Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  Lisa’s voice is flat, though I can hear the melancholy thrum, the whisper of defeat, the brittle words that are battling tears. Talking about sleepovers is a necessary way to cope.

  “How could you do this?” She breaks. “How could you let this happen? Couldn’t you have come to us before letting Grace be taken away like some animal?”

  I’m wavering. I ball my free hand while the other grips the phone. “I tried. It was too late.” But then I see Zoe’s fragile face and the pain Grace caused. “We didn’t do this to Grace, Lisa.”

  “Grace didn’t do this to Zoe. It’s a mistake. Grace would never, never do something like this. Someone must’ve taken her computer or her phone. She loves Zoe. She doesn’t even know how to upload a video to the Internet.” The dam has burst wide open, and with it, her rationale.

  I remember having the same reaction when it was Zoe. None of us want to believe it’s our kids. I raise my voice. “Every one of them has it in them to do questionable things. They’re all capable. Put any one of them in the wrong situation at the wrong time, and it happens. You think I thought Zoe would do what she did?”

  “Grace would never do this, Emma. She’d never do this to Zoe!” All I hear is her gasping.

  “Lisa, there’s evidence linking Grace to the crime. Besides being against the law, it was mean. Why would she do this?” I feel myself welling up and make every effort to hold it in.

  Lisa lets out a whisper. I can hardly hear the words, tightly knit in denial. “I’ll say it again. Grace would never do this. You’ve made a grave mistake in coming after our family. You’ll regret this, Emma.” And the call ends.

  Her threats chill me to the very core. I can’t hide my disbelief or my sadness. Mistake. Sure, it would be nice to hear that Zoe had been tricked. That someone had drugged her so she wasn’t liable for her actions. Then there would be someone to blame instead of her. Looking inward meant stripping away layers. And was it ever that easy? There were too many pieces to string together.

  The car behind me has given up while I stare out at the crowded parking lot. Lisa’s voice echoes in my ears. I flip between compassion and retaliation. I pick up my phone and dial Bobby’s number, change my mind, and hang up. I need time to wade through my thoughts and Lisa’s threats. But as soon as I place it on the console, it rings.

  Jo Jo is in my ear updating me, but I tell her to stop. My brain is overloaded. My words bang into each other. A flurry of chaos. “I know how today went, and I’m not sure how much more we can take . . . Zoe’s best friend betrays her, her mother is livid, my husband plans to sell our hotel. The timing couldn’t be worse. He’s not thinking clearly. None of us are. Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

  “I don’t know anything about hotels.”

  “This case,” I correct her, bordering on hysterical, “this arrest. It’s spiraling out of control.”

  “Mrs. Ross, I thought I was clear. Once the case gets picked up by the authorities, it’s not yours anymore. The State prosecutes with or without your consent or Zoe’s testimony.”

  “How do we undo it?” There’s panic in my voice.

  “I’m not sure you can. The prosecution’s tough. Cases like this are growing at an alarming rate. The State wants to prove a point.” I hear her inhaling again. “Talk to your husband. See if he’s willing to recuse the kids from testifying. The Hudsons, too. But know that Grace could still be prosecuted.”

  “It’s not enough,” I argue. “I know you told us what would happen once the ball started rolling, but we need to stop the ball. Immediately.”

  “You can’t possibly want that, Mrs. Ross. Grace Howard committed a serious offense against your child.”

  The quiet between us is unsettling.

  “I told you and Mr. Ross to think this through. When it’s someone you’re close to, objectivity is compromised. I can’t advise you either way, and certainly not how to feel.” She pauses. “I’m surprised Mrs. Howard contacted you. Her attorney—I’m sure she has a team of them—had to have advised against it.” I leave out the part where I called her first.

  My thoughts get mixed with Jo Jo’s voice discussing bail. “Since she’s a minor, she’s protected. Her name won’t be disclosed. The records are sealed.”

  The hypocrisy travels down my body and back up again. I can’t accept the unfairness—how our daughter can be publicly shamed while Grace gets to hide behind the same laws that couldn’t protect Zoe.

