Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  The truths about Zoe and me have tested his faith. It’s why he’s sitting alone on our balcony staring at what once used to be.

  As I open the door, the breeze wraps around my ankles and thighs. The chill nips at my shoulders. He looks up, and though it’s dark, I can see his sadness in the moonlight. All the arguing and silences have led to this.

  “Look at her,” he says, turning the album in my direction. It’s Zoe at a debate tournament where she upset her opponent on why dress codes should be abolished in high schools. The win didn’t carry over to Thatcher’s policy, but it may as well have, knowing she had the power to be that convincing. “She’s poised, articulate,” he continues. “She’s got everything going for her.”

  I remain still, unsure where this is heading. He decides, scooting over for me to sit. I am hesitant, but I take a seat, allowing the nearness of his body to mean something.

  “She looks happy,” he says.

  “She is.”

  He closes the book. “When you’re happy . . . you don’t . . . you don’t do those things.”

  I turn to face him. “That’s not true.”

  “My daughter drinks. She acts out. Does that mean there’s something inherently wrong with her? Other kids drink. They don’t end up giving a stranger a blow job.”

  His body is fire against mine. Finally, I say, “Zoe did what could happen to any kid in a similar circumstance. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

  Our faces stare back at us from the album’s cover. We’re in the Canadian Rockies on a spectacular tour of the Athabasca Glacier. You can barely make out our smiles from beneath the hats and scarves, but they’re there. It was a gorgeous summer day in a breathtaking part of the world. He rubs the page with his palm. I’m not sure if he is trying to erase us or love us.

  “Today was tough,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. My hands are tucked beneath me. “I had to fight myself not to show up at Drew Howard’s office, and Kinsley, poor guy, his mom’s real bad. We made final arrangements.” I think about touching him. “It was really hard to watch.”

  “When do you plan on telling the girls that you’re thinking about selling?” I ask. “They’re going to hear soon. And the staff.”

  “Let’s tell them tomorrow. We’ll take them to dinner.”

  I turn slightly to meet his eyes. He’s so close I can feel his chest moving up and down with each breath. “What will you say?”

  “The truth,” he says, but not to me. He’s talking to the sky above. “A real home is good for us. We have an offer we can’t refuse. I want to focus on our newer properties. The Ross needs a renovation.”

  We’re touching, though I wonder why he let me sit next to him when his words say he wants to be far away.

  “I thought I’d be able to get through to you. There once was a time I could have,” I say.

  I feel clumsy beside him. My skin is sensitive to his touch, the signals between us all crossed. Anger collides with resentment, a flood of feelings that make me sad. I have never doubted our love, but now the pieces won’t fit back together.

  I move to a nearby chair and study the sky. Earlier in the evening, I couldn’t make out the stars. They were covered by dense clouds. But now I see them scattered, tiny bright lights dotting the black. They give me a subtle glimpse of hope I hadn’t felt in weeks. “Are you staying here tonight?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  Silence.

  “They won’t keep Grace in custody for long,” he says, changing the subject. “They don’t do that with minors. She’s probably been released.”

  I have a hard time imagining Lisa and Drew in their pricey mansion sleeping while their young daughter lay imprisoned somewhere.

  He doesn’t want to talk about what Grace’s betrayal is doing to Zoe. He doesn’t want to talk about how we lost our close friends. He wants to talk about payback. “The chief of cybercrimes—who knew there was such a person?—explained what happened.”

  “I know,” I say. “I got an earful from Lisa. It sounded uncivilized.”

  “That’s not how it went down.” He pauses, holding the book to his chest. “The police let Lisa and Drew take her in themselves. It was very civilized. She wasn’t handcuffed.”

  “She made it sound barbaric.”

  “She was upset,” he says. “I’m sure it felt as bad as she described.”

  “She’s so young. She couldn’t have known . . .”

  “She should’ve known,” he says. “They all should’ve known.”

  The more focused he becomes on vengeance, the more I am forced to play both sides. I grip the chair handles and squeeze. “We’re making an example of Grace Howard.”

