“What happened is a crime. I don’t know what kind, but if we let it go, someone gets away with hurting Zoe. And then what? It gets worse. The video goes viral. We can’t let that happen!”
“Stop it!” I yell. “Stop!” My head is about to explode.
I hear the elevator chime, and wipe my eyes. Zoe strolls in behind her sister. Her gait is slow, and her eyes are dim. The question in the faded blue is directed at him. She can do that without even talking. It asks, Do you hate me?
He answers her by announcing he’s going to his downstairs office. When he passes Zoe, I can feel the cold air between them.
Lily’s breeziness helps and hurts. She’s the one to maintain a sense of normalcy. She can skip over the undercurrents and ask me questions like why aren’t I dressed, as if it’s a normal Sunday afternoon, or if we’re going to our favorite Chinese restaurant tonight. She provides a balance that reminds me to come back to earth.
“Do you have homework?” I ask.
Lily mumbles, “Yes,” and Zoe says, “I’m not going to school.”
I don’t know if this is the best idea or the very worst.
“The kids won’t be nice, Mom,” says Lily. She crosses the room and picks at her face in the mirror. “It’s gossip. Gossip trumps everything.”
“Don’t pick,” I tell her. “You’ll get scars.”
“Why do I have to go?” Lily complains. “I’m sure there are kids who think it’s me.”
Zoe slumps on the couch, biting her cuticles. “I’m never going back.”
I smooth her hair off her face, revealing her eyes. Today they’re more gray, like mine, and I wonder what else connects us. I take her hand. “It won’t always feel like this.” It’s what a mother says, even if she’s unsure. “Maybe you should do some homework, take your mind off it. We can decide about school later.”
“I texted everybody in our contacts,” says Lily. “I told them to delete the video. They said they did.”
Relief washes over me, brushing aside the tinge of worry that any one of them could be lying. These were good kids. They wouldn’t want to hurt an innocent young girl. Trusting in our ability to contain the video, I focus on finding the coward who did this. Turning back to Zoe, I hesitate. “Honey, think. Do you have any idea who might’ve filmed you with Price? Did you see anyone? Could it have been him?”
I know it’s a slippery slope to question her again. She pulls her hand away and stands up. “I can’t talk about this anymore.” She hurries out of the room, and soon a door slams.
Lily takes her place next to me, our shoulders touching. “How was she on the walk?” I ask.
“Terrible. Everyone’s talking about it. I won’t lie. It’s the top of every newsfeed.”
I want to disappear. I want to float out of the room and drift out to sea. Is it possible I passed this down to Zoe? She settles into the couch and crosses her legs. “Tell me what she said.”
Lily sighs. “I asked her how things got so far so fast . . . and what it looked like.”
“Lily! I hope you didn’t upset her.”
“Don’t worry. She actually laughed. Even though she didn’t remember what it looked like.”
“I don’t find that funny,” I say. “At all.”
“She’s fine. She talks to me. She gives it right back. She said it was supposed to be me hooking up first. Being on the debate team hasn’t really made her the Bachelorette, you know.”
I think about missed opportunities, and I won’t let another one go by. “I hope it’s different for you, Lily. Not so public. With someone you care about.”
“Mom, you of all people can’t understand my generation. You’ve been with Dad forever. It’s kinda weird.”
“I love your father,” I say, feeling flush.
I’m relieved she doesn’t see anything peculiar in the way I defend our love. She’s back on her phone, the buzzing and beeping swiping her away from me. When Lily is done, her eyes latch on to mine and she says, “She won’t be drinking anytime soon. That I can promise you.”
It made sense. Zoe hated throwing up. It terrified her. She’d come into our room when she wasn’t feeling well and literally fight it. I can’t imagine her doing it without telling me. Without needing me there. Who held her hair back? Who told her she’d be okay? Did she cry herself to sleep?
“And I’m willing to bet she wasn’t drugged, Mom.”
I pull myself out of the sadness and listen to Lily.