  Call waiting blares in my ear, and it’s Bobby. I used to love when the picture from the Keys, his hair messy and the sexy beard, would flash across my screen. He’s without a shirt, and the twinge inside reminds me that I’m not dead. I switch calls fast.

  “Em?”

  I listen as the call transfers to the surrounding speakers that make him sound like he’s whispering in my ear. “Em, you there?” I want to bury myself in the deep, gravelly tone. We had fallen more and more in love over the phone when the connection laced us together, eyes closed, words kissing our necks and cheeks. “I’m here,” I say.

  I finally make my way out of the parking lot. The car weaves in and out of traffic. It’s a dreary day, one that echoes the winters up north, though many degrees warmer. The sky is gray, the air still and thick. One puff of wind and something might drip from the sky—rain, or some other form of sadness.

  “They took the Howard girl in.”

  “Grace,” I say louder than I should.

  “I don’t know that girl. And you shouldn’t feel sorry for her.”

  “That girl spent years in our home, Bobby. The Howards were our friends.”

  “We should’ve used better judgment. She destroyed Zoe. The law agrees.”

  I should pull over. We had always told the girls that if they were upset or tired they should never get behind the wheel of a car.

  “Bobby, this is Grace. This isn’t some nameless, faceless stranger.” I wait a beat. “We need to stop it. I want to stop it. We can’t go through with this.”

  “It’s too late, Emma. If it’s a mistake, then I guess we’re all guilty.”

  I push “End,” sending him to the dropped-call graveyard.

  Hours later I’m following the windy roads that lead to Thatcher. Apprehension has me on edge, a bomb in me about to go off. I’m early, so I’m the lone car in the circular drive. Lily is first to exit the building. She’s half walking, half jogging, her backpack slung over one shoulder, causing her to tilt to one side. She opens the car door and flings herself on the seat beside me.

  I lean over to greet her. She smells like school lunch and stale air-conditioning. Zoe’s next. She is cautious and slow. Her bag hunches her forward as she glides toward the car, her face wearing the crookedness of her mood. She climbs into the back and lies across the row of seats.

  I’m steering the car out of the cul-de-sac with both hands on the wheel, the building receding behind us. I need to tell them. “How was your day?”

  “School starts too early,” Lily complains. “High schoolers should get an extra hour in the morning.”

  “Look,” I begin, not knowing how to say this, so I just say it. “I don’t want you hearing this from somebody else. The reason Grace was absent today was because she was taken into custody. She’s been charged.”

  Lily processes the information first. “Wow.” She must feel Zoe’s stare. “She deserves it, but the entire school is going to hate us. We’re going to be the laughingstock of the grade.”

  The color fades from Zoe’s face, and the twins are no longer in sync.

  Lily is undecided. “Grace is wrong, whatever, but having her arrested? Meddling parents are the worst.”

  “Lily,” I begin, “what Grace did to your sister was way more than wrong.”

  “I agree, but wasn’t there some other way?” she asks. The blue in her eyes matches her disposition. Yes, there was. Only we didn’t think it was enough.

  “Mom.” Zoe’s voice is wobbly. “Is Grace in jail?”

 
The term sounds dirty. “I don’t know. The laws are different for minors. I’m not sure where she is, or if they’re going to charge her as an adult.”

  “She’s just a kid!” The shock stumbles from her mouth.

  My head pounds. I stretch my neck against the headrest. Zoe’s taking it all in. She’s in deep thought. I know this, because I watch her in the mirror. Lines furrow her forehead, and her lips move without speaking. The stress of the last few weeks has taken its toll on her. Thoughts glide off her tongue and into the universe.

  “Do you think they’ll let her bring her Prada bag with her?” she deadpans. “She doesn’t like to go anywhere without it.” She laughs. At first it’s guarded, but then it’s a hearty chuckle and releases some of the tension. “I’m sure they don’t have Pratesi sheets in jail,” she continues. “She’s not gonna be happy.”

  “Orange is the new black,” Lily joins in.

  “She won’t spend the night,” Zoe adds. “Mr. Howard has probably jetted in from a business trip to bail her out. Like the affluenza kid.”

