Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  I continue. “I should’ve been more like you. When I made my mistake, I should’ve been honest with myself and the people I loved.”

  “Was he as hard on you as he’s been on me? I always thought it was weird you were only with Daddy. Your whole life. It must’ve driven him crazy for you to be with someone else.”

  The picture she paints is blurred. I don’t know how to answer. She seems genuinely concerned and asks again, “Was he?”

  A phone rings, and the sound startles me. I look up. He’s standing in his dress shirt and slacks and presses a button that sends the call to voice mail. Bobby. I don’t know how long he’s been listening. My heart stops. There’s a hollowness to his eyes, and when they burrow into mine, fear shoots through me.

  Zoe shrinks into her seat and half smiles at her father. The wind ruffles his hair and his shirt. He leans over to kiss my cheek, but it’s a whisper instead: “Tell me, Emma, was I hard on you?” My cell phone blares, and I pick it up. My fingers shake. His eyes crawl up and down my skin. It makes it hard to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Excuse me, do I know you?

  I cover my other ear with the palm of my hand. “Jo Jo?”

  Silence crashes into us as though it knows what’s about to come. My eyes slam shut. “Your husband didn’t pick up.” She’s out of breath. “We have the name of the person who did this.”

  I see him out of the corner of my eye. Zoe is oblivious, facing the ocean, facing better things.

  “Can you hear me, Mrs. Ross?” She says again, “We have a name. I’d like to tell you in person.”

  There’s a name. A face. A human being. Was Daddy hard on you? “I hear you,” I whisper.

  He turns toward the hotel. His legs pounce on the sand. I need to go after him. I let go of the phone and rub Zoe’s leg, letting my touch comfort us both. “Zoe, Jo Jo’s on her way.” I wait a beat. “They have a name.”

  She rolls over on her stomach and hides her face in her hands. “I don’t want to know,” she says.

  I’m watching him leave, but I feel Zoe’s reaction. He’s almost out of sight, and I need to get up and catch him, but I don’t want to alarm her.

  My hand lingers on her back. “I understand.”

  I’m frantic inside, but she can’t tell. I stand up and slip on my shoes.

  “She’ll be here in an hour, Zoe. You’ll meet us upstairs?”

  She brushes me off without lifting her head, forgetting how moments before, we were one.

  I want to stay with her. I should stay with her, but I need to go to him. “Don’t be late, please.”

  If I hurry I can catch him.

  CHAPTER 22

  He’s crossing the pool deck when I reach him. “Bobby, wait.”

  He waves me away and continues at a fast pace. I can hardly keep up. He stares ahead and pretends I’m not there.

  “Please wait.”

  He doesn’t answer but slows down. My heart is fragile, like it’s about to slip out of its cage onto the floor. We pass the pool and the patio gardens and pretend smile at the guests.

  Kinsley approaches. “Mr. Ross, do you have a minute?”

  “Not now, Kinsley,” Bobby says, waving him off.

  The double doors open, and a plume of cool air hits my face. I know where we’re headed when he leads me down a deserted hallway to the empty ballroom. This is where we go to be alone. The airy space is vacant, and the soundproofing we had installed years ago cushions the room in an eerie calm. He has to hear the beating sound banging in my chest. I try to quiet it with the palm of my hand.

  The large tables are put away, and the chairs are stacked one on top of the other against the cedar walls. White sheer curtains slip from the ceiling, and we stand face-to-face, the Steinway nearby.

  “Was I hard on you?” he shouts, rage spilling into the air. “When you were with someone else? How’d I react? Refresh my memory, because I don’t recall having that conversation.”

  My eyes hurt to look at him. “Bobby . . .”

  “You were with him that night.” He’s in my face, his eyes wildly mad. “That night. Our fight. I knew it. We were engaged, Emma! What the hell?”

  My entire body is squeezed in fear. Words are hard to compose. “Let me explain.” He’s about to explode. “I wanted to tell you,” I cry. “I tried.”

  “You wanted to tell me?” A vein pops out of his neck. “You had years to tell me.” I push him away, and he grips me tighter, making it impossible for me to move. He’s whispering in my ear, “Tell me, Emma. Tell me the truth. Now. All of it.”

