Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  I pause to glance at the girls and their cast of friends. Lily sits at the helm of the table, poised and radiant, a glossy smile framing gleaming white teeth. One of her arms motions in the air as she tells a story that has them all rapt. The other extends along the back of a chair filled by Bradley Blackwell. His grandparents were Bobby’s parents’ close friends. The girls’ best friends are scattered between the two of them. Skinny Grace Howard is talking on her cell phone. Her honey complexion accentuates her hazel eyes and highlighted hair. Shelby Moore is fixing her blonde tresses while she talks to the new girl, Ava something-I-can’t-remember.

  Zoe is less animated, planted at the other end of the table with Chelsea Bloom, the pale brunette beauty on one side and Raquel Cohen from the school debate team on the other. Lily teases her sister regularly about the nerds, but it’s a harmless joke, one Zoe responds to by referring to Lily’s lacrosse friends as beasts.

  Bobby summons me to our table for a champagne toast. I hold my glass of water, but he insists it’s bad luck. “One sip.”

  I don’t want a sip. He knows this, but I hold the flute up anyway. I catch Kinsley’s shiny blue eyes, and Elle beams at me. She’s a clone of the famous model. Legs that go on for miles. Long, golden-blonde hair.

  “I’m a lucky man,” Bobby tells the staff, “having you all here with us tonight. Celebrating the girls. They’re fortunate to have an extended family in you. Thank you for being here with us. And to my wife . . . the one who makes it all happen. Day after day. To my Emma. The love of my life. I can assure you that everything good about the girls comes from her.”

  The glasses clink, and the sound reminds me of spring. “One sip, Em, for good luck,” he persists. I pretend to take a drink, and Bobby smiles.

  Two cakes come out, one for each twin, and the speeches from the girls’ friends follow with ripples of laughter and praise. Chelsea, Grace, and Shelby feature a video highlighting the passage of years, and Bobby whispers in my ear, “Where did the time go?”

  Uncle Jonny entertains with stories of mistaken identities and practical jokes until Bobby gets up. He makes his way toward the baby grand, and I admire the way he’s maintained his youth. He runs his hands across the keys, and the gentle trickle dances through the air. He’s always loved that piano and how the keys come to life beneath his fingertips.

  I fell in love with him on that bench, and the memory wraps around me. Banging the keys at ten. Billy Joel. A kiss. First my forehead, then my cheek. Chopin. Pressing me against the piano, lowering the lights and locking the doors. My backside against the keys, a tempered wail. Him grabbing my face, my hair, and making love to me right there against the Steinway. I would never hear Beethoven again without feeling his touch.

  The song he’s playing is one of the girls’ favorites, a song he used to play when they were babies. Sing out. Be free. Live high. Live low. He isn’t Adam Levine, but he can silence a room of teenagers with his voice.

  When he’s done, I join him. We thank everyone for coming and shamefully boast about the kind, honorable girls we’ve raised. Bobby speaks for the two of us. “We wish you a life of joy and beauty. One that makes you grateful and whole.”

  Lily dances onto the stage. Zoe follows, her steps practiced and slow. The attention quiets her. They fall into our arms while the room erupts with cheers and applause. I know I shouldn’t get emotional, but I’m overwhelmed by love and the prospect of our girls growing up and away from us. If only I can hold on to them a little longer, but they are quick to get back to their friends. Their wings are hard for me to miss. When I return to the table, Luz joins me, and the older woman’s arm wraps around my shoulder.

  “Emma dear, a mother’s job is to teach her children not to need her anymore. The hardest part of that job is accepting success. Now run to the baño and clean up su cara linda.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Luz’s words echo through me. I almost don’t make it to the bathroom before bursting into tears, and when I do, I seek refuge in a stall, latching the door behind me. Our toilet paper is the soft, plush kind, so I grab a few squares to wipe my nose and blot my eyes, and I eventually take a seat. Bobby’s back on the piano, and Chelsea’s silky voice filters through the door.

