Somebody's Daughter
Page 11
“By tomorrow it’ll be someone else,” she says, taking another swig. “You know how these things go.”
My head falls into my hands. Revulsion spreads to my fingers and toes. The weapons they throw at Zoe will cause more damage than her actions. Labels that won’t go away. That Emma Grant isn’t so perfect after all. Who knew she had it in her? The voices taunt. The years have made them louder than before. She takes a seat beside me and rifles through her backpack until she finds her phone. “Please don’t tell her what they’re saying about her,” I say. “She’ll be devastated.”
She uh-huhs me and scrolls through her phone, an endless reel documenting every move through poses and selfies. I sit back and watch as she immerses herself in the feed. We’ve had multiple conversations about this hallmark of pop culture, and I’d love to rip the phone away. This generation believes the number of likes is proportional to self-worth. I don’t understand the phenomenon. I don’t understand my daughter flashing herself on a screen while someone swipes across her face, wiping out her meaningful parts.
“When I was in high school, a boy who stared at us in the hallway was our big excitement. I suppose that’s what you girls feel when someone likes your post.”
Lily taps on the screen without looking up and laughs. “Are you comparing a boy staring at your ass with a thousand likes?”
“I guess I am.” Even if it’s an entirely disproportionate level of attention—and need. “Self-esteem tied up in likes and swipes is misleading.”
“Mom, you are seriously antiquated.”
If I hear one more time how their world is so different from ours I might scream. Technology can never replace real-life interaction. And insults hurt, no matter the vehicle delivering them.
“It’s sweet,” she says, and it feels more like an effort to get me to be quiet.
What good was preaching to her about the way their father and I grew up? Not only had the Internet opened up new corners of the law, but dating had changed, too. Just a few weeks ago, Bobby and I were in a cabana by the pool, and I was giving him the highlights from a recent article about Tinder.
“Casual sex is pandemic. Romance is gone. Emotional intimacy nonexistent.” He was trying to work, but I could tell he was interested. And I didn’t think at the time the conversation would come back to haunt me. Haunt us. “Do you have any idea what this will do to the institution of marriage?”
He had told me to stop freaking out. “I wish I was growing up in this era,” he joked, but I didn’t laugh.
“It makes me sad,” I said. “This generation may never experience the thrill of a first date.”
He rolled over, dropped his papers aside, and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Always my worrier,” he said.
“It’s my job,” I replied, wondering if our girls would ever have what we had.
Then he traced a finger down my shoulder and kissed the soft skin. “They have you inside them. Plenty of romantic gushiness.”
Now the conversation seemed like a lifetime ago. I ask myself, what’s the point of lecturing and teaching and comparing one generation to the next when my daughter becomes the poster child for teenage promiscuity? What is the point of preparing her for boys and self-respect when a boy can wrest it all away in a heartbeat? Her choices are my choices. And if I will ever understand what she did, I must first understand what I did—and that comes with culpability.
I hear the elevator and greet Zoe at the door. She collapses into my arms, almost knocking me over. Yesterday we had to restrain ourselves from sharing; today the cork’s come out of the bottle. Her sobs are regretful and deep, as though she’s given up. I wrap my arm around her and steer her toward the kitchen. Her pain sits inside and makes it hard for me to breathe.
I whisper into her tangled hair, “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”
“It sucked. It was like being a dead frog. Everyone was dissecting me.” She sets her backpack on the table beside her sister. “You wouldn’t believe the things they were saying. They think our family is in the mafia. And we have drug deals in our bathrooms. And of course there’s no supervision.”
The insults are crushing. “I’m sorry, honey. But you made it through the worst part.”
Her expression disagrees. It brandishes all the signs of weakening. A deep-seated humiliation sculpts her cheeks. I want to wash it away.
“How was Dr. Rubin?”
She pulls a chair out and plops herself in it. “We played chess.”
“Nice,” says Lily. “You get to play chess, and I have to take an exam.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “I’ll trade places with you, Lily. Gladly.”
I press her for more information.
“She was nice. After a while I didn’t feel like playing, and she could tell. She said I shouldn’t be afraid to speak up for myself.”
Lily laughs. “Oh, that’s real subtle.”
I glare at her. “Enough commentary. Let her finish.”
“I told her I didn’t have to speak up for myself with Price, that he didn’t force me to do anything. She told me we didn’t have to talk about Price and what happened on that video.”
She wanted this to happen. My heart quickens.
Lily asks, “So what did you discuss for an hour?”
Zoe turns away and stares out at the balcony. “Stuff.”
Lily groans when I tell her to give us a few minutes. When we’re alone, it doesn’t take Zoe long to start talking.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.” She’s zipping and unzipping her Thatcher sweatshirt as though she’s undecided about which one of us she’s talking to.
I don’t know what to say to her. I really don’t. I turn away and focus on the appliances, the light fixture in the ceiling, anything to hide my discomfort.
“Why’d you do it, Zoe?”
“Mom.” She looks me squarely in the eye. “Don’t. Don’t judge me.”
