The strain between us troubles me. Instead of us figuring this out together, he’s icing me out. I move in for a hug. His arms come around me, but they feel empty, like he’s not even trying.
“The girls need help with biology,” I say.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You’re not focusing, Zoe,” he says. “The ecosystem consists of the three levels. Micro, meso, and biome. I’ve said it three times.”
I’m preparing the marinade for a Whole Foods chicken, but I’m observing the interaction. We haven’t said anything about the interview, because we’re afraid of upsetting Zoe further. Bobby draws pictures and labels the energy flow along the food chain while Zoe’s chin rests in her hands, and she stares off somewhere. Lily’s up and down off her chair, trying on new lipsticks that came in a gift bag from Sephora. “I like that one,” I say, in spite of knowing she should focus.
Bobby slams his palm on the table, and Lily’s calculator crashes to the floor. “If you don’t need my help, Lily, can’t you go in the other room, so I can help your sister?”
“Gladly,” Lily answers as she snaps a selfie of her pursed lips. She leaves with her calculator, and I hear the living room TV turn on, and Rachel and Mike from Suits.
He returns to Zoe, his drunkenness hiding behind a textbook. “It says here, ‘Shorter food chains retain more energy than longer chains. Used-up energy is absorbed by the environment.’ Zoe, are you listening?”
His impatience rattles me.
She shakes her head. I think if she opens her mouth she’ll start to cry again. The struggle intensifies. He raises his voice. The carbon cycle and living tissue come out as jabs. His patience has hit its limit; he’s short with her and noticeably agitated.
“I can’t do this right now, Daddy,” she cries, hiding her face in her hands. “I can’t think straight.”
He tries to slow down, to go over the diagram again, but she won’t lift her head. I tell him with my eyes she’s done.
“Emma, she has a huge test tomorrow.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I correct him.
“I’m not going.” She raises her head and slams the computer shut. “I can’t go. I can’t take this test. I can’t see the kids. I don’t care about the carbon cycle.”
“You won’t be going, Zoe,” I finally say. “Tomorrow’s the Ocean Drive interview. You and your sister will be with us.”
“Great.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “More people looking at me. Can’t we postpone it? Can’t Lily just pretend to be me?”
I approach her and rest my hand on her back. “The timing’s bad, honey. I know.”
She jerks away, pushing her computer aside. She gets to her feet, and the chair legs scratch the floor. Before I can stop her, she’s gone. I empathize with the need to retreat, to run fast and far away from what she has to face. But what she doesn’t understand is how it can come back to bite her.
Bobby plucks me from my thoughts with a question. “Have you Googled her?”
I shoot him a look, but his hand comes up. “We need to know how far this video’s gone.”
I stare at Zoe’s abandoned seat. “I don’t want to know.”
Bobby slides the computer in my direction, an invitation to sit. His face is long, hard to read. “We need to know.”
“I can’t,” I say, backing away. I watch his nimble fingers grace the keyboard. My heart picks up speed. It drums in my chest. I shiver from the chilly air. Google ignites the screen, and Bobby takes his time inputting the letters. He gets as far as Zoe Ross, but hesitates to hit the magnifying glass that can multiply the problem.
The unknown alarms me. What will we find? And do I really want to know? “I can’t do this,” I whimper, pacing the floor in my bare feet.
Our eyes meet, the screen a shield between us. His are pained and frightened. The hair on my arms stands at attention, and my whole body tightens. “I need you,” he says. I dig inside my soul for lingering courage. Coming around the table, I place my fingers atop his. Together we stare at the bright screen and hit “Search.” In 0.37 seconds, 12,800,000 results pop up. Our movements are jerky when we add filters. Zoe Ross Miami Florida. 930,000 results in 0.66 seconds. Zoe Ross Miami Beach Florida Ross Hotel and then Zoe Ross Thatcher School.
I’m pleading with the Internet gods, my heart about to jump out of its cage. With each click, each search, the threat becomes frighteningly real. Lists of results line the page, and I’m rooted to the spot, careful to read each one. Zoe Ross is the daughter of Bobby Ross, developer and owner of the iconic Ross Hotel in South Beach, Florida. She attends the Thatcher School, she has Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, and Pinterest accounts, and she has won numerous debate competitions across the state. I lick my lips and keep scrolling, reading the biography of Zoe’s young life. No video. No indication that Zoe Ross Does the Dirty has spread. I thank God and exhale.
Our bodies relax with relief. “This is good,” I say, trying to be convincing. “It’s under control.” Though there’s nothing good about having to Google your daughter’s sexual exploits on the Internet.
I look up and catch Zoe’s face peering out from behind the door. Her expression softens. The color returns to her face, and the clouds in her eyes are replaced with a pale blue.
The fact that we rejoice because our daughter’s sexual tryst didn’t go viral indicates how far we’ve fallen. The respite may be temporary, Bobby reminds me, but I disagree. We can control this.
It’s dark and quiet, and we’re on opposite ends of the couch when he tells me he has to fly to New York later in the week. The interview tomorrow has me on edge. I’m dreading the piece on the alleged perfect family. He’s propped up on a cushion, and I’m buried under a ginger blanket. This is my favorite room—creamy white with splashes of earth tones, but tonight the colors feel off.
“Now?”
He repeats it twice because the first time I pretend not to hear him. “I have a meeting in the city.”
Bobby’s business requires travel, though he knows how to manage his schedule for limited absences. And he never leaves on certain occasions.
“Do you really think this is the best time to leave?”
“I can’t change it.” He turns on the TV and flips through the channels.
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Please, Emma.” He’s dismissive.
The noise from the TV buffers what we don’t want to say. I catch his eyes and feel much farther away from him than the width of our coffee table. He may as well be holding a mirror up at me. A painful unease grips me, and I try to push it down. The Voice lights up the screen, and he mutes the volume.
“We need to go after the person who videoed her,” he says.
“No, Bobby, we need to focus on making sure Zoe’s okay.”
Lily marches in and catches Blake Shelton twirling in his chair. “What’s the point of watching The Voice without sound?” she asks. It’s funny, but no one laughs. She gives me her cheek and turns to her dad. “You coming in?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he says as she marches out again.
I find his eyes, and the brown tugs. He’s not done discussing retribution. “That’s why we find the person who did this,” he says. “They should be held responsible.” He’s pressed against the pillows, his hair dusting his forehead. His arms are toned and tan, and he looks younger than his years.
“How is punishing someone else taking care of Zoe?”
“They’re not mutually exclusive.”
I tug the blanket higher up my body. A question needles me. “It feels like you’re disappointed it wasn’t an assault.”
His attention locks on the screen. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” I am in this moment unabashedly honest. If he looked carefully he would know. He’d see my blemishes, too. But Zoe did this. The actions were hers. Not some drug. Believing she was forced is an excuse to bury her mistake. “I know what you’re doing,” I say. I’
ve done it myself. Once. A long time ago. I made excuses. Lies. They’re so close to the surface he has to see them lurking beneath my skin.
“I’m trying to help my daughter,” he says, holding up the remote and renewing his program search.
Look at me. “You want something to blame. Someone to blame.”
He rubs his forehead and the platinum wedding band comes to view. “Is that so wrong?” he asks. “That I don’t want it to be my daughter’s fault?”
“If I see it, she can, too,” I say.
“You’re wrong.”
“I know you, Bobby. I know how you think. You’re upset . . . angry . . . but how angry? How long are you going to punish her?”
“It’s been a day, Emma. Twenty-four hours.”
I ask again. “How long are you going to punish her?”
He shakes his head. “Any father would feel the same. Zoe’s my daughter.”
“What if Zoe were a boy?” I ask.
He tosses his hands in the air. “We’re not going to debate the double standard . . . I can’t imagine her doing what she did . . . and so publicly. That boy used her. He didn’t care about her. He didn’t respect her.”
