This Is My Daughter

by Robinson, Roxana;

  “Peter,” she whispered.

  Before she touched him his eyes opened. His gaze was clear and focused, and he put his arms around her at once, as though he had been waiting for this moment. He pulled her down, against his chest. Pulled off balance, she knelt first on the bed, then collapsed gently onto him. His body was warm, radiant, smelling like him. She breathed deeply, and closed her eyes for a moment. He kissed her lengthily, and she felt her body waken, quicken. She felt the heat from his body, felt him begin to start slowly up, like a great engine. His hands moved across her skin; she felt his tongue flicker along the inside of her lip. Her heart sank.

  “Peter,” she whispered, troubled.

  “Mm,” he whispered back. His eyes were closