Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

Was it possible she was overreacting?

  Was it possible that she was projecting onto Delilah, and creating a story, and a reality, that wasn’t even there?

  Still trying to catch her breath, Kit mopped her forehead and replayed the meeting with Michael and Delilah once more, and this time without being so sensitive to Delilah’s emotions.

  If Delilah hadn’t come to her before the meeting…if she hadn’t crouched trembling next to Kit’s desk and painted a picture with Michael as this really bad guy, would Kit have found Michael’s behavior during the meeting so disturbing?

  Not once during the meeting did he raise his voice or lose control. Nor did he threaten Delilah.

  He did call her a liar, but to be fair, Kit could see where he was coming from.

  Last week Delilah had proven she was an accomplished actress. Had she been acting earlier, when she came to Kit? And had she been acting during the parent–teacher meeting?

  Kit wished she knew. Wished she could trust herself to know. But her judgment was faulty, had always been faulty, ever since that thing had happened to her when she was little…

  That thing.

  That’s how Kit always thought of it. As a thing out there, distant, not at all part of her, and yet it was part of her. It’d happened to her. She’d been little. Three, four. Maybe five.

  Kit didn’t really know how old, but she remembered the shoes she wore that day to his house. Her pink Keds. And she was wearing them with ankle socks.

  How funny to remember the color of her shoes, and the lace on her ankle socks, and his house, but not everything else.

  But wasn’t that the tragedy? That Kit still didn’t fully understand what had happened to her, only that something had.

  Thirty-five years later she could still see him—shaggy hair, dirty blond; plaid shirt, blue—he lived on the street behind theirs, and he’d told her to never, ever tell anyone what he’d done, and for years she’d thought she couldn’t tell anyone that he’d pressed a coat down on her face, pressing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  For thirty-some years she’d kept her secret, that she couldn’t tell anyone about the man who’d put a coat over her face.

  It’d never crossed her mind that perhaps there was something else she wasn’t supposed to tell. It’d never crossed her mind that she could have any other secret until Richard came home drunk one night after attending a friend’s bachelor party and, deciding he wanted kinky, hot sex, attempted to take her from behind. As he forced himself on her, in her, Kit felt pain, unbearable pain, and all she could hear was the sound of screaming. But it wasn’t her screaming, it was a little girl. She was screaming in pain. Screaming for help.

  Richard sobered up pretty fast and apologized. Kit nodded and escaped to the bathroom to shower. But in the shower, she cried, shattered.

  Someone had hurt her badly when she was just a little girl.

  Someone had hurt her, and made her afraid, and not just of men, but of feelings and touch. Intimacy. Sex.

  Thanks to that someone, that man, she’d spent her whole life afraid…

  Spent her whole life not feeling…

  It was bewildering to think that for thirty-plus years she’d blocked out the actual incident, remembering not what he did, but what she couldn’t tell.

  Bewildering not to remember pain, but the weight of the coat on her face.

  Exhausted, flattened, Kit hit stop on the treadmill, unable to take another step. The rubber belt stopped moving. She stood there swaying on her feet.

  As a little girl, she’d wanted to be special. That man had promised her she was special. And then in his bedroom with all the shades down, he’d taken whatever it was that was good about her away.

  Kit stepped heavily off the treadmill. Her legs shook. Slowly she walked to the locker room, and as she opened the door to the room, a little voice whispered, Are you sure that’s what happened? Or are you making it up? You’ve always loved stories, Kit. Did this really happen to you, or did you read it in a book?

  Kit bit her lip, and shook her head to silence the voice, and yet the mocking voice had once again successfully sowed the seeds of doubt, creating distrust.

  Because that little voice was right.

  Kit didn’t really know what had happened. She had impressions, sensations, fragmented memories, but what were they?

  And were those really her memories? Or had they come from somewhere else?

  She didn’t know. And she’d never know. And maybe that was what troubled her the most. If she couldn’t discern truth…if she couldn’t separate fantasy from reality…how could she trust herself to know what was true…what was right…what was real?