  It takes remarkable courage to share what I’ve hidden for so long. The words are haunted and loud, plucked from a sacred space. “You’re right,” I cry. “I lied.” My face reddens. “I lied. I was with him. I was with Monty.”

  His response is barely audible, and his cheeks dull. “How could you? How could you lie to me all these years?”

  A tear rolls down my face. My voice shakes. “Because of this.”

  “You said nothing happened. You said . . .”

  I can’t meet his eyes. I search the floor.

  “Monty fucking Greer?” He sneers and backs away, the hurt so deep it colors his skin and hardens his eyes. I take a few steps toward him. But when I touch him, he makes that tiny, unavoidable step back.

  He brushes past me toward the piano and sits. I go after him until I’m close to his side. The back of his dark linen shirt is wrinkled, and tufts of his hair meet the collar around his neck.

  “You didn’t trust me,” I cry. “You pushed, and you pushed . . .”

  “So it’s my fault?” he yells.

  My voice shakes. “Please listen to me.”

  His hand slams the keyboard, and I wince. “I always hated that bastard.”

  I sit beside him on the bench and wait for the flare-up.

  His voice splinters when he speaks. “I knew it. He was always after you.”

  “That’s not what happened. You and I fought. You stopped trusting me . . . the wedding . . . it was too much at once . . . graduation . . .”

  Silence.

  “We went out with the troupe that night. I was upset. I drank. A lot. Why do you think I can’t stand the sight of alcohol? How the smell makes me gag? It’s not an excuse, but it blurred the lines. One thing led to another and . . .”

  “You were with him. Did you have sex with him?”

  I take a breath. He won’t look at me. “I did.”

  The hurt buries itself deep in his eyes.

  I’m crying. “God, Bobby, it was an awful mistake. It should’ve never happened. I was scared and stupid, and I lost myself.”

  “Please stop,” he says. “I can’t. We were engaged, Emma. Engaged.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I’d betrayed your trust. I thought I’d lose you.” A sob escapes me when I add, “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

  He’s quiet, which is almost worse than his screams.

  “I punished myself for years. Deep down inside I thought I was a bad person, a slut. Wouldn’t you have judged me, too? You would’ve given me that look. That same look you’ve been giving Zoe. And it would’ve killed me inside for your eyes not to love me. I was terrified, Bobby. Terrified to see the disappointment.” I twist my wedding band on my finger.

  “How could you?” His words are like ice. “Him? Of all people? Why, Em? You knew how I felt about him.”

  “What if I had told you?” I say. “Would you have accepted me?” I follow the lines on his face, the olive skin against the dark eyes. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was? You were always saying how much you loved that you were my only one. I didn’t want to take that from you. I know how Zoe feels . . .”

  “I never lied to you,” he says. “We’ve never lied to each other.”

  “Bobby.” My eyes fall, and the gravity of what I’m about to admit rises. “Bobby . . . when I found out I was pregnant . . . there was no way of knowing . . .”

  H
e shakes his head to stop the story from unraveling. Then his hands hide his face.

  I continue, my voice shaking. “I think I caused it . . . the miscarriage. All the guilt and shame I felt . . . I did this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He raises his head and stares at me as if he doesn’t know me, the truth about our baby tearing him in two.

  “I mourned that baby, Emma. I thought she was ours. You let me believe she was ours!”

  “I wanted her to be!”

  “You can’t do that. You can’t play with people’s lives like that . . .”

  Tears spout from my eyes. “Believe me, if I could’ve taken it back, I would have. There were times I convinced myself it didn’t happen, that my story was the truth. That our story was the truth. Our baby.”

  Rage coats his eyes. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks. “Were you going to have the baby and let me believe it was mine?”

  “I don’t know what I was going to do,” I cry. “I didn’t have a plan . . . I . . .”

  He stops me. “I thought this grief was ours, but it wasn’t . . .” The lines on his face are etched with a pain I can’t erase. “How could you keep all this from me?”