  “It’s too late for righteousness, Em. Doing nothing sends the wrong message.”

  “What kind of lesson is it to rip someone’s life apart? We didn’t like it done to our child, so why do it to someone else’s?” I say. “It feels wrong.”

  “What’s wrong is you’re not seeing the difference. What’s wrong is . . .” He stops himself.

  He tosses the book on my lap, and it opens to another page. There we are. He can disappear all he wants, but our life is right in front of us: Zoe and Lily taking selfies in Jasper along the blue-green glacial water; dinner at Barton G with the famed oversize cotton-candy dessert overtaking the picture; a community service trip to Costa Rica with a group of families, including the Howards; and the one when Zoe captured Bobby hugging me from behind. The hotel appears in the distance, and from this angle, it’s magnificent. I analyze our casual togetherness, something we hadn’t had to fight for. His arm was around me; my petite frame was buried in his chest.

  My fingers touch the page, pointing at his face, and his eyes follow their path. A breeze flutters around us, and the howls creep along the side of the building.

  “What more can I do?” I ask. “Tell me what to do.”

  He lets out a sigh. “Why don’t you go back to bed?” He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t give me any more. Disheartened, I get up and leave him alone. The book falls to the side, the pages of our life open, the proof of our happiness, flapping in the breeze.

  He never makes it to bed, and I fall into a deep sleep. My dreams are fitful and disturbing. By dawn I am afraid to close my eyes, so I lie back and let the light wash over me in whispers of golden orange. The ocean is flat, the sun’s reflection fanning out for miles. The girls will be awake soon. I’ll have to make excuses for him. I’ll have to tell them he went for a run, or had a breakfast meeting. They won’t believe me.

  It’s not long before I’m dressed and seated at the table, and I hand over those lies. Zoe says, “Stop covering for him, Mom.”

  Lily stops chewing on her granola bar while her eyes go from her sister to me. She says, “We know he’s mad.”

  Zoe stirs her bowl of cereal. “It’s because of me.”

  “Daddy’s busy,” I hear myself say. “Daddy and I are fine.”

  I can’t even look at them when I say this.

  Later that afternoon, Bobby and I are seated beside Jo Jo and the Hudsons in the Graham Building off the Dolphin Expressway. Renovated and modernized, the office divides itself between Children’s, Criminal, and Family crimes. The State Attorney’s office is a cold, functional space on the fifth floor. We are surrounded by officials trained in this new form of domestic violence, “sexual cyberharassment.” We’re meeting with the State Attorney herself, Carla Rodriguez, and the worst has yet to escape from her mouth.

  “Grace Howard was taken to a local hospital last night for a psychological evaluation.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, frantically trying to understand.

  Bobby is next to me, but we are careful not to touch. Our division is more than physical. He spent the twenty-minute drive on a conference call with Jonny, and I could feel the tension between them. When it got to be too much, I stuck my headphones in my ears and tuned him out.

  Jo Jo moves in closer and whispers,
“We’re told she’s having an anxiety reaction of some kind. They’ll evaluate for the next twenty-four hours, and then she’ll go home.”

  I return to the night Zoe found out she was videoed. It wasn’t jail, but it may as well have been. I think I might get sick. I turn around in my chair. “We can’t go through with this.” I’m searching Bobby’s eyes, but he’s too stubborn. “Why are we doing this? I told you this wouldn’t change anything. It’s hurting everybody.”

  All eyes pass from me to Bobby. The differences in our opinions are present in our faces and body language.

  Rodriguez, with thick, brown hair and an unsmiling face, is unsympathetic and outlines the reasons we’ve all been called together in the first place. “Grace Howard was formally charged yesterday. She was booked, fingerprinted, and she’s pleading not guilty. Her father, as most of you know, has a lot of influence in this town, and he’s already threatened my staff with lawsuits and things I won’t repeat.