  In the locker room, Kit showered and changed back into her clothes and was walking to her car when she checked her phone.

  Jude had texted her back.

  Working but can take an early dinner and meet you between five and six at Gaylord’s Caffe in Piedmont.

  Kit glanced at her watch. It was almost five now. She quickly texted a reply. Just got your message, on way to Gaylord’s, will take me 5-10 minutes. Can you still meet me?

  He answered immediately. Will be waiting.

  Kit’s heart pounded as she walked into Gaylord’s Caffe Espresso, and she hated that she felt so nervous. There was no reason for her to be afraid. This wasn’t a date. Jude had never threatened her. They were meeting to discuss Delilah. That’s it.

  She’d just stepped into the coffeehouse when the door swung open again and Jude materialized behind her. Kit jumped, and turned quickly, knowing it was him.

  “You’re here,” she said, her voice too high and thin.

  “I am.”

  She nodded, knowing she needed to take control, get control, before she lost what was left of her confidence. “Shall we order something?” she asked.

  “I’ll have a drip coffee.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, peeled off two tens. “And a scone or bagel or sandwich…whatever they have left. I’m going to grab that table.” He thrust the money into her hands and headed across the café to a corner table that had just been vacated.

  Kit stood in line and watched him walk to the table, his legs long in old, faded Levi’s, hips lean beneath his black leather jacket. He said a few words to the girl at the table next to the empty one, and the girl, tattooed and pierced, grinned.

  Kit wondered what he had said to the girl, wondered what would make her smile. She felt another flutter of unease as she carried her latte, Jude’s coffee, and Jude’s sandwich to the table. “Do you want sugar or anything?” she asked him as she sat down in the empty chair and pushed the coffee cup toward him.

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  Her chair felt hard. She was tired and worried. Very worried. Things right now weren’t making sense. Kit stared down into her latte, trying to summon courage to ask him the things she needed to ask him, already knowing she wouldn’t like the answers.

  “Spit it out,” Jude said bluntly.

  She licked her bottom lip, her mouth suddenly too dry. “You aren’t Delilah guardian.”

  “Says who?”

  “Delilah. She told me the truth today. Michael—”

  “Michael?”

  She flushed, her cheeks burning. “Howard, sorry. Howard came in to see me after school today. He found out about the suspension. Wanted a parent–teacher meeting.”

  “And let me guess, Delilah’s mom wasn’t there.”

  A lump filled Kit’s throat. “No. She wasn’t.”

  “Doesn’t that ever seem strange to you? She’s Delilah’s mom, but she’s nowhere to be found?”

  Kit jerked, as if stung, because, yes, it was strange, very strange, but she’d avoided thinking about Delilah’s mom, and until now she wasn’t sure why. “It does worry me.”

  “Seems like a lot of things worry you.”

  “No. Not a lot of things. But Delilah’s situation…yes.”

  “Why are you so jumpy?” he asked, his deep voice rough.


  Somehow she always forgot about that rasp. “I’m not.”

  “Do I make you nervous?” he persisted.

  “No,” she said quickly, reaching for her latte, and picking it up so fast that it sloshed over the rim of her glazed mug and burned her hand. She yelped and set the mug down hard, sloshing coffee all over her hand again. “Ow,” she said, pressing the scalded hand to her chest. “And yes,” she added, looking at him. “You do make me nervous. Okay?”

  “Do you need ice?”

  “No.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  The edge of his mouth lifted. “You don’t need to be scared of me, Kit Kat.”

  “I’m not.” And she wanted to tell him her name was Kit, not Kit Kat, but she didn’t think he’d listen. She had a feeling he didn’t listen to things he didn’t want to hear. “Why did you pretend to be Delilah’s guardian?”

  “Because Delilah called me. Asked me for help. So I went.”

  “You can’t pretend to be a legal guardian when you’re not.”

  He shrugged. “She needed me.”

  “Jude, the law is very clear—”

  “Don’t talk to me about the law.”

