The Truth About Delilah Blue

by Tish Cohen

“You know she left Delilah with some stranger the other week? Another one of these weirdo artsy losers she drags home. She meets him the day before at some art soiree and leaves her eight-year-old alone with him while she goes out to pick up Thai food. The guy answers the phone—I could hear him sucking on a joint—and actually questions me before letting me speak to my own daughter. You believe that? The guy could have done anything to her.”

  “Seriously?”

  “And you know how she justifies it? She met this jerk at the AGO and assures me he’s okay because he’s a patron. He tells her his family made some whopping donation to the gallery and she invites him back to her place for dinner.”

  “Always looking for her prince,” said Graham, shaking his head. “Clearly she thought you were her ticket at one point.”

  “Turns out all I did was make her hunger for more. Pharmaceutical sales didn’t cut it. My bonus checks stopped looking good once she discovered trust-fund boys. Nice padded bank accounts remove all the risk, not to mention the waiting.”

  “Well, she is single now. She has every right to look for moneyed men.”

  “You’re missing the point. She gave this guy full access to her child and she’d known him a few hours.”

  Graham winced as he processed this information.

  “So the next day Delilah starts yapping about how cool he is because he paints all night and drives a Porsche Carrera. Then she tells me she saw him naked in her mother’s studio when she came downstairs for a glass of milk. Turns out Elisabeth was sketching him.”

  Graham groaned.

  “And she let Delilah walk home from a friend’s house alone last week. It was after dark. ‘You have to let kids be kids,’ she tells me. ‘Give them freedom.’ Said the world is full of loving people and that I was the lousy parent for not trusting the human race!”

  “The human race? Man, tell her to spend a day at the courthouse. That’ll set her head straight.”

  “The child doesn’t even have a bedtime. Apparently setting a schedule for a child is something akin to corporal abuse. And Delilah’s sleeping bag smells like cigarette smoke.” Victor pulled a tiny bottle of aspirin from his suit jacket and popped two pills without water.

  “Sure, but—”

  “This is a woman who left her toddler alone in a wading pool in the backyard while she ran inside to ‘adjust’ a painting. Remember? You’ve got to get me a better deal. Get me full custody and she has visitation.”

  “It won’t happen.” Graham’s phone buzzed. He held up a finger to Victor and answered his assistant’s question, then leaned back in his chair and stared at his friend. “These are definitely examples of poor parental judgment, I won’t argue that. I wouldn’t want her watching my kids—should Kelly agree to have any—but it’s damned near impossible to take custody away from a mother unless she’s flat-out abusive. Or addicted to crystal meth.”

  “Yeah? How about last June? How about when she almost…Jesus, I can’t even say it. I get heart palpitations just thinking about it.”

  “We’ve discussed that to death. I’m prepared for Elisabeth and her potential accusations.”

  “False accusations.”

  “False accusations.”

  Victor felt a flush rise up his neck and into his cheeks. “It’s just like every other time Elisabeth has messed up. Never her fault.”

  “What about Delilah? Is she ready yet to talk about what happened?”

  “Doesn’t remember a thing. Doctors said that was the brain’s way of protecting the psyche and it’s probably best for us not to say anything.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “It was June.”

  Graham twisted his mouth to one side, lost in thought. He stared at Victor. “If we had a witness, we could undermine the judge’s confidence in Elisabeth. Tilt the favor toward you.”

  “It’s her word against mine and that scares me to death. The woman’s as smooth as they come. Just tell me I’m not going to get my access reduced if she piles on the lies.”

  “Won’t happen.”

  “And if it does, what’s my worst-case scenario?”

  “Vic, it won’t happen.”

  “Just give me the what if. Please.”

  Grant let out a long breath. “You could lose unsupervised access.”

  “Which means?”

  “You’d see Delilah in a government-regulated supervised access center for visits of an hour or two at a time.”

  Victor rubbed his forehead. “No sleepovers? No outings? No holidays, even?”

  “Stop doing this to yourself. That’s not going to happen. It’s not even a consideration.”

