Good Daughter (9781101619261)

by Porter, Jane

  Maybe a gun.

  Maybe poison.

  It’s actually probably better if I do it myself. That way I won’t get anyone else in trouble.

  Kit stopped reading. She closed the journal.

  Oh, God.

  Jude should have told her when Delilah went to him, asked him how much it’d cost to hire someone to kill someone. How could he not tell her that? He had assured her he’d keep her informed.

  Kit rubbed her knuckles across her mouth, queasy. Afraid. She wished she’d never read any of the journal. Wished she hadn’t unstapled the pages. But she had read it, and she would have to report this.

  It was the law.

  Delilah needed help. She needed a lot of help, but the help she’d get if Kit reported this wasn’t the held she needed.

  Except, by law, she had to go to the police. That was the procedure. And the police would arrive, along with a social worker, and together they’d remove Delilah from her home.

  Shit. Shit.

  Delilah would feel so betrayed. And Kit couldn’t blame her. All she wanted was to be with her mother, together with her mother, and yet once Kit reported her writing, Delilah would lose her mother.

  Kit tried to look ahead, see what would happen after the social worker took her away. They’d have a psychiatric evaluation done, and once that happened, they’d put her where? Kit wasn’t entirely sure where they put troubled kids…a foster home? A group home? A hospital?

  And maybe Delilah meant none of it. Maybe this was just teenage ranting…an unhappy fifteen-year-old girl venting in the privacy of her journal. But it wasn’t a private journal. It was a school journal, a notebook assigned for English composition and writing.

  But Kit had told them to make it theirs. She’d told her students, class after class, year after year, that the journals were there for the students to be themselves, express themselves, to have a voice and be comfortable with their voice…

  Kit pressed her hands to her face, covering her eyes. The law was clear in a case like this. But her conscience wasn’t clear. Her conscience screamed for her to protect Delilah. But how? How could she help the girl without putting others at risk?

  Jude.

  He’d know what to do. But Jude was going to be gone for the next few days, as long as a week, and had warned her it was unlikely he’d be able to call or her even respond to texts.

  She got to her feet, walked to the kitchen, walked back to the living room. She wanted to call someone but had no one to call. Too bad she didn’t have Jude’s mom’s number. She’d call her.

  As she walked in circles around her house, Delilah’s words and troubled world filled her head. Kit glanced at her watch. Eight-ten.

  Eight-ten. Still early. Early enough.

  She went upstairs, changed into clothes, knowing that if she left her house now, she could be at Delilah’s in twenty minutes at the most.

  Kit wasn’t sure what she’d do or say when she got to the house. She prayed that the words would come to her once she arrived. Prayed that God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit and Mary and all the saints would be with her now, because she didn’t know what to do, only that she had do something to help Delilah.

  Twenty-two

  I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and say hello to Delilah,” Kit said, standing on the porch of the Dempsey house, smiling calmly, professionally, as if it was every day she dropped by one of her students’ houses at eight-thirty at night. “Can you let her know I’m here?”

  Howard looked at her for a long moment, his gaze narrowed. “She’s doing homework.”

  “That’s great. She’s a smart girl. Can you let her know I’m here?”

  He stared at her, unblinking. “It’s not a good time. My wife, Missy…she’s not well.”

  “You know, I’ve never met her. I’d love to meet her.”

  “Tonight’s not the night.”

  “Then I would definitely like to see Delilah.”

  Howard shifted in the doorway, so big he nearly blocked out the light coming from within the entry. “I thought you were in the neighborhood and just dropping by.”

  Kit met his gaze, held it. “I know she’s here. And I’d like to talk to her. Please.”

  There was a moment of strained silence. “Did something happen to bring you here tonight?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing specific, but I have been doing some grading and reading, and after reading Delilah’s student journal, I thought it might be good for me to check in, let her know I’m here for her, and that I’m aware of what’s going on.”