  “Girls,” I chide. I imagine Grace and her pleading blue eyes crying out for her parents to save her. Sympathy for the young girl overwhelms me. Or young adult. Depending on where the spokes of the wheel turn.

  “She’s never getting that BMW she’s been bragging about since she was ten,” Lily continues.

  “Of course she will,” adds Zoe, rolling her eyes.

  I should stop them. They’re talking about our friends, a family we had trusted. But God, it’s good to hear them laugh again. If this is how they make sense of things, let them. They’re angry. They’re exposed. When Lily can’t find anything else to poke fun at, she turns to me and asks for a second time, “Was an arrest really necessary?”

  “You’re upset,” I say, her doubt echoing my own. “But Grace broke the law.”

  A quiet envelops us. We are stuck in our individual minds playing multiple scenarios. One is more awful than the next.

  Lily’s phone begins to buzz and beep. A series of notifications that can only mean one thing: Grace Howard’s arrest is trending at the top of every news feed. “It’s out,” she says.

  I don’t want to go home. “How about we stop at the seamstress and see if your dresses for the wedding are ready?”

  Lily can’t break away from the phone, but she says, “Sure,” while Zoe leans back in her seat and grunts, “Six months ago. That’s where I want to go. Today was a hundred days long.”

  I make the turn to the shop on Lincoln Road. The girls are quiet, Lily engrossed in her phone, Zoe staring out at the trafficked streets of Miami. I flip through the stations until I find a song we can all agree on. It’s never an easy task. Train. Macklemore. We settle on Adele.

  “Perfection,” says Flora the seamstress, as the girls twirl in front of us. They’re the same color palette, coral and lilac, but the styles are totally different. I catch them smiling at themselves in the mirror. I could cry, they look so grown-up.

  “If you have the time,” the older woman says, “I can finish these seams, and you won’t have to come back.”

  I smile. “We’ll wait.”

  The girls run next door to the bakery, returning with cookies and iced coffees. They plop down on the velvety blue cushions, one on each side of me. When they’re done, Lily rolls over and rests her head in my lap. I wipe the lingering crumbs and finger the pale freckles lining her jaw.

  We don’t bring up Grace or YouTube. We huddle together, talking about normal things that girls their age talk about: shoes, Justin Bieber performing at Fontainebleau, and driving permits. But Zoe withdraws again. Without the dress, she slips back into sadness. Lily tries to fill the quiet.

  “Lyndsey’s having a quinceañera,” she says.

  “She’s Jewish,” says Zoe. “She had a bat mitzvah.”

  Lily giggles when she repeats Lyndsey’s reasoning, “She thinks because we live in a city where English is practically the second language, it gives her dual citizenship.”

  Zoe fights her smile, but I see it cross her face.

  “I switched advisory today,” Lily says.

  “You can’t do that,” replies Zoe. “They don’t allow it.”

  “Oh yes, I can. I went to my counselor and told her I’m graduating with my twin sister.”

  I’m confused. “What does advisory have to do with graduation?”

  “Advisory is your homeroom for the four years of high school. You sit with them at the graduation ceremony.”

  “You really switched?” Zoe asks. “For me?”

  “I did,” Lily says. “Why are you surprised?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think it mattered that much to you.”

  “Zoe,” Lily says again, turning to face her sister. “You matter to me. You’ve always mattered to me. We’re different, but come on, do you know how many times I’ve wished I could speak like you? Your debate wins are all over the school. Have you watched the videos? The recaps on the morning announcements?”

  “No one cares about that stuff,” Zoe says, brushing her off. “Your lacrosse games are much more exciting and cool. You’re much more exciting and cool.”

  “Geez,” Lily says. “I should’ve told you . . . I should’ve said it more often . . .”

  “What?” Zoe asks.

  “You have it all wrong. I’m the one who’s always wanted to be more like you.”

  Zoe’s face changes, her surprise evident. Then a small smile forms. “You might want to rethink that statement,” she finally says.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” Lily says, twirling her hair in her hand.

  Zoe stops chewing. I can tell she’s embarrassed at the pain she’s caused. “You’re not mad?”