  Victor’s stared at the wall and whispered, “I couldn’t live that way. I swear to God, I couldn’t.”

  “Victor, I’ve known you forever. You tend to…” Graham crossed his legs. “How do I say this nicely? You tend to get a bit paranoid when it comes to Delilah. Remember when she was a baby? You took her to the emergency room the first time she spit up.”

  “Screw you, Graham.”

  Graham laughed. “I’m sorry, buddy. But you need more in your life than your kid and your work. You need a distraction. Try golf. Might help you sleep.”

  “Full custody and my daughter living to see her twenty-first birthday would help me sleep. I can’t take the stress. It’s impossible to fight Elisabeth. I’m telling you, I might do something crazy.”

  Graham’s assistant poked her head in. “Sorry, Mr. Trent. But it’s nearly noon. You have to be in court…”

  “Right.” Graham stood up and reached for his valise. Shooting his friend an apologetic look, he began packing his case with legal pads and files. “I have to go. But call me tomorrow. We’ll talk some more. Nothing rash in the meantime, okay? Things are going to work out fine—you’ll see.”

  Victor nodded, waving his thanks as he rose and headed toward the door.

  Graham called out, “Hey.” Victor turned around. “I know it’s tough. But if we get the right judge on Tuesday—believe me, a hard-nosed judge like Judith Lewicki would not succumb to Elisabeth’s charms—we’ll get you a lot more face time with your daughter.”

  “And if we get any other judge?”

  Graham pulled on his trench coat. “The very worst that will happen is things stay as they are now.”

  Fifteen

  Victor spun around and surveyed his beloved kitchen as if saying goodbye. As if the staleness of cupboard doors that creaked and copper pipes that dripped had served him well and he no longer needed their backing. As if the front door no one could find and the windows that burrowed into the center of the earth had accomplished exactly what he’d hoped and he and they were sharing a private moment, a surreptitious wink wink, nod nod.

  “It’s true,” he said. “I took you away from your mother.”

  A fly landed next to what was left of the puddle of scotch, jerked itself closer, and washed its front legs in the pricey liquid. They both watched as the insect completed its toilette and flew away, satisfied.

  Lila couldn’t react right away, so unashamed was Victor’s admission. She dropped into a chair and tried to form a thought—any thought. When nothing came, she forced herself to stare at the one chipped red tile at the edge of the counter. Eventually, she whispered, “Why?”

  Victor seemed to be preparing his reply, blinking and nodding his head as he was. Then, without warning, he up and walked out of the room. “It’s a rather long story.”

  She hurried after him. “Believe me, I’ve got time.”

  He headed out onto the porch, around the house, and down to the laundry room, where he tugged balled-up sheets from the dryer. After kicking the metal door shut, he marched wordlessly back up to the house. Once he was in his room, he spoke. “I’d prefer to discuss this in the morning. You know what I’m like at the end of the day.”

  “How could you? I mean, that’s something a criminal would do. Something you read about and think, How could he? Regular people don’t
abduct their children.”

  “My stomach’s been bothering me all evening…”

  “You should see her. She’s so sweet and loving and, oh my God, she’s lived through so much. My face was on milk cartons!”

  He dumped his sheets on the stripped bed and rubbed his belly. “Bloat, I think.”

  “I knew she was good.” Lila sank into a chair. “Even when I really hated her, like around Christmas or my birthday, I think, deep inside, I knew it was impossible for her to have walked away from me. It’s like I could feel her. That mother-and-child thing—you never lose that connection.”

  He started tucking the fitted sheet over his pillow-top mattress. “I don’t know why they make these mattresses thicker than the sheets these days.”

  “How can you talk about your bed right now? Why did you do it? Was I being beaten? Abused? You must have had a reason. A pretty freaking big one.”

  “I did.”

  She waited.

  He rubbed his eye sockets with forefinger and thumb. “Custody isn’t always a simple issue.”

  “You lost custody?”

  “No. Not quite.”

  “Then what?”