  Howard didn’t blink or move a muscle and yet Kit suddenly felt afraid, the fear physical and real, and it was all she could do to hold her ground.

  “What is going on, Miss Brennan?”

  The softness in his voice was pure menace. And it was clear that he knew it. They were both done playing nice.

  Kit locked her knees and steeled herself, aware that there was no way she could leave Delilah in this house with him. “She’s my student,” she said.

  “And she’s my stepdaughter.”

  “I’d like to speak with her mother.”

  “Her mother is indisposed.”

  “I’d like to speak with Delilah.”

  “And I’d like you to leave.”

  He started to close the door on her and Kit shoved her purse between the door and the frame, keeping him from shutting it completely. “I know who you are now.” Her voice shook, a combination of adrenaline and rage. “I know what you do. I’ve read all about you—”

  “In her journal?” he interrupted mockingly.

  “Yes. In the journal. I’ve handed it over to the police,” she said, fibbing brazenly, not knowing what else to say, or do, but desperate to protect Delilah in any way she could. “It’s considered evidence. They wouldn’t let me take it home. But someone will be contacting you in the morning—”

  “Nobody’s going to believe a kid.”

  “Maybe not. But they’ll believe your neighbors and your neighbors are talking. Everybody knows who you are and what you do—”

  “Get off my property.”

  “Or what? You’ll hurt me? Hit me? What will you do, Michael?” She pulled her purse out of the door and turned around, walked down the steps, heart pounding, legs trembling, waiting for him to follow, waiting to feel his hand on her shoulder or the back of her arm.

  Instead, he let her go and the front door slammed closed behind him.

  Delilah heard the front door slam closed behind Miss Brennan’s departing back.

  “Fuck!” Howie swore, turning away from the door and spotting Delilah and Missy hovering in the hall. He slammed his fist into the wall. “Fuck,” he repeated, punching the wall again.

  Missy put one hand behind her, reaching for Delilah, trying to push her away, but Delilah couldn’t move. She was so scared she could barely stand up straight.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Missy asked, trying to sound calm, but the quaver in her voice gave her away.

  “It’s over,” he said.

  Missy nudged Delilah again with her hand, wanting her to go, hide, scram. “What do you mean?”

  “We have to go. Pack your things.”

  “But why? She’s gone—”

  “That interfering bitch of a teacher went to the police. Told them God knows what. Gave them Delilah’s journal.” He spotted Delilah hiding behind Missy. “What did you write, Dee?” he demanded, lunging for her. “What did you put in your journal that’s so bad the police are holding it as evidence?”

  Missy caught at his hand. “That teacher’s talking nonsense, honey. Don’t listen to her.”

  “She’s got the police talking to neighbors. The neighbors. Christ!” Howard swung his head in Delilah’s direction. “And this is all your fault, you disloyal little bitch. Can’t keep your mouth shut…you should have kept your mouth shut…”

  Delilah knew she should move but she couldn’t. Her legs were frozen, she was frozen, frozen w
ith terror and shock. Miss Brennan had betrayed her.

  “Pack your things,” Howie snarled. “We’re going. We’re leaving tonight.”

  Mama’s hands fluttered up, trying to soothe him. “Howard, honey—”

  “You think I want this?” he roared, throwing Missy backward, sending her crashing into the wall. “You think I want to be chased out of my home? My shit-house home that still costs a half-million dollars?” His hands squeezed into fists as he grabbed for her again. “You think I like leaving my job and our house and our lives? But I’m not going to deal with any police or answer any questions. So you go pack and put the shit in car while I have a word with Dee.”

  Delilah saw him shove her mother away from him and spin to face her, and her legs nearly went out beneath her.

  “Leave her alone, Howard!”

  Delilah couldn’t look away from the frost in his eyes. They were so cold they glittered. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her finally…

  “Howard, you promised!” Mama was screaming, her voice high and piercing. “You promised me, you swore to me you’d never lay a hand on her.”