“Kids talk, and no one’s saying anything about date rape drugs. No one. Price Hudson is as harmless as they come. She swears he was nothing but nice to her. They had too much to drink, and that was it.”
That was it. I breathe it in and pretend it’s going to be okay. Except “that was it” was recorded for everyone to see. I thank Lily for being a good sister and tell her to start her homework.
“What’s the over-under on getting our permits tomorrow?” she asks, her hopes obviously diminishing.
“Be patient,” I tell her. “It’s not the best time.”
She scoots away, shoulders stooped in disappointment, and I’m left with my worry.
I dig my phone out of my bathrobe pocket and switch it on. Seven missed calls. Twenty-two texts. And a pile of mindless notifications. Lisa is frantic. Others are genuinely concerned. The messages are well intentioned, though they’re really a collective sigh of relief. Thank God it’s not my kid.
A new message comes through. It’s Lisa again. Em, I’m so sorry. What can I do?
Sorry. The only thing it brings to mind is death. Like a shiva house in the Jewish religion, during the grieving period for those who have been lost. It’s where loved ones and friends gather to share their sympathies. They may as well have said, “Our condolences, Emma.” Because, arguably, there’s a loss. A piece of my daughter is gone.
My whimpers become sobs. I don’t care who hears. The pain pours out of me. It’s old stuff. It’s new. It’s everything I thought I was doing right for my girls turned into the wrong. I desperately want to help Zoe, but I don’t know how. I feel like a failure. A fraud. I crumple into the cushions, grab the chenille throw, and hide my face in its fabric.
“Mommy?” It’s Zoe.
She’s next to me, wrapping her arms around the blanket and me.
“This is all my fault,” she says.
“No!” I say, lowering the blanket.
Her eyes are puffy from crying. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and then reach for hers.
“I’ve let you down. I’ve let everyone down. How can I ever stand on the debate podium and be taken seriously? You said colleges might see it.”
“No, honey,” I say, letting her splay herself across my lap. I brush her hair with my hand and trace her forehead with my finger. “We’re going to fix this.” My throat is raw and my head sore from crying. “What you’re seeing is love. I’m just sad for you. I’m sad to see you so upset.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize what it’s done to me, to Bobby, to all of us.
“I’m so sorry for causing you so much pain,” she says.
I swallow hard. “No. No. No.” My vehemence surprises her, but I continue. “You’re my child. I love you. With all my heart. And sometimes that love levels us. It hurts. We get disappointed. Let down. But we never give up on our kids. Ever. Do I want to make it go away? Yes. More than anything. But I’m not blaming you. And I won’t lecture you anymore tonight.” My voice changes. “Even though I should.” The color returns to her cheeks. I rest my palm on the smooth skin. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Daddy’s pissed.”
A moment passes so I can process this. “He is. And he’s scared, but he’ll come around.” I try to sound authentic, like I believe what I’m saying. I pat her on the back. “Go finish your homework. We’re going to be fine.”
She hugs me before she gets up, and I inhale her. Maison Louis Marie No. 4, Zoe’s signature scent. The amber stays in my nose long after she’s gone,
and it propels me off the couch and into our room, where I throw on jeans and a camel-colored hoodie.
Our bed’s unmade, the sheets a tangled mess. I pull them up and flatten the creases and fluff the pillows. The girls and their friends probably left a similar mess, but I’m depleted of energy and call for one of the housekeepers. I slide across the bed and dial Lisa. Our friendship started in Mommy and Me classes and has centered around the girls and their flurry of activities. Lisa, Drew, and Grace have been a mainstay in all our lives. The men are close through their shared positions in the real estate world, and Sabbath dinners are always entertaining, listening to the Howards’ whirlwind life.
“What on earth is going on?” she asks, breathless, because she probably ran across the expanse of her Indian Creek mansion to answer the phone.
I submerge myself in the gray velvet pillows and shut my eyes. Hearing her voice makes me want to cry.
“Emma, talk to me.”