Monty’s memory swirls around me, and if someone had asked why, I doubt I’d have the answer. It was impulsive and maybe out of character, but it satisfied a need. A want. A freedom I’d never experienced. Literally never. I cower.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying. I am.” But I’m not. I’m trying to figure out what connects us. Neediness? Curiosity? Alcohol? I’m wondering how I didn’t get caught and she did. I’m wondering why I’m drawing these comparisons so clearly, as if there’s a red pen in my palm and the strokes of our dalliances are written across the sky.
“Today was hard enough,” she begins again. “The kids were jerks.” She hugs her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. “Everybody stared. Even the teachers heard what happened.”
“Did anything else happen with Price?”
“No,” she says, picking at something on her shorts. “He avoided me. And I avoided him. Lily’s lucky she didn’t get suspended.”
The silence that follows is full of questions. I tread lightly when I ask, “Is there any chance Price could’ve had something to do with you being filmed?”
Zoe is adamant when she disagrees. “It wasn’t him. I told you. He was as shocked as I was. I don’t care who filmed it. I just want everyone to erase it from their phones.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I am,” she insists. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
Three days ago I’d never even heard this boy’s name, and now Zoe is the barometer of his behavior. I study the denial spreading across her face, because it so closely resembles mine. Her actions, the exposure, the willingness to push it away. Suppressing humiliation only doubles its power.
“How will we know if kids are deleting the video?” she asks, swiping at her eyes and the torment buried there. I notice her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. I’m convinced it signifies something deeper.
“They are. You have to trust it.”
“I don’t trust anyone!” She crumples, and her hair hides her face. “This is who I am now.”
Zoe shrugs. The last few days have aged her into someone older than fifteen. “It’s bad enough that everyone’s talking about me, but no one knows the real story. It wasn’t as scandalous as everyone thinks.” She pauses and finds my eyes. “Dr. Rubin is the only one who’s not trying to pull some reason out of me.” Her features thaw one by one as she returns her gaze to the table and to me. “I feel like you want to make this into something much more than it is.”
It already is. It has seeped into my bones and spread like a disease. “If you did this to feel good about yourself, I want to know.”
“Why?” It comes out as a whimper. “Will it make you feel better? Or will it make you feel worse?”
She’s touched a nerve, and I back away.
When she speaks again, she talks to the floor, kicking at it with her sneakered foot. “Plenty of girls like fooling around, Mom.”
She just punched me. My daughter just punched me. Smack in the gut.
Thick emotions clog my throat. “Sure, Zoe, when they’re older, mature enough to handle it . . . sex is powerful . . .” I can’t finish my thought. Her words chip at my resistance. I see Bobby in the flecks of her eyes, and I’m trying to convince him that it was a mistake.
I suck in my breath and let the elephant in the room simmer. Am I judging her too harshly? Is this just a different culture? Kids hook up without feelings? “You’re so young, Zoe. Hardly mature enough to understand the repercussions or even the dangers. I’m sure he didn’t wear a condom. It can’t just happen. You have to think about it.”
“A lot of girls don’t think about it.”
“Those girls are confused,” I say. “It feels nice at first, but sometime after, I bet they want more. They regret it.”
“How would you know?” she snaps back. “Daddy’s the only person you’ve ever been with!”
I avert my eyes and focus on getting my point across. “You girls are young. You think you know everything, but you’re so far from it. Even if they’re all doing it, claiming it’s fun, I doubt they believe it. Deep inside. When they’re alone with themselves and wishing the boy cared.”
I want to say, Where’s the eye contact? The intimacy? Does being on your knees like that feel good, doing all the work for someone you don’t know? But I stop myself from the harsh, cruel judgments that stem from personal scrutiny.
“I remember being your age and thinking I was so grown-up and knew what was right for me and my body, but I didn’t.” My voice quavers. “You’re a minute into fifteen with command of a phone and a new wave of technology. That doesn’t make you an expert on everything. There are far more important things. Like self-respect. Intimacy. Trust. Do you know how easy it is to get naked or undress for someone? But getting to know someone, really know someone, is being naked. When you drink and lose your inhibitions, you can hurt yourself—deep, deep inside—and those kinds of scars are way worse than physical bruises.”
I preach as though she’s one of those girls who gives herself to a boy to fill a need. I preach to her as a mother who wants to be sure she’s setting the right example and hitting the right notes. I preach to her the age-appropriate lessons because she’s young, and the conversation may shift in ten years. It’s all meaningful and righteous, but with every word that leaves my lips, the sutures pull apart and the wound slowly opens. I got drunk. I may have been lonely. I was definitely mad. I did something out of character. I lost my inhibitions. It felt good. Then I woke up in a puddle of regret facing terrifying repercussions.
Zoe gets up and opens the refrigerator. I wait for her to turn around before I stand up and give her what I so desperately needed all those years ago.
“I love you, Zoe. More than you’ll ever understand. I want you to live a full life. I want you to make good choices and be proud of those choices.” I continue on autopilot. Pure, untarnished Emma being Super Mom. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t understand how it happened. I’m old-fashioned that way. I want you to love and be loved. But more than anything, I want you to love yourself.”