  I hear the girls before I see them. Their laughter and chunky heels echo against the marble floors. If I peer through the crack in the door, I can see them fingering their hair and reapplying lipstick. Ava what’s-her-name stares at her reflection in the mirror and asks Shelby if she prefers the red shade to the pink. Shelby seems torn about her response, afraid to give the wrong answer.

  “Cool party,” begins Ava, lining her green eyes with a chalky pencil. “No one at my old school owns a hotel.”

  “Lily and Zoe are great.” Shelby’s smoothing out her blonde tresses. Her off-the-shoulder dress is flowing black silk. “You’d never know they own this place. They’re always nice.”

  I settle back and listen to their exchange. Their innocent banter buoys the residual melancholy. I’m trying not to eavesdrop while I jot down notes in my phone about upgrades, one being individual bathrooms instead of impersonal stalls.

  “It’s cool they included me,” says Ava. “It’s hard switching schools.”

  A series of beeps follow, and the girls are silenced. “Oh my God,” says Ava. “Are you on this group text?”

  A few seconds pass and Shelby answers, “No. I’m not.”

  Ava sounds surprised. “It’s a blocked number. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Why? What is it?”

  Ava hesitates. “This is crazy.”

  I’m typing into my phone, recording my vision for contemporary doors that match the modern chrome fixtures and ivory marble.

  “What is it?” Shelby asks again.

  “I think this is one of the twins,” says Ava.

  The mention of twins momentarily halts my fingers, but I quickly regain traction. There are lots of twins in Miami.

  “Ava, you’re scaring me. What is it?”

  I lean forward and eye the girls through the crack: Shelby with her curious blue eyes, Ava holding the phone in two hands.

  “Were you at the party last weekend?” asks Ava.

  “Yeah,” replies Shelby.

  “Looks like it got a little wild.”

  One of our girls was at a party last weekend. I’m being ridiculous, but my heart makes that tiny thump inside my chest that sounds louder than it is.

  “What is it?” Shelby begs.

  “Here. Press ‘Play.’”

  I strain my neck to hear the muffled sounds. It’s a recording. A video? It’s hard to make out the hushed words.

  “Oh my God,” Shelby shrieks. “How could she do that?”

  I am on my feet. Shelby tosses the phone at Ava. Her blue fingernails cover her open mouth, as if they can wipe out whatever it is she just saw. I’m straining to see and hear. One of the twins? My mother mind sabotages rational thought. No. It can’t be.

  Shelby’s round eyes are full of surprise. “Oh my God. You have to delete it,” she begs.

  I slowly inhale, letting dread in and then breathing it out.

  “This is bad,” Ava says. “Do you know how fast these things get around the Internet?”

  “We have to do something,” Shelby says, panicking. “She’s one of my best friends. She’d die if she knew this was going around.”

  “You can’t tell her tonight!” Ava replies. “But if I got it, other people got it, too.”

  I remind myself these are teenage girls. They get dramatic. They get carried away. Don’t get carried away, Emma.

  Shelby bites at her freshly painted lips. “What do we do? Why would she do this?” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “Why would she let someone film her?”

  I do my best to block out the worst of the visuals, but according to these girls, a twin, possibly my daughter, is doing something “crazy” on a video. Something so crazy she would die knowing it was being sent around. No. I repeat it again.
It can’t be, but the loop inside my brain asks, What the hell is on that phone?

  Ava bobs her head to the side. Her long black hair falls down her shoulders and lands on the top of her strapless dress. “Maybe the lacrosse girls are fast on and off the field.”

  Efforts to calm myself are quashed by the word lacrosse. Lily is on lacrosse. But she didn’t go to any party. Dark thoughts pile up, a reel of dreadful scenarios I can’t slow down. Maybe they’re confused. All the girls look alike. Same hair. Same outfits.

  That’s when I hear Shelby. “That’s not Lily, Ava. It’s Zoe.”

  I freeze. Zoe? No. It’s not possible. Whatever it is they’re looking at, they’ve misread. Fast meant things our girls didn’t do. For God’s sake, they’re in ninth grade.