  “It’s fine,” Lily says. “Grace deserves it.”

  My arms come around both girls, and I hug them tight. The nearby doors leading outside are opening and closing, the steel barriers that separate letting someone in and sending them out. Zoe says, “I love you, Lilo.”

  “I know,” Lily says. “Because I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The girls are asleep, and I slide into the empty bed. Bobby texted me earlier. I won’t be home for dinner. Kiss the girls.

  He hasn’t called, and I assume he’s not going to pop in before returning to his suite. My mind is numb with worry, and I switch between Downton Abbey and old episodes of The Killing, before diving into the book that has been sitting by the bed taunting me.

  A bookmark pops out, and I’m surprised to find it’s the envelope Sandra handed me days ago from the Golans. I’d become careless. I rip the paper open and see the scrawly handwriting of Dalia Golan.

  Emma & Bobby,

  Thank you for the special touches during our most recent visit. Reaching our twenty-fifth was monumental in itself, but the attention and kindness from your staff truly made our stay memorable. Did you know that someone pulled a picture of us from Facebook, had it blown up, framed, and waiting for us when we entered our room? And I know we didn’t reserve the suite overlooking the ocean, but you remembered. It was where we spent our first anniversary. It was a difficult time, and Laura Ross found a way to bring us back to life. Thank you for that wonderful gift. Thank you for honoring a tradition with human kindness. If we weren’t spoiled enough, the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries arrived. How can we ever thank you for these generous gifts? For making us feel a part of your family year after year? For making us feel like home.

  In gratitude and in friendship,

  Dalia & Morris Golan

  Dalia was diagnosed with breast cancer the day before their first anniversary. It was a bittersweet time. Laura Ross saw to it that the young couple would forget, for a weekend, the battle they had ahead. And when Dalia went into remission, the Golans decided that as long as she was alive, they’d celebrate anniversaries at the Ross.

  I fold the note in my hands and hold it close to my heart. I check and recheck the phone. I get up and stare
out the window, as if he’ll appear in the blackness. Nothing.

  I slide back under the comforter and turn my back to the empty space. If he could have seen the girls today. They were so pretty and grown-up in their dresses, he would have never turned away. They were flawed and testing limits, but they were delicious kids. They had good intentions; they would balk at Pratesi sheets.

  I must have dozed off, because I am startled awake by his sounds. They’re vague and unpronounced, but they’re familiar and mean he’s close. I smell his cologne, the faint whiff of citrus woods commingling with the scent of the lobby candles. Before, I would’ve turned over and lifted the blanket for him to meet me, but tonight I’m confused. He’s quiet and doesn’t turn on the light. I listen to his choppy breaths as he undresses and heads to the bathroom to wash up. The door is open, and I feel him in the reflection of the mirrors that frame the walls. I stare. I can’t help myself. He weakens me.

  I wonder if he’s come to his senses. I want so much for him to curl around me and whisper he loves me. I’m here for you. I’ll never let you go. He may find me under the covers, or he may simply turn away. If the Howards are weighing on him, or Monty and Zoe, or if the interested investors are giving him a hard time with the sale, it will push him farther away. We are at a crossroads, and it’s anyone’s guess whether we’ll survive.

  His presence nears, chilling the air around me. I hear his breaths, his feet against the floor. I am so still and quiet I’m sure the faint beating of his heart inside his chest is the sound I hear bouncing off the walls. He is staring at me, watching me while I sleep. He had always loved seeing me when nobody else could. He would slip his hand alongside my neck. Then my lips. I’m not sure why I’m playing this little charade. I wonder if he can see the flicker behind my eyes, the way I tighten my fists to keep still. I have missed him, and I want him back.

  After a few minutes, he heads out the door. The rejection drains out of me in a release of breath. I’m sure the sound reaches him, but he pays no mind. The balcony doors open, and curious, I shoot up from the bed and follow his path. I find him outside, seated on the wicker sofa. In his hand is last year’s Shutterfly album. I had tried to keep up with the years through annual albums. We’d always enjoyed the recap—how we all had grown and changed.