  Howie didn’t answer. He couldn’t because he was coming for her, Delilah, and coming fast.

  Delilah wished the ground would just open up and take her, swallow her, and be done with her once and forever. She was so tired of the fear and the sadness. If she was going to die, let her just die now, let her die fast—

  “Go, Dee! Run!” Mama screamed at her. “Run, baby, run.” And then Mama was grabbing at Howie, throwing herself before him, tangling up his arms and legs, trying to trip him. “Go, Dee, go, baby, go as fast as you can!”

  Delilah saw Howie slam his fist into Mama’s face, toppling her to the floor, and watching Mama crumple and fall brought her to life.

  She ran to the door, flung it open, and ran as fast as she could down the steps, out into the street, past Jude’s dark house, past more houses and barking dogs and TVs blaring from inside small houses. She ran and ran and ran, not knowing where to go, only that she had to go. But even as she ran, arms pumping, legs flying, she found herself wondering what would happen when she finally stopped running.

  What would happen when she wanted to go home?

  Delilah wasn’t at school Friday morning.

  Kit didn’t even wait until third period to find out. She called the office, asked Mrs. Dellinger if Delilah Hartnel had been marked absent from her first-period class, and Mrs. Dellinger said she had.

  “Did anyone call?” Kit asked, her voice shaking. “Her mom or dad, to say why she was absent?”

  But no one had called. And Delilah wasn’t in second, or third, or any period that day at school.

  Kit locked the door to her classroom at noon, sat in the dark, and fought panicked tears. What had she done? Why did she go to the Dempseys’ last night? Why had she told Howard she knew anything? And most important, where was Delilah today? And was Delilah okay?

  Kit sent Jude a text. She didn’t know if he’d get it. Didn’t know if he could respond to her, but at least he’d know sooner rather than later what was going on. Did something stupid. Confronted Howard last night about what I knew. Delilah’s not at school today. Panicking.

  Switching to her directory of contacts, she called her uncle Jack, the retired police detective. Thank goodness he answered.

  “Uncle Jack, I didn’t know if you could help me with something. I’m worried about one of my students. There’s abuse going on at her home. I tried to speak with the stepfather yesterday and it got ugly and now the little girl isn’t at school today.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “In San Leandro. Not far from where I teach.” She gulped a breath, trying to stay calm. “Do you know anyone that works on this side? Anyone who could drive over to the house and check on them?”

  “You think this fellow, the stepfather, he’s dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll make some calls. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Jack. I owe you.”

  Uncle Jack didn’t get back to her until after school was over. “No one was there,” her uncle told Kit over the phone as she was pulling out of the school parking lot. “The house was quiet. Dark. No car. The back door was wide open, so they went in. The house was full of furniture—couches, tables, chairs, beds—but the beds were stripped bare and there were no clothes in closets or the dressers.”

  “No bedding or clothes?”

  “No. Looked like they’d cleared out.”

  Kit’s heart fell. “What about pictures, knickknacks, stuff like that?”

  “Gone. House is empty except for the big stuff.”

  For a second she couldn’t breathe. Oh no. No, no, no. What had she done?

  “Kit?” he sounded concerned “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “No. That was really helpful. Thank you.”

  Delilah spent the first night she’d run away from her house sleeping on pieces of tree bark beneath the toddler play structure in a church playground. She slept there because the space was small and narrow and she felt safe. She couldn’t imagine any other homeless person but her wanting to sleep there.

  She left the next morning when she heard the first car pull up. She wasn’t sure where she was. She’d run such a long way last night that she had to get directions twice to get home, and even then, it took hours.

  It was almost ten when she reached her house. Howie’s car was gone. The lights were off. The blinds were all down.

  Delilah went in through the front door. It was open. The house was quiet. “Mama?” she called.

  No one answered.