  “I’d like to take a few minutes to update you on procedure. We’re building a case against the accused. Thus far the evidence is indisputable. The video is on the defendant’s computer with a pathway linking it to the YouTube upload. I’ll be sharing copies of our findings when they’re complete.”

  “What about the person who videoed the kids?” Mr. Hudson asks, the brawny blond counterpart to his attractive wife.

  “They’re one and the same,” Rodriguez says.

  I lower my gaze to the floor while my insides curdle. Adrenaline hisses through me, and I want to hurt Grace with my bare hands. “How can you be sure?” I ask.

  “Kids talk. Sometimes they cover their tracks and try to protect their friends, but like anything else, you can get to the bottom of who was there, who wasn’t, who may have perjured themselves unknowingly. Despite her efforts to delete any trace of the video from her phone and computer, we have corroborated evidence that Grace Howard did this. She allegedly told a witness she was in the en suite bathroom when Zoe and Price entered the bedroom. She filmed them from a crack in the door.”

  The shock and disbelief spread through me. “How can one person be so mean?”

  Rodriguez doesn’t answer me, reserving her judgment for the courtroom.

  “How can I tell my daughter this?” I ask.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Jo Jo. She whispers in my ear, “We can safeguard Zoe from all the testimony.”

  Rodriguez continues, though I’m miles away. “We’ve advised the accused of the no social media and no Internet orders, with the exception of school purposes, and she had to surrender all other digital devices—phones, tablets, laptops, et cetera. We’re charging her with aggravated cyberstalking as a minor and sexual cyberharassment.”

  “What is expected of Zoe and Price?” Bobby asks. He’d never acknowledged them as a pair until now, never used their names in the same sentence.

  “As they are the victims, their testimony is essential to the case. An entire courtroom will be privy to the video.”

  We let this idea wrap around our heads, and I consider the emotional ramifications for Zoe, for Price, for all those involved.

  “What will happen with Grace?” I ask.

  “Grace Howard’s psychological well-being can’t be ignored,” Rodriguez says. “She’s a minor, and we must comply with all applicable laws. The last thing we want is her father slapping us with a lawsuit.” She shuffles the papers on her desk and proceeds. “The family’s hired a psychiatrist and a team of doctors to report on her mental state. There have been threats that she might harm herself.”

  We may as well have placed a gun in Grace’s hand. What she did was despicable, but I’m struggling with the punishment. “How long can we expect this to go on?” I ask.

  “That depends on Grace and our other cases. There’s always a backlog. The arresting officers gave the Howards a courtesy by allowing them to bring Grace to the station on their own. We tried to work out a plea. We offered her the minimum to resolve this quickly. They declined. That stretches it out and sets us up for trial.”

  Punishment. It comes in many forms. Within. Without. It’s unclear which one is worse. They both hurt. We all suffer.

  We take the steps out of the courthouse into the streets of downtown. Bobby and Mr. Hudson awkwardly shake hands. Monica gives me a hug—the human touch momentarily consoles me.

  “Mr. Ross,” she says, training her light eyes on Bobby, “it’s unfortunate to have to meet on these terms. Under different circumstances, I’d like to think we might be friends.” She squeezes my hand while Bobby nods. We watch her long blonde hair flow behind her in the breeze.

  The not-so-new-anymore baseball stadium stands in the distance, and I consider how things have changed: landscapes, buildings, lives. We’re walking silently toward Bobby’s car, which is parked a few blocks away. It’s hard to believe that it’s almost December when the temperatures are back up to the eighties. The sun pounds the pavement around us, and I shed the blazer I threw around my shoulders that morning. It’s hot. And it’s more than the temperature. I’m worked up and agitated, the details from the State Attorney’s mouth hammering away at my temples. I’m watching the planes fly overhead en route to Miami International Airport and wishing I could hitch myself to their wings.

  We step into the car and strap ourselves in. He has one hand on the wheel and the other on his cell phone. He’s doing everything in his power not to look at it, but he glances at his e-mails from time to time. Usually it drives me crazy. Today I don’t even care.

