel there. But Samantha sounded like she needed an answer. “I felt,” he began, considering it, “that your mother didn’t want me. That we had grown apart, maybe needed different things. I was tied to the city because of work, and that was the last place your mother wanted to be.”
“Then it was about place?”
Two weeks ago he might have said that, might have boiled down the cause of the break to a word or two. But it was more complex. He saw that now. “Place was only a symptom of other things.”
“But you loved her.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
He thought about the hand-around-the-heart feeling he experienced walking into that hospital room every day. “Probably.”
“So why didn’t you fight to keep her? Wasn’t it worth it? Weren’t we worth it?”
The question stunned him. “Yes. Yes.”
“I kept thinking about that when I was waiting for you to come get me. I kept thinking you were right. We weren’t worth it. Me, especially me.”
“Are you crazy?”
“See?” she cried. “You’d never say that to Hope.”
“No, I’d say other things to Hope, because Hope and you are different people. Different. Not better or worse.”
“She’s lovable and I’m not.”
“But I do love you.”
“I’m not lovable. I say too much.”
“That’s one of the things that makes you lovable. I always know where I stand. That’s a real plus in a relationship. Honesty. Trust. Ease. Well, sometimes we don’t have ease, you and me, but that’s because you’re your age and I’m mine, and you let me know when I’m being … being … ”
“Old.”
He sighed. “I guess. So, see, we can talk about that, too.”
She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I couldn’t talk to Teague. Not the way I wanted to. I was afraid he’d think I was a kid.”
“Teague’s crud,” Jack said. “You can do better, Sam.”
“I thought he was better. Shows how much I know.”
“You knew enough to get the hell away from the guy when things started to get out of control. Didn’t you?” When she didn’t instantly answer, he felt another moment’s doubt. “The truth, Sam. Didn’t you? Or,” he pushed himself to say, “do we need to talk about the facts of life?”
She shot him a glance. “Mom already has, but I didn’t do it with Teague. He wanted to. That was when I left.”
“See? You learned. That’s what growing up is about. What went wrong with Brendan and Lydia?”
Unexpectedly, Samantha started crying again. When she tried to turn onto her side away from him, he rolled her right back.
“Talk it out, sweetheart.”
Between sobs, she said, “I blew them off, so now I don’t have them—and I won’t have Pam and Heather, because Teague must have gone back there and told them what happened. I’m not going to be able to show my face in school again, not ever. I am such a fuckup.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
But she wouldn’t be assuaged. “I messed up, just like I messed up with Mom. If it hadn’t been for me, she wouldn’t have had the accident.”
“How do you figure that?”
“We had a fight that afternoon.”
“What happened in the afternoon has nothing to do—”
“It does, because she was thinking about the fight and brought her book to the studio, and if she hadn’t had to get it there later, she would have left the house earlier.”
“Don’t do that, Sam,” he warned. “If you do, I have to.”
“Have to what?”
“Blame me. Do you think it hasn’t occurred to me that if I’d been around more for your mother in San Francisco, she wouldn’t have moved down here in the first place? If she hadn’t moved down here, she wouldn’t be in that hospital. But it doesn’t do any good to think that way. It’s done. Over. Not your fault or my fault, but the fault of the woman who was driving the other car.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
He figured that if Samantha was old enough to drink beer and vodka and do God knew what with a boy she’d never dated before, she was old enough to know the truth. “Yes. She’s dead. So we have to let it go, Sam. We can’t blame her, and we can’t blame us. We have to do what we can to help your mother wake up. And we have to carry on and move forward here. I think you should call Lydia later.”
“I can’t. She’s not going to want to talk to me! I was horrible to her!”
“You could apologize.”
“That wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because.�
�
“That’s not a real answer, Samantha. Try again.”
“She won’t want me back.”
“Do you want her back?”
“Yes. She’s my friend.”
“More so than Pam?”
Samantha thought about that. “Yes. I feel safer with Lydia.”
“Tell her that.” When she didn’t speak, he said, “That’s your strength, expressing yourself. It’s a precious thing, Sam. Not everyone has what it takes inside to do it. I know it’s hard, but the important things in life are. You have to put yourself out there and risk the possibility that she’s feeling so hurt that she won’t want any part of you, but I don’t think that’ll happen. Lydia strikes me as a forgiving person.”
Samantha started to cry again.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked, because he thought they had it all worked out.
“I miss Mom.”
Feeling a wrenching inside, he smoothed the hair back from her face. “Me, too,” he said and realized that he did, very much.
HE CONTINUED to stroke her hair until she quieted. Then he heard something new and went to the window. It sounded like rain. Only it wasn’t raining.
Samantha came up beside him, wrapped in her quilt. “It’s fog feet.”
Fog feet. That had to be a Rachel expression.
“It’s like,” she said, “when the fog is so thick that it makes noise moving through the forest.”
He looked at her. “Want to go outside? Nah. You feel lousy.”
“I’ll go,” she said.
So they went outside, Jack in his paint-spattered sweat suit, Samantha in her nightgown and quilt. They were both barefooted—crazy, Jack knew, but somehow feeling the earth beneath their feet was important. They didn’t go far, just to a level spot where the tree trunks rose and narrowed and stretched toward branches that spawned needles, and the sky.
They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They felt the moisture on their faces, a gentle curative, and listened to the steady, soothing sound of fog feet, and it occurred to Jack that this was a gift, standing here with his daughter, after the night that had been. He tried to think of when he had last felt as content, and realized it had been in these same woods. Then he had been with Hope. Now Samantha.
Coast Road Page 28