  He peeled the sheet off the mattress corner and started over. “Blasted thing’s sideways.”

  “Put the stupid sheets down! I have a right to know what happened!”

  He stammered, “I-I just—I need a minute to think.”

  Her cell phone vibrated inside her pocket. She flipped it open to see a strange number: 213 area code, but whom? And it hit her. Her mother. Feeling enormous again, she dug through her pocket to find the napkin where she’d scrawled Elisabeth’s number and, sure enough, it was the same. How many times had she dreamed of this event? A phone call from her mother. She’d wished and wished. She’d stared at first stars of the night, she’d extinguished birthday candles, she’d blown dandelion puffs.

  Eying Victor, she debated what to do. This was not the moment to bring Elisabeth into the room. Still. Lila had waited too long for this phone call to happen. She flipped open her phone and wandered into the hall. “Hi.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I wanted to make sure I didn’t dream you. I’m going to seem crazy for a while.”

  “Me too.”

  “And Delilah?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something else. I need to give you the heads up before it happens. Baby, the police are going to be involved. My lawyer wants to bring them in before your father does something illegal, like hopping on a plane and fleeing the country. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you earlier—you’d already had such a shock. But the police could arrive as early as tonight.”

  She peered back into Victor’s room where he was staring down at his mess of bedding. Her father, in jail? It would kill him. “Could we wait on that?”

  “I know how upsetting it is, but you have to understand the gravity of the situation. Your father committed a very serious crime. There is no way for it to go unpunished.”

  “Wait. Just another day. Please.”

  “Delilah, I really don’t think—”

  “I’m begging you. I need to hear his side before things blow up.”

  Silence. Then, “Okay. Only because I love you so much. But don’t let him talk you into anything foolish, like jetting off to Belize or something.”

  She looked at her father, a twisted sheet now wound around his lower half. “No. I think we’re safe on that front.”

  “All right, baby. I love you. Sleep tight.”

  She snapped the phone shut and returned to the chair.

  “Was that Elisabeth?”

  Lila nodded.

  He said nothing for a moment, just allowed his eyes to search his daughter’s features while his own face drooped so low she nearly didn’t recognize him.

  In reality, there was a great deal about her father she didn’t know. That he was an abductor, for one. A man willing to do something most people would never even contemplate. And once he’d succeeded with that, he was perfectly fine with telling his daughter her own mother rejected her and letting her grow up feeling unworthy of any love that wasn’t his love.

  “Dad, you really need to start talking.”

  “Mouse, I think it’s best we put an end to this discussion. I’m not quite prepared to talk about the past just now.”

  Her fury came out in a half gasp, half cough. “Oh. Okay.” She backed toward the door. “Sure. I mean, why muck up a perfectly lovely night with something as bothersome as this? It was only a kidnapping. A onetime thing. I should just move on, right?”

  “I know how it seems. All I can ask is that you trust me.”

  She stared at him in stunned silence, too many emotions swirling around inside of her to think straight herself. Trust him? Trust him?

  “Besides, it’s getting late,” he said. “You know I don’t think clearly this far into the evening…”

  “Yeah. Right. By all means get into bed. Lose yourself in a good book.”

  “Now, now. Let’s not get sarcastic.” Victor unwrapped the sheets from his torso and threw them onto the mattress. He looked at her, pleading. “I’m going to need help with this bedding.”

  All the years of living with him, being cared for by him, being fed and clothed and shod by him, did none of it count? How many times had he made her bed when she was young? Or gotten up in the middle of the night to soothe her from a terrible dream? Was it not something like deposits of goodness into an account—was he never allowed a withdrawal?

  Maybe. But this one was so big it left him damn near broke.

  “Mouse?”

  Her lungs felt small. Miserly sponges with little room for trivialities like oxygen and lifeward impulses. “You know what?” She forced herself to her feet and walked away. “Make your own bed.”