  The bathroom door closes behind them, and my legs buckle. Fast. Zoe. I place my palms on the walls for support. I’m forced to sit. What the hell is on that video? Kids today exaggerate. It’s probably nothing. But my body knows it’s not. I’m claustrophobic; my long-awaited exhale dissolves into the air. My heart beats, but I’m not sure I can move. Fast. The word sucks me of life. Zoe is the furthest thing from fast. That’s why she’s on the debate team.

  Sounds of music and laughter filter through the space beneath the door as I try to push the apprehension away. A faucet drips. I’m dizzy, a whirl of uncertainty nipping at my brain.

  Shaky hands guide me out of the stall. The clicking sound of the latch startles me, but no more than what I’ve just heard. I creep over to the vanity and grab hold of the surface. Breathe, Em, breathe. You have no idea what the girls were looking at. But there’s a rebuttal running around my head like that of a broken record. Zoe. Fast.

  I clamp my eyes shut. Excuse me, do I know you?

  I’m imagining things. Someone’s playing a silly trick. Yes, an idiotic, teenage prank. Ava is confused, and it sounds worse than it probably is. The bathroom door squeaks open, and I hide my face and wash my hands.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” It’s Lily. “Daddy’s looking all over for you.”

  I’m wobbly. Unsure. Whatever’s on that phone hasn’t reached her yet. “Lily,” I release into the air.

  Her eyes narrow in on mine. “Are you all right?”

  I dry my hands on one of our lush towels so I don’t have to face her. “You know I get sentimental.”

  Her shoes click on the floor, and when she’s near, she throws her arms around me. “Tonight was perfect. Thank you to you and Daddy.”

  Closing my eyes, I hug her and inhale her fresh, clean scent. When I open them, her barely there dress reflects in the mirror. I want to cover her with my body. It’s all a mistake. I hold her longer than usual and stroke her hair until she pulls away.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  But I stall, my feet drilled to the floor. I don’t want to go out there.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks again.

  My response is part whisper, part refusal, and rolls like rubble off my tongue. “I’m fine.”

  She walks me back to the table, our arms threaded together. When she finds her girlfriends, she unleashes my arm, and I stare around the room. It’s changed. Hazy, like someone pulled a plug. Fear boils in my belly, making it impossible to breathe. Crashing waves drag me under the surface.

  I spot Bobby surrounded by a group of parents picking up their kids. Drew and Lisa Howard, Grace’s parents, find me through the crowd and smother me in an embrace. Our families raised the girls together, and it’s easier to dissolve in their warm welcome than feel the gnawing in my gut.

  “Are you sure Grace doesn’t want to stay?” I ask Lisa.

  “It’s the sleeping-out thing,” she replies. “Maybe this year she’ll get over it.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I convince myself everything is fine. Then I berate myself for not approaching the girls and demanding answers. But Zoe and Lily would kill me for interfering with their friends. Parental rule number six: stay out of their business. I’m impatient and distracted. I fight the urge to make this a bigger deal than it is. Should I question them? Do I tell Bobby? The rest of the goodbyes are a blur.

  Nearby, the girls recap their night with Chelsea and Shelby. I study their faces to see if the video has made its way to their phones, but the waiters are clearing tables, blocking my view, and Bobby leads me to the dance floor.

  “You okay?” he whispers to the top of my head, pulling me close. “I asked them to play this.”

  Hearing the strum of one of our favorite songs, I nod. It was the one that told me if I got lost, I’d find him. I was lost once before. He was far, far away. And now he feels farther than ever. His embrace is strong. Solo tú, we say. Only you. I shut out the memories—I’m good at that. It keeps them from interfering with what I’d heard. And I convince myself there’s no connection between bad luck and that name.

  Bobby’s nearness has always been a source of strength and comfort. I should tell him what I heard, but I’m already feeling overreactive. Even so, he could make it go away. He’d make sense of what makes no sense. He’d say I was too emotional when it comes to the girls. He is far more pragmatic, though tender. He’d say, “Come on, Em, teenage drama. I’m sure it’s nothing.” And I’d agree with him, the worry flowing into the ocean, all a big mistake.