It hurts to hear him say these things. It’s a lashing I’d feared deep inside my bones. The swiftness with which he judges those he loves alarms me. A ball of fear plants itself inside me. It’s about to implode.
“So he didn’t love her,” I clarify. “And she didn’t love him. So it cheapens her, makes her flawed. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I hate when you say it like that,” he says.
“It’s the truth, though? Isn’t that how you feel?”
I’m staring at him so deeply I’m convinced he can read my thoughts. I want him to argue with me. To say he loves her no matter what. That whatever she did was a mistake, not a personal flaw, but his eyes tell a different story. If Zoe is feeling a fraction of what I once felt, my daughter’s in a lot of pain. And dragging her through some revenge plot would make it worse.
He won’t look at me. He stares at the television instead. Anderson Cooper is dapper in a polka-dotted tie, and it reminds me of the time we went to Bobby’s fraternity formal and the clip from his tie got stuck. We made love with it on. In the morning it was still there. Naked Bobby wrapped in a bow of satin. He’d always been a gift. I teased him about it for years. Even better on the inside. Now my insides are wrought with emotions that can at any time combust.
“How are we going to manage the interview tomorrow when you can’t even talk to me?” I ask. “And how can we put Zoe under another microscope?”
He crosses his legs and leans back farther into the couch. “They don’t need to know what’s going on with Zoe. Even off the record.”
It’s a personal affront, and the thunder I hear outside agrees. “You think I’d bring it up? How stupid do you think I am?”
Our eyes meet. His are unfriendly. No, they’re embarrassed. “You never know what information they’ve dug up on us. People talk. It could come up.”
My lips clamp shut, and words fight their way out. We’re the perfect family in the perfect package. “I’d never betray Zoe. How can you say that?” And before I can stop them, the words shoot out of me. “Believe me, I know how to keep secrets.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
It’s cruel, and I realize my mistake. “Nothing.”
He eyes me a moment longer, then says, “I just don’t want to talk about it. Maybe tomorrow will be good for her, a distraction.”
I couldn’t think of anything worse for a girl who already feels exposed than to be photographed and questioned for local media. I’d want to crawl in a hole and hide. “What about Tuesday? Do you think she’ll be ready to return to school?”
“Maybe she should transfer,” he says. “It might be easier for her.”
I disagree. Running away isn’t the answer. “Postpone New York.”
“Em, it’s two days.”
“Can’t Jonny go?”
He flips the TV off. “No, Jonny can’t go. I need to be there.”
I’m too exhausted to fight. I remember when his parents died and the hotel became theirs to share. Bobby’s attachment was always deeper. It was understood early on he’d take the reins. There I was by his side. We chose carpets together. Paint swatches. Planned events and hired staff. His decision to leave, especially now, catches me off guard.
My phone dings. I have no interest in reading any more sympathy notes, but the name across the screen is Dr. Don Mason, the principal of Thatcher.
From: Don Mason [[email protected]]
To: Emma Ross [[email protected]]; Robert Ross [[email protected]]
CC: Zelda Rubin [[email protected]]
Subject: Zoe Ross
Mr. and Mrs. Ross,
It has come to my attention that an explicit video has been sent to many of our students that includes Zoe and another student. Thatcher has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to sexting and the dissemination of inappropriate material. A letter to the student body and parents will go out tomorrow morning. If any student is caught forwarding or sharing said video, it will result in automatic expulsion from Thatcher. We take these matters very seriously in accordance with specific guidelines in our Student Handbook and our commitment to the well-being of our students.
I’ll be in my office tomorrow morning after drop-off if you would like to discuss this matter further. Please bring Zoe. I’d like to assure her that we are here to facilitate a safe and bully-free academic environment.
I have copied Zelda Rubin, our school’s counselor, on this e-mail. If there is any help or support that Ms. Rubin can provide, she is available to Zoe and your family at any time.