  I can’t face him. “Because of this.” The silence is terrifying. I imagine him walking out and never coming back. “You brought up his name . . . and Zoe got herself into trouble . . . and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “It never went away, Bobby, that fear you’d find out I wasn’t who you thought I was, that you’d compare me to my father,” I say, looking at him, but he avoids my gaze. “Watching Zoe and seeing your reactions to her, it brought it all back. Maybe it’s too soon for you to understand, but we both stepped out. We both faced repercussions. I wanted to make her feel less alone. And you know what? She doesn’t regret what she did. She’s taken responsibility for her sexual curiosity . . . her sexperimentation. I’m the only one who’s hating herself.”

  He’s listening, but he still won’t look at me. I’m sure he cringes inside when I say those words. “I know this is a lot for you to take in, but you have to believe I’m still the same person who has loved you all these years. That’s the whole point. I’m Emma. I’m the girl you love. And Zoe’s the same, too.”

  “Tell me what I’m supposed to do with this!” he shouts. “Tell me.”

  “Be angry at me!” I yell. “I deserve it. Lying was wrong. But we were young, and that’s the time in our lives to make mistakes. My actions don’t change who I am or what we created together. We’re all flawed. Me, Zoe, the hotel, you, every one of us.”

  He strokes the keys lightly. “It makes me sick. It makes me sick to think of Zoe doing that. To think she thought so little of herself.”

  “Don’t you mean me?” My eyes fill with tears.

  He turns to me. “She’s not a woman, Emma. She’s a teenager.”

  He’s torn. I can see inside, the lethal mix of emotions. At one end of his thoughts is Zoe. At the other is me. The hotel teeters between us. Nothing is stable anymore.

  “I don’t know who you are.” His palm comes down hard on the keys.

  I’m angry and sad all at once. “Yes, you do.”

  He fiddles with the keys. His pain becomes music, and he starts to play a song I haven’t heard in years: “This Woman’s Work.” The melody haunts me, and I wonder if he chose this song on purpose. If his intent is for Kate Bush to call me out on all the things I should’ve said, but didn’t. His fingers slow down, and to drive his point home, he makes one final slap on the keys. The sound tells me he’s in mourning again.

  “How can you sit here,” I ask, “in this room, and say you don’t know me?”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes well up.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” I say.

  “But you did.”

  “I know.” I lower my eyes. “And it was a mistake.”

  “Lying isn’t a mistake, Emma. It’s a decision.”

  Our phones beep, reeling us back to the present.

  “It’s Jo Jo and Javier,” I tell him. “They’re here. And they have a name.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The time is now. I text Zoe to head upstairs, and she says she’s already there. Bobby gets up from his seat and smooths out his slacks. A layer of deceit is pinned to his face.

  “We’re not done,” he says.

  I follow him out of the ballroom and through to the lobby and elevator. Jo Jo is waiting in our foyer with an oversize briefcase and appears less perky than usual. In all these years, I’ve hardly ever craved a drink, but at the moment, I am ready to break my own rules.

  “Zoe?” I call out, walking toward the living room.

  “I’m in here,” she says in a shaky voice.

  “Have a seat,” Jo Jo instructs, motioning for us to sit. “Let me begin by saying I’m relieved it’s not someone with technical expertise. We’d have had a difficult time tracking a person who didn’t want to be tracked.” She’s talking slowly, taking her time, and it’s unsettling.

  My legs are pressed together, and the suspense chips away at my nerves.

  “Let me be clear. We had every indication it was heading in this direction.” She sucks in her breath. “The IP address matches a family on the beach. Their child attends Thatcher. She’s in Zoe’s grade.”

  I am unable to move. Bobby sits across from me, and he refuses to make eye contact. His fingers are clasped. Zoe. Well, Zoe, is slumped against the chair.

  Jo Jo pulls out a legal pad and searches the page. “Does the name Grace Howard mean anything to you?”

  Every nerve in my body stands on heightened alert. “Yes. She’s Zoe’s friend. One of her best friends.”