  Kit held on to her temper, just. “Can I talk to you as a teacher, then? Because as a teacher, I have very clearly defined responsibilities, and those responsibilities are to protect my students, not to in any way endanger them.”

  “And you think I was endangering Delilah by coming in to school last week?”

  “I think if Mi— Howard finds out you came in last week, there will be hell to pay.”

  “If?” Jude’s dark eyes met hers. “He doesn’t know yet?”

  Kit shook her head. “Delilah begged me not to say anything to him today. She was afraid he’d flip out.” She took a quick breath, remembering the meeting. “It wasn’t a pleasant meeting. Delilah was trembling. I’ve never seen her—or any student—so scared. I honestly don’t know what to think.”

  “Is that why you wanted to see me? Because you want to know what I think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what I think. Your Mi— Howard is an abusive prick.”

  “What do you think happened when they got home?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  The pain was back in Kit’s middle, and her heart suddenly hurt. Not adrenaline hurt, but fear hurt. “I think he…got mad.”

  “I think he got mad, too.”

  Kit took a sip from her latte, not an easy feat when her hand was shaking so badly. “I don’t like this,” she whispered. “Don’t like it at all.”

  Jude just watched her.

  She put the coffee down. “No family is perfect. I realize every family has its own problems, and every family has its way of handling problems…as well as their own way of disciplining. But I have a problem with corporal punishment. I have a problem with people—adults—losing control. Have a problem with adults abusing their power. Makes me sick.”

  “The world is full of violence.”

  “That doesn’t make it right!” Her gaze fell on the ring on his hand that he’d wrapped around his ceramic cup. It was an enormous silver-and-brass ring with a raised figure of Mary. Her brow creased. “You’re Catholic?”

  He glanced down at his hand. “No.”

  “But…isn’t that the Virgin Mary?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why do you wear that ring?”

  He took his hand from the cup and balled it into a fist. It was a big hard fist with scarred knuckles. “Mary helps me fight.”

  Kit’s mouth dropped open and she stared at him, shocked. “Can’t believe you said that.”

  He flexed his fingers, briefly admiring the ornate ring before reaching for his cup to sip his coffee. “It is what it is.”

  “You mean, you do what you want to do.”

  Jude shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  Kit frowned. “And Delilah? She’s your neighbor—” She broke off as her phone rang and she glanced down at the number. Tommy. And Tommy never called. “Sorry. I need to get this,” she said to Jude before answering. “Tommy? Everything okay.”

  “No,” her brother said brusquely. “Mom’s in the hospital. Dad’s been trying to reach you, but I think he’s been calling your house number. You need to come.”

  Fourteen

  The hospital room was packed with people when Kit arrived, all family. Lots of Brennans—Dad; Meg; Cass; Dad’s brothers, Uncle Joe and Uncle Pat; plus Mom’s older brother, Jack Donahue, a retired San Francisco city cop who’d moved from the city down to San Mateo after he’d retired, and his wife, Linda.

  Kit walked in on a nurse scolding everyone that there were far too many people in the room, that patients were allowed only a limited number of visitors, and that they had more than exceeded that number, when she spotted Kit and lifted her hands in protest, exclaiming, “Oh, no! No, no, no. Half of you must go. There’s plenty of chairs in the waiting room—”

  “And why would we wait out there when we want to be here?” Kit’s dad boomed.

  “Because it’s policy, Mr. Brennan—”

  “Firefighter Brennan.” He pointed to his brothers and Tommy. “And that’s Firefighter Brennan, Firefighter Brennan, and Firefighter Brennan,” and over to Uncle Jack, “And that’s Officer Donahue. As you can imagine, we all respect and appreciate policy, but there’s no way we’re going anywhere when my wife needs her family now.”

  The nurse’s mouth gaped open then closed, and clutching her small computer notepad, she marched stiffly out.

  “Tom,” Mom croaked reproachfully from the bed. “She’s just doing her job.”

  “She can go do it somewhere else.”

  “We shouldn’t even be here,” Mom said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Just tired.”