  “Bobby, we can’t let Zoe testify. Please.”

  “Were you in the same meeting I was in? Did you hear what Grace did?”

  “Did you hear?” I shout back. “Grace is falling apart. This won’t be good for anyone!” He doesn’t see what I see. How revenge and punishment destroy lives. How sometimes our own private hell is enough of a sentence. Regret can be a remarkable lesson.

  “What about Zoe?” he asks, his words short, his eyes vacant. “She needs to defend herself. She needs to learn that now.”

  “No, Bobby. She needs to learn compassion and acceptance. She needs to know forgiveness. It’s way more important than exacting revenge.”

  There’s something spreading deep in his eyes. I’ve had enough of the silence. I’ve had enough of the punitive way he’s cast me aside like he had no hand in what went down with Monty that night.

  “I was with Monty. I was drunk. Stupid. Lonely. And sick of being accused of something I hadn’t done.” There. I’ve said it. “I should’ve talked to you about it instead of turning to him. What came after . . . it was unforgivable to keep that part from you. But for God’s sake, we were barely out of our teens and thousands of miles apart. I refuse to feel as though I’m some dirty slut because you say it’s so. I did it to myself for too long. Needing to be perfect—for you. I refuse to continue like this. If Zoe can own her actions, so will I. And you . . . you’re going to have to own them, too.”

  He accelerates, and we shoot past every car on the road. He stares straight ahead. I’m out of breath, terrified and relieved all at once. I grab on to the door handle. He jerks the car faster.

  My words come out hushed in regret. “What I did never changed my love for you. Never. We’ve built a beautiful life since then. I have never loved anyone more than I have loved you. I have never needed anyone other than you. I’m sorry. I’ll say it as many times as you’ll listen. But you need to find a way to accept me, without judging. Years. We’ve had years. This one blip on our radar can’t wipe out all we created.”

  I stare out the window as we pass midtown and the Arena. The shiny buildings and colorful architecture hurt my eyes. The traffic is backed up on the MacArthur, so he makes a U-turn and heads toward 95, then north to 195 and the Julia Tuttle. When we were younger and he first got his driver’s license, we would drive across the set of bridges with the top down on his old Mustang. The city spread out around us, the crystal water colliding with the stately, waterfront homes.
It was paradise and why I loved being at the Ross, overlooking the ocean and the endless sunrise.

  “I’m trying, Em.”

  “You’re not trying,” I cry. “You’re miles away. And I need you to come back to me.”

  He’s about to say something. I watch his lips part, then quickly close. Our hands touch, his skin warm like our childhood memories.

  And for a brief moment, he doesn’t pull away.

  CHAPTER 28

  An afternoon downpour drops the unseasonable temperature to a mild sixty-eight. Dinner is on Mandolin’s outdoor patio with its shady trees and long wooden tables. Lily’s still in her lacrosse uniform and complaining about needing a shower. Zoe’s grumpy because we wouldn’t let her light the candles before leaving the house.

  “Your mom and I want to talk to you girls.”

  Zoe wriggles in her chair and finds her sister’s eyes. “I have no idea what they want to talk to us about. I swear. It’s not about me.”

  Lily is dead serious when she asks, “Are you getting a divorce?”

  Bobby loosens his tie and sips a glass of wine. “I want to discuss the hotel.”

  “Whatever it is,” says Lily, “I didn’t do it.” Her long ponytail falls past her shoulders and down her back.

  “It’s not you,” he continues. “But it affects you.”

  I sit beside him while he takes another swig. Last night, we drove the rest of the way home in silence, and he closed the door on me when we got upstairs. His struggles were a knot of indecision. I could tell he wanted to reach out, to talk, to touch, but he buried himself in work and left me to sleep alone.

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’m just going to say it. We’re selling the hotel.”

  Zoe is first to speak. Her eyes are accusation and anger, the wrinkle on her brow pronounced. “What?” she shouts, standing up from the table as she’s been trained to do in her debates. She is fire and flame, kicking at her chair, while Lily laughs.