  She walked back to her mama’s bedroom, pushed open the door. The big bed was just a bare mattress. The dresser had nothing on it. Delilah moved to the closet, looked inside. Nothing. No clothes, no shoes, no jackets. She opened the dresser drawers, one after the other. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Delilah backed out, went to her room, pushed the door open. Empty.

  She walked through the rest of the house, and the TV in the living room was gone. The pictures of Mama and Howie’s wedding were gone. The picture of Mama and Delilah and Grandpa was gone. Even the little ceramic salt and pepper Dutch shoes in the kitchen were gone.

  Because Mama and Howie were gone.

  They’d left. Left her.

  Delilah sat down on the living room couch, chewed on her lip, trying to figure out what to do.

  What to feel now. And suddenly Miss Brennan’s journal “quick writes” came to mind:

  I want…

  I need…

  I love…

  I hate…

  Tears filled her eyes, fell onto her fists. I want Mama. I need Mama. I love Mama. I hate Howie.

  And Miss Brennan. I hate Miss Brennan for doing this to me.

  After crying until she couldn’t stand herself crying another minute, Delilah got up, washed her face at the kitchen sink, dried it with the sleeve of her blouse, then left her house and walked to Jude’s.

  She knocked on the door, but didn’t expect him to answer. His motorcycle was gone. Had been gone all week.

  She knocked again, just to be polite, and then knowing he never locked his doors since there was no point locking them, as he owned nothing nice, she opened his front door and went in to see if he had anything to eat and a working TV that might get some good channels.

  Twenty-three

  Kit would never think of a St. Patrick’s Day party quite the same way. Everyone was packed into her three-story childhood home on Fifth in Sunset—a very thin, jet-lagged Brianna, Sarah and the kids, Meg and Jack and their three, Tommy and Cass, Cass’s mom, Uncle Pat and Uncle Joe and Uncle Jack and their wives and their adult children.

  And if that and green beer weren’t bad enough, Dad had Irish music blaring out of the speakers, one folk song after another. Someone had loaded an iPod with the complete collection of
Gaelic tearjerkers.

  The old stuff, the new stuff, even the classic stuff Kit had once listened to, like the Chieftans, the Waterboys, Enya, and Sinéad O’Connor.

  Kit wandered around the house, her sole purpose to escape whoever intended to corner her next because she’d had it with making cheerful, polite conversation. She didn’t want to do cheerful and polite. She was too upset. Too heartsick.

  Delilah was gone. Jude had never called her or checked in. Brianna looked as if she was still at death’s door. Tommy and Cass weren’t speaking because Cass still wanted a baby and he wouldn’t even discuss it. Meg and Jack were standing together, smiling like they had it all, but something about it didn’t feel quite right to Kit. And then, to top it all off, Mom was not supposed to make it to next weekend.

  Was there anything good in the world?

  To avoid further conversation with Sarah, who seemed determined to cry all night long about Mom, Kit refilled a platter of vegetables and dip and put it back on the dining room table. Refilled a bowl of chips. Added ice to the sodas in the bucket. Then dashed up the back stairs to get some exercise.

  Climbing up the stairs, she saw her aunt Linda coming down. Kit smiled, waved, and passed her quickly, trying to look like she was on a pressing errand, when in truth, she just wanted to find some peace and quiet.

  Kit found it in the small bedroom off the old playroom on the third floor. It’d once been Tommy’s room and it was a small room built under the eaves but it had a great big picture window, and best of all, it was dark, empty, and still.

  She flung herself on Tommy’s twin boyhood bed and tried not to think about Delilah, or what horrible thing was happening to her and her mom right now. She tried not to think about how she’d maybe ruined Delilah’s life and that there was probably a right way to handle things, but of course Kit played the hero card and it backfired because Howard was out there being crazy when he should be locked up behind bars.

  If only she’d waited for Jude to return. If only she’d asked Jude to help her handle it properly, maybe then Howard would have gotten the punishment he deserved—