Warmest regards,
Dr. Don Mason
Principal, Thatcher Day School
Well, that got around fast. I’m pleased and horrified at once. “Dr. Mason wants us to come in. With Zoe. Can we go on Tuesday?”
“I can’t, Em . . . and I don’t think she should go. She needs time.”
He never said no to anything pertaining to the girls. Ever.
I push on. “She needs to make the decision about school. We can’t make it for her. If she thinks she can handle it, she should go. And you need to be there.”
“Look what happened the last time she made a decision.”
His words are like a bite. They leave deep marks.
There are walls between us that I never noticed before. I feel fragile, breakable, as though anything he says might crack me open for all to see. I can’t be near him, and the impulse lifts me off the couch in the direction of the girls’ room.
The steps to their room are long. My legs are rubbery and unsure. I don’t knock, instead silently letting myself in the door. It smells like my girls, a mixture of blue jeans and cherry lip gloss, possibility and promise. Phone chargers and bags and hair ties crowd their dressers. I kiss Lily’s forehead and cross the room to Zoe. I bend down to meet her cheek, ruffle her hair. I study the artifacts of a young life. I see Zoe’s scattered brown hair, her tired body curled on its side in a ball. She is so at peace it’s hard for me to imagine what’s going on inside her mind.
I turn off their reading lamps and listen to the silence. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I step over backpacks and shoes and computers until I land at the foot of her bed, dropping to my knees. The surge of tears starts in the pit of my stomach. They are the dreaded goodbye, the mourning of my little girl. The effort to keep the cries silent is hard. I gasp, clinging to her nearby sweatshirt. The one with the huge peace sign made of sunflowers.
The grief devours me. It’s been tangled up inside, protecting me, but at the same time, inflicting more damage. Helping Zoe means helping myself. I stare up at the clock on the wall. It’s a loud, clicking clock that Bobby loved as a young boy. It was his great-grandfather’s, and he passed it down to the girls so its rhythmic chimes could smooth out unpredictable tim
es. Today it makes me sad. Today it makes me hate time.
When I slide into bed, Bobby turns on his side and tells me he’s tired. I’m tired, too, but I lay my hand across his back. He pretends not to notice. I clamp my eyes shut and bite down the pain.
“You didn’t kiss the girls good night,” I whisper into the darkness.
But he doesn’t answer.
CHAPTER 8
It’s a morning of contradictions. Blue skies, a tranquil beach, water so clear you can see through to the bottom, and a family suppressing a bubbling secret under a painted-on smile. The girls are clad in strapless organza gowns with French lace. Zoe’s emerald; Lily’s sapphire. I’m amethyst. Their hair is swept back in loose buns behind their heads. Dramatic gold glitter frames their blue eyes. At a glance, they’re barefooted angels with skin dusted in soft pink.
It should have been a fun-filled day, what Lily had called her “Cinderella moment,” with Bobby and Jonny in matching tuxedos, but it doesn’t come close. Instead, when I look deeper, Zoe’s doe-eyed expression is from lack of sleep, Lily’s affair with the camera is a tamped-down excitement, and Bobby is on edge, waiting for the facade to blow.
“Beautiful,” calls out Mark the photographer. “Just a few more shots outside and we’ll head upstairs.
“Get closer together.
“Zoe, chin up. Smile.
“Lily, grab your sister’s hand.”
“I’m Zoe,” she says.
“Zoe, I mean Lily, over here.”
For the most part, he does an excellent job directing a family in crisis, but my face hurts from smiling, and I’m convinced our bodies don’t fit together. Bobby pokes Zoe to get her to smile, and Mark applauds what he perceives as a loving gesture.
At one point, he asks, “How do you tell them apart?”
We’re taking a break, and the one in sapphire chases the waves as if she’s suited in Under Armour and not a designer gown. The one in emerald is hovering along the shoreline. She’s contemplative when she dips a toe in the water. These people have no idea what we are living through at the moment. “Lily’s always moving. Zoe’s the inert one.”
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