Despondency is a tidal wave at the base of my throat. The rush rises, and I have no way to rein it in. All that comes out is a pitiful wail.
“Oh, Em, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. How’s Zoe?”
I wipe my eyes on the pillowcase and don’t even care about the black marks left by last night’s makeup. “How do you think she is? She’s a mess. We all are. We’re upset. We’re scared. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with my daughter. Bobby’s convinced she was drugged. I think that would be easier for him to comprehend. I don’t know what this will do to her, long-term.” I don’t even think about what I’m saying. The misery just pours out.
“You know the gossip mills go through very quick cycles. Very quick. Kids forget. They move on to the next drama.” Lisa’s usual high-pitched, cheery voice is subdued.
“Did you see her when they got home from the party? Did you know they were drinking?” I ask.
She pauses. “I didn’t see them. We got home late, and they were sound asleep.” The regret in her voice filters through. “The next morning Zoe was gone by the time I woke up.”
I run my fingers through a tangle of hair. “I shouldn’t have let her go to the party. I should’ve been there for her.”
“This isn’t your fault, Em. You and Bobby are terrific parents.”
“Then how come I didn’t know what my daughter was capable of?”
She doesn’t have an answer.
“Did Grace say anything to you?” I ask.
“Em, my daughter’s a teenager. She doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me, sharing the same air. She sure as hell isn’t about to tell me what her friends are up to.”
I grip the phone to my ear. “When did it all change? When did they stop needing us?”
“They need us. Don’t kid yourself,” Lisa says.
“I’m not talking about chauffeuring them around town and clothes shopping,” I say. “Why didn’t Zoe come to me? Why’d she resort to drinking?”
“Em, most teenagers are going to experiment with alcohol. It doesn’t mean Zoe has problems. I was sneaking into my parents’ bar when I was thirteen.”
Lisa and I are close, but I’ve never confided my truths. The deep, explosive ones. I’ve always been told that when it came to matters of relationships, you keep your private issues private. Trust no one. And I did just that. The paragon of seemingly perfect relationships. That was Bobby and me. Sweethearts for life. It was a bar held unrealistically high, and for years it fit. Until now. Until the castle began crumbling at the hand of Zoe’s act. We are no longer perfect. We never were. I’m ashamed to even have this conversation.
I imagine fit Lisa with her thick, blonde, recently styled hair. She’d be pissed to know I withheld secrets over our lunches with the girls. The problem with perfection is when you can’t live up to it, the exposure is that much more painful. I continue, “Did anyone else say anything to you?”
“Believe me, I tried. Cookie. Dara. We’re shocked. No one expected this from Zoe.”
It’s always the quiet ones. Bobby says that all the time.
My mind wanders. It’s thinking out loud. “I’ve been considering a job outside the hotel. I was going to apply at the Arsht Center or Jackie Gleason Theater. The girls have their lives . . . and it’s all going to change when they start driving . . . I thought I’d put out some feelers.”
“You love that hotel.”
“I do. It’s not work for me. It’s my life. I’ll always be managing it in some capacity, but I’m ready to do something else.”
“That’s a great idea,” Lisa says, and I can see her big smile and her clear blue eyes through the phone.
“Then this happened.” And I take a moment to process what I’m about to say, because up until this minute I had no inkling of what I was feeling. “Part of me is relieved Zoe needs me. It’s awful to say, I know. I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anyone, but it makes me realize how much I love being her mother. I don’t want that to change.”
“So you’re not going to get another job?”
“I don’t know.”
We’re silent for a moment.
“What can I do?” she asks.
“Tell Grace and all the girls to delete the video. If you hear anything, let me know. Bobby’s furious. He wants to go after the person who filmed them. It would help if someone knew something.”
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll do anything for you guys. And we’ll see you Wednesday, right? Dinner?”
“I’ll talk to Bobby and let you know.”