  Instead, I keep it to myself a while longer, letting him hold me tighter, falling into his comfortable rhythm.

  “Should we sneak outside and fool around?” He laughs, reminding me of the probability the girls were conceived on a deck chair by the pool.

  I tighten my grip. He can’t see inside me. He can’t see the worry clawing to come out.

  “They’re a nice group. Good kids,” he says, pulling me closer. And when I don’t respond, he asks, “Are you listening to me?”

  I hear him, but I’m somewhere else. I’m terrified something very bad is about to happen. Call it mother’s intuition, paranoia, whatever it is, I can’t sit with it alone. I stop moving. “Remember last weekend when Zoe went to that party? Lily was sick?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Something happened.”

  His arms drop to his sides, and he cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Mom, we’re going upstairs,” interrupts Lily, who moves in for a hug. Zoe and her friends follow. I squeeze Zoe harder than usual, afraid to let go.

  “Love you,” she whispers, and I stare deep into her eyes, searching for an explanation. An answer.

  “I love you more.”

  When the door closes, I take a seat at the empty table. Bobby sits beside me, his brown eyes holding mine. Waiters scatter around, clearing tables and breaking down chairs. Their noises jab at me.

  “Could you give us a moment alone?” he says to the staff before facing me. “What is it, Em?”

  “I don’t know,” I begin. “Something happened at that party.” His jacket hangs from a chair, and I throw it over my shoulders. My hands shake. There’s worry in his eyes. “It’s probably nothing,” I say. “It has to be nothing.”

  “Emma,” he says, “did something happen with the girls?”

  Jagged words rush from my throat. “I was in the bathroom. Shelby and Ava were talking about something crazy on one of their phones that was being sent around.” I don’t face him. I focus on the flowers on the table. The beautiful hues of lilac and blue. “They said it was one of the twins. At a party last weekend. They said she was fast.” I pause. The rest doesn’t want to come out. “They said it was Zoe.”

  “Did you see what it was?” he asks matter-of-factly.

  “No.”

  He stares everywhere but at me. “That could mean a lot of things. It could be anything.”

  “Did you hear me? Ava said fast. She said she was fast on and off the field.”

  “Lily?” he asks, confused.

  “I thought the same thing, but Shelby corrected her. She said, ‘That’s not Lily. That’s Zoe.’” I stop to catch my breath, and then I panic. “Zoe! What could
she have been doing that made them freak out like that? They said it’s going to get around!”

  He’s pulling me toward him, but the worry remains. “C’mon, Em, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “How can you say that?” My voice is shaky. “I’m telling you what I heard. I’m telling you what those girls in the bathroom were saying! Whatever’s on that video . . . it doesn’t sound good. You know how fast this stuff gets around.”

  He’s always been the strong one. “There’s no possible way Zoe got herself into trouble. Maybe Lily, but not my Zoe.” He’s rubbing his freshly shaven chin when he says this.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Let’s talk to the girls,” he suggests. He eyes the half-empty glasses on the table for the one he can guzzle. “If something happened with one of them, they’d tell us. Or they’d tell on each other. You’re worrying for nothing. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a big misunderstanding.”

  I hold on to what he’s saying. He makes perfect sense. Logical. But not everything is as it seems. It never is. People hide parts of themselves. Masters of denial. He rests his lips on my forehead, and I press into him. “Maybe you’re right . . .”

  “I usually am,” he laughs.

  “She said she’d never even kissed a boy. We were getting our nails done. Two weeks ago.” It’s a mother-daughter moment I need to bring to life.

  He stands up and squeezes my shoulders. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

  We make our way to the elevator past the throng of guests enjoying the Saturday-night bar. Festive voices blend with the music but do little to pluck me from my troubled mood.

  Bobby stares at me in the mirrored walls. “You know how girls are. They exaggerate. This is probably some joke. Some game. For all we know, Zoe’s kissing a boy in that video. She’s fifteen. It’s normal.” Then he gathers me in his arms. “We were teenagers once.”