  Jo Jo sets the pad on the coffee table while my heart thumps in my ears. “The video came from the Howards’ address. We believe Grace posted it on the Internet.”

  Bobby gets up. “Impossible! Grace is one of her closest friends.”

  I can’t feel the floor beneath my feet.

  “What?” It’s not my voice; it’s Zoe’s. She’s pacing. “No! No! Not Grace. That’s a mistake. She wouldn’t do this to me! How could she do this to me?”

  She is hysterical and shouting. Her cries spill across the room. I jump to my feet and throw my arms around her. Grace Howard. The name slices through me. It stops my breath. Not the girl who played here for years after school and on the weekends. How can this be? These are our friends. My hand covers my mouth, and shock ripples through me.

  Bobby stands and grabs the back of his chair. He’s fuming, and it looks like he might toss it across the room. “God dammit.”

  Zoe wriggles away from me and stands in front of him. “Just leave!” she screams up at him. “Why are you even here?”

  My arms come around her. I try to restrain her. Comfort her. Make her feel loved enough for the two of us.

  He doesn’t back down. He peers deep into Zoe’s eyes. “Don’t you dare disrespect me like that. I’m your father!”

  Jo Jo stands up and moves toward Bobby. “Mr. Ross, please calm down.”

  “Please stop, Bobby!” I plead.

  Zoe straightens herself and gets in his face. “You haven’t been my father,” she wails. “The second this happened, I didn’t exist.” Her eyes hold his firmly, and each word is a testament to her courage. “It’s bad enough living with what I’ve done. The whole town thinks I’m a slut, Daddy, but you know what? Nothing feels worse than having you look at me like that.”

  I am both proud and sick for Zoe. The public wrath is one thing, but her dad’s denunciation is another. I fit around her and hold on tight. Her friend did this to her. It’s not possible. “Your father’s upset, honey. He loves you. So much.” Now I’m crying.

  Jo Jo’s eyes lock on mine, and she gives me a nod. Talk to each other. Our lowest point is on display, though none of us wince. This can’t be new to her: families torn apa
rt, couples divided, and the host of problems that follow unfortunate crimes.

  I return to Bobby. The word slut sits between us like an open sore. Bobby can’t look at it, and he refuses to touch it.

  “I’m sorry.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry I can’t separate you from your actions. It’s just, God, Zoe, you’re just a kid.”

  “Bobby, stop.” I’m in his face. I refuse to let him condemn her like that.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” They’re not words; they’re sobs. He marches across the room and forces Zoe to look at him. “Didn’t we love you enough? Didn’t I love you enough?”

  Zoe’s lips start to tremble, but she doesn’t cry. “I’m still Zoe. I’m still the same girl. The one you taught to play corn hole. To thumb wrestle. The one you gave a song to. Do you remember? You said it was for me.” Her voice cracks, and this final blow breaks him in half. Usually an entire head taller than she is, he is pulled to the ground by his grief, and he appears weak and small. “Stop hating me.” Her eyes leave his face, find mine, and return. “Please.”

  She has far more insight than I had at her age. What Bobby was saying to her, he should’ve been saying to me. And I should’ve given him the chance. We could’ve fought for each other.

  Minutes pass before anyone moves. Zoe slinks down on the couch, and I lean over to Bobby and whisper, “I’m the one you’re angry at. I’m the one you want to go after. Not Zoe. Not Grace.”

  He raises his hand. “Stop it, Emma. Not now.”

  I witness a change in Zoe, a revival. If she can stand up to her father, she can stand up to anyone. She moves from the couch to take a seat on the coffee table right in front of Jo Jo and asks pointedly, “What do we do next?”

  Bobby’s hunched over in his chair. I’m too shocked to sit, so I pace. Grace Howard. “How can you be sure it’s her?” I say. “Could there be a mistake?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Ross,” says Jo Jo. “I know this is difficult. My guys were able to match the IP address. Apparently the video was sent to YouTube the same night the text went out. We’re not sure why it didn’t go live sooner. We’ve seen it take upward of forty-eight hours, but rarely more than that. Grace didn’t cover her tracks. And there’s no disputing a digital footprint.”