Her eyes blink back tears.
“Daddy and I love you and support you. We’ll do whatever we can to protect you . . . but I want you to understand your actions, too, as a young woman.”
“I hear you,” she says. “That’s why this was my private business no one needed to know about.”
The words I preach to Zoe are whirring in my head. They’re hypocritical, but they’re the best I can do, the best I can give her. This isn’t how I want her to experience intimacy. She needs to know the thrill of meeting someone new and experiencing that exciting jolt. And what it’s like to talk to each other all night and uncover the secret places that make you one. And how it feels to touch the person you love for the first time. The anticipation of that first kiss. They’re all the sensations that mean you’ll never be the same. How you’ll lose part of your heart, but you’ll gain someone else’s.
Zoe’s eyes flood. I search for the glimmer of what once was. If only my nearness could erase some of her pain. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, Zoe. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”
“It’s so easy for you. So easy for Lily.” Her voice cracks and she surrenders. “I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you.”
“What does that even mean?”
She sucks in her breath about to answer, but changes her mind. I feel her pull away. “I really don’t want to talk about it. I really just want to forget it.”
“Zoe.” My eyes narrow on hers. “Where’d you just go?”
“Please, Mom, I’m not a baby anymore.” Her hands jam inside her jacket pockets, and she bends her head down low. Before she backs away, she adds, “And I’m quitting debate.”
She stands in front of me, but she’s escaping me. I’m searching the memory bank for clues, indications as to why our elder twin by a mere fifteen minutes is suddenly someone else. It’s far more than passing through the gates of teenagedom, or the onset of hormones, or being old enough to acquire a learner’s permit. It’s something that when added to adolescent milestones makes them slippery and dangerous. It’s complicated and simple all at the same time. It’s boys.
CHAPTER 12
While Bobby showers and gets ready for bed, I slip under the covers and away from the things he said earlier. He’s upset and being rash. Selling the hotel is not the answer. The wind slaps the windows, and the howling sounds like suffering. I scroll through messages—Lisa Howard confirms our dinner plans for tomorrow, my sisters complain about the Chicago weather, and there’s an e-mail from the guidance counselor, Dr. Rubin.
Zoe and I had a good talk today. There’s nothing striking to me that indicates a more serious behavioral issue. Zoe appears comfortable and accepting of her actions. Her reaction to the exposure is quantitatively normal, and her feelings fall within the range of age-appropriate. Mrs. Ross, you raised a special girl. It’s going to be an uncomfortable few weeks, but she’ll be back on track in no time. I will continue to work with her.
I slip the phone on the nightstand and feel for the first time we’re going to survive this. Bobby comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel while he dries his hair with another. His body is beautiful to look at. After all these years, he’s still in shape—big and broad-shouldered—and I watch him get dressed.
I show him the e-mail from the school, and without responding, he climbs into bed and starts playing with his phone. He doesn’t try to smooth things over. He doesn’t tell me we’re not selling the hotel. And he doesn’t tell me he had a meaningful talk with Zoe after school, because he didn’t.
The space between us threatens me. I get up from the bed and stare out at the darkness. He comes up behind me, and we watch the black waves shimmy onto the shore, their crests reflecting the moon.
“I love you,” he says. It’s a fragile voice that nips my ear. It’s an apo
logy, or an attempt, and I’m willing to listen. But then he says this: “And I want you to understand what I’m about to tell you.”
I turn to face him. “You’re scaring me.”
His finger brushes my lips. “The meeting in New York is with a potential buyer.” His eyes fasten on mine. “For the Ross.”
I back away.
His hopeful expression fades. “I tried to tell you . . . this wasn’t an easy decision.”
Words won’t form. I stop and start, but nothing makes sense. I shake my head, thinking I heard him wrong. “This is your meeting? This is why Jonny can’t go?”
“It’s a meeting, Em. It can’t hurt to hear what they have to say.”
I suck in my breath and whip him with my words. “How could you? What about everything you told Lana? You said you loved this place . . . did you mean any of it?”
He clasps his hands behind his head and searches the ceiling. “It’s one meeting, Emma.”
“You can’t do this!” I shout, fighting the tears that burn my eyes. “This is our home. You heard the girls. This is all they know. They love it here. I love it here.”
“We have an offer. It’s a big one. We haven’t had one like this in a long time. They know about the improvements. They want her as is.”
“So we’re done? You just sell out?” I turn away from him and pace the floor. When I speak, I’m bordering on hysterical. “I don’t believe you. You’d never consider selling the hotel. She’s your baby . . . our entire history is wrapped in her walls. Is there something you’re not telling me? Are we in financial trouble?” And I stop because I’m out of breath.
“We’re fine,” he says, following me, reaching for my arm, but I’m quick to back away. “Our mortgage is paid off. The Ross has never been more stable.”
“We’re far from fine!” My words are weapons scratching at my throat. “Fine was talking through major decisions together. Fine wasn’t selling our home.”
His eyes fall in defeat. “This may not be the best place to raise teenage girls. It’s only going to get harder as they get older.”