  Kit hugged Meg and Cass before pushing through the wall of Brennan men to reach Marilyn’s hospital bed. She was relieved to see her mother awake and alert despite the oxygen tubing. “Mom, you okay?” she asked, taking her hand

  Mom gave Kit’s hand a faint squeeze. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “A lot of nonsense if you ask me,” she grumbled, her voice breathy.

  “Mom collapsed,” Meg said, a tissue clutched in her fingers. “On the bathroom floor.”

  “I did not,” Marilyn protested.

  “You did, too,” Dad said brusquely. “You were out cold when I found you.”

  “I fainted, Tom.”

  He faced her, expression ferocious. “You could have hit your head, got a concussion or worse.”

  “But I didn’t.” Her eyebrows lifted significantly, challenging him. He might be a lion but she was a lioness.

  “You don’t listen to me,” he growled.

  “I’m an adult. I wanted to go to the bathroom on my own.”

  “And look what happened.”

  “Nothing happened, Tom!” she snapped.

  Dad turned away, shoulders hunching, and Kit felt a rush of sympathy for her father. Poor Dad. He took his job as husband so seriously. She could only imagine how he felt when he found her mom unconscious on the floor. Of course he’d rush her to the emergency room. The hospital represented safety.

  “Did you get to ride in an ambulance, Mom?” Kit asked playfully, trying to ease some of the tension in the room.

  “No, thank God. Your father knows I’d never forgive him if he put me through that.”

  “So what’s the plan? How long are they going to keep you?”

  “They’re not keeping me,” she answered tartly.

  Meg and Tommy Jr. exchanged glances. Mom saw. She tried to rally and sit up in bed, but didn’t have the strength and fell back into her pillow. Meg moved forward to help but Mom brushed her away with an irritated wave of her hand. “Stop it. Stop fussing over me. All of you.” She broke off, and gasped, unable to catch her breath. Her inability to breathe just made her angrier. “I’m dehydrated and weak but not d
ead, and I’m not going anywhere for weeks yet. So stop treating me like an invalid. It’s annoying.”

  Kit’s lips twitched. Batten down the hatches. Mom was in a feisty mood tonight. “So what do you want, Mom?” she asked.

  “I want to go home.”

  No one said anything. Normally Dad or Meg might have argued with her, but neither said anything now, both still sensitive from being at the receiving end of Mom’s temper.

  “There’s no reason for them to keep me,” Mom wheezed defiantly. “I’m just a little dehydrated and anemic. Anemia’s nothing new. Low red blood cells. Normal part of bone cancer.” She’d run out of air again and everyone waited for her to finish. Eventually she added, “They’ve given me epoetin alfa. I’m getting fluids. There’s nothing else they can do. I’ll rest better at home. You know I will.”

  “You always get achy from the epoetin, Mom,” Cass reminded her. She shared Marilyn’s brisk approach to life, death, and catastrophe, and Kit had always wondered if that was an innate part of their personalities or a result of their medical training. “If you stay here tonight, your nursing staff will make sure you’re comfortable, and then the worst of the joint pain will be over in the morning and you’ll be far more comfortable being moved home then.”

  Mom fidgeted with her blanket, glared at the IV in her arm. “I didn’t want to come tonight. I’ve too much to do at home but Dad didn’t listen.”

  “Dad did the right thing,” Tommy Jr. said gruffly, feet planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. It was his father’s stance. Solid. “It never hurts to have everything checked out, and you know that if the shoe were on the other foot, you would have done the same thing.”

  Mom’s eyes flashed and she pressed her lips together in silent protest. Kit again fought the urge to smile. When Mom was in battle mode, she was a Celtic warrior.

  “Tell me what you need to do at home, Mom,” Kit said lightly, hiding her amusement, knowing this was the mom she’d always remember. Spirited.

  “Have to finish packing for the cruise—”

  “Marilyn,” Dad said warningly.

  She didn’t even acknowledge him. “Clothes are packed, but not toiletries and there are still a few things in the drier.”