  SHE WANDERED OUT into the night and up to the road. After a few moments she dropped to the ground and arranged herself cross-legged in the dirt. A mosquito settled on her leg and she swatted it away. Incidences of West Nile had been increasing in California in the past few summers, and reports kept insisting autumn was the wrong time of year to get bitten. Though this year’s numbers were nowhere near 2005’s—there’d been nearly eighty cases in Los Angeles County alone that year and mosquito samples had nearly doubled from the year prior.

  Or something.

  It was wrong to have a head full of statistics at such a time. To be worried about a disease she’d never catch. There was something almost minuscule about her, despite being eleven feet tall whenever her mother appeared. Why did her mind do that—cloud the brain with minutiae the moment her world started spinning backward on its axis?

  She heard a snuffling sound from across the road and looked up to see an overturned trash can, its useless bungee cord flung into the middle of the road. Behind it, Slash stood staring at her, his platinum legs splayed wide to accommodate the refuse at his feet. The look on his face was one of sarcastic triumph. He stood perfectly still as he gazed at her, determined that she not threaten the decomposing bounty spread out before him.

  In spite of her best efforts to remain motionless and unthreatening—the front door was, after all, a good distance away and the animal could easily overtake her should he so desire—she felt a tingle in her nose. Holding her breath didn’t ward off the sneeze. It was fast, ferocious, and echoed off the canyon walls like the Basenji’s yelp.

  The sound spooked him. Slash dropped down and crammed half-eaten drumsticks and chicken wings into his mouth. She could smell the barbecue sauce. He didn’t stop at two or three, but attempted to hold some ten to twelve bits between his teeth. Then he loped off into the darkness without leaving a single scrap of rancid poultry behind for the other creatures of the night.

  As soon as he was gone, she raced down the hill to the safety of her cellar, with its buzzing fluorescent light, ancient washer and dryer, and dirt floor. It was cool inside, and smelled like moist earth, rot, and water. Like Tide with bleach, and rags soaked with turpent
ine, and every color of oil paint imaginable. Like cobwebs so old they’d blackened and solidified and become a permanent part of the ceiling beams.

  She stared at the canvas stretched out on the floor—about nine feet wide and nearly seven feet tall, a rhythmical splattering and pouring of barely controlled chaos, into which, if one looked carefully, could be seen the fragile profile of a helpless woman—and thought the four months she put into it may have resulted in the first piece of work she wouldn’t destroy.

  She planned to photograph it, buy one of those black portfolios real artists carry, and haul it around to a few galleries in the vain hope of securing representation one day. Make up for time lost. Another surge of fury washed over her. Victor took that too, the art career that might have started years back. There’d been a collector in the barbershop that day so long ago. He’d wanted to buy Lila’s doodle—the one she’d been working on while her father had his hair buzzed off. But Victor wouldn’t hear of it. He ushered her out into the parking lot with the doodle tucked beneath his arm. Which now made sense. He couldn’t have an art prodigy bringing the “Mack” family under the microscope of the L.A. media, hungry to report on the next sensation. Serious art talent at eight years old was something the world took notice of. But now too many years had passed. Talent at twenty didn’t cause quite such a stir, did it? She was one of thousands of artists with big dreams and little cash.

  How much different might her life have been?

  Then again, maybe nothing would have come of it. Big things didn’t happen to people like her. Wait, strike that. Big things did happen to her. After all, thanks to her father, she was now the victim of a kidnapping! How many people could claim such a thing? It was the kind of incident you read about. The kind of happening that transforms regular people into those who leave you squeamish, those you secretly congratulate yourself for not being and vow never to get too close to lest the misery soil your existence like graphite smudged on the heel of your hand.

  One thing was certain: No one could ever find out. She didn’t want her photo to be in the L.A. Times—God, no. A story like this could travel. USA Today, maybe even O magazine. Tabloids, newsmagazines, publications in Canada. She actually looked like the victim of some horrific crime, a bigeyed twerp, prey, all pathetic and leggy, circles under her eyes as if Victor kept her chained to the water heater in the cellar. It would be easy to believe, given her lack of dermal melanin.