We hang up, and I scroll through my phone, considering the appropriate replies to the wave of inquiries. What I really want is to find the switch that makes every voyeur erase what they saw. There’s a PTA meeting at Thatcher on Tuesday. A jacket was left in the Coral Room last night. The party feels like a lifetime ago. And then, from Sandra at Concierge: Don’t forget the Ocean Drive spread tomorrow. They’ll be here at 9.
I double back to my calendar and check the date. Shit. Shit. Shit. Tomorrow! We can’t cancel again when we’ve already had to reschedule twice. How will Zoe manage this? And Bobby? The timing couldn’t be worse. I fall back on the bed, eyes closed and fingers fisted, while despair takes over.
CHAPTER 7
Our house that’s not really a house is quiet and dark. It’s evening, but this darkness is different. It comes from chaos and hitches itself to the walls and ceiling. Fifteen had been ushered in with a surprising bang. The scandal stripped away order and left us all disoriented.
From the outside peering in, everything looked normal. The girls opened their birthday presents, and together we admired the kindness of their friends. Only I could see Zoe’s distance. The way in which her empty eyes latched on to the gifts from her favorite stores, and when I remarked, “What a pretty top,” she merely shrugged, a wooden response that meant she couldn’t care less.
I scribbled the names for the corresponding gifts so the girls could send thank-you notes. Lily groaned, “Can’t we send a text?”
“No. The proper thing to do is to send a note.”
They told me I was old-fashioned, and I called for the bellman to pick up the chrome cart. Damn right I’m old-fashioned.
They sit in their usual spots at the kitchen table to do homework. Their chatter, ordinarily centered on celebrity gossip and their least favorite teachers, is steeped in quiet. Tonight, nothing is normal.
Zoe’s face is tired. Dark circles frame her eyes. She pulls at her hair, frustrated over Spanish class. I get clipped answers and distracted stares.
“You don’t get it,” she says. “School’s much more difficult than when you were growing up.”
Lily’s phone dings, and she reads the notification aloud. Zoe doesn’t care that one of the Kardashians is all over the news for some new drama. The pressure knots the air around us.
I fend off questions about ecosystems while Zoe chews on the end of her pencil. Lily leans over and fills in the answers for her. Every so often, Lily checks her phone and we all ho
ld our breath, waiting for a derailed train to crash.
Bobby arrives home, and I greet him at the door. He staggers, and I smell the bourbon. “Where were you?” I ask, following him to his office.
“Doing work.” He avoids my eyes.
“It’s Sunday. Isn’t that why you put an office up here?”
He searches through a cabinet, looking for something. I feel foolish asking him what’s wrong.
“How can you ask me that?” He scowls.
I come around the desk so he can’t ignore me. “We have the Ocean Drive interview tomorrow.”
He stops what he’s doing and considers what this means.
“The girls won’t be going to school,” I tell him.
He seems reasonable. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he says and quickly returns to his search.
“Why are you shutting me out?”
“I’m not shutting you out, Em. I spent a great deal of time today on the phone with Nathan trying to figure out our next steps. He knows someone who specializes in situations like this. We also got the inspection results. All the marble floors need to be ripped out and repaired. Every balcony failed code. We have a major renovation to deal with.”
“I thought we were up to code.”
“We’re not. We have ninety days to file permits and begin the work.”
It’s a lot to handle at once, and I try to comfort him, but he’s too upset to let me in. Or drunk. His eyes are bloodshot. His steps are shaky.
The phone rings, and it’s Jonny. “I told you to leave it alone, brother,” Bobby says. “I have it under control.”
He never talks to Jonny like this, and I chalk it up to mounting stress.
“I know what I’m doing.” And he hangs up abruptly.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, but he’s short.
“It’s business. Don’t worry about it.”
I’m worried, but the conversation stalls. “Maybe we’re overreacting about the video,” I say. “The kids are deleting it. We can make this go away.”
Yes. Let’s lock it up in a box somewhere so no one ever has to see.
“I hope you’re right, Em. God willing, this goes away and Zoe’s learned a lesson, but I’m not convinced.”
Somebody's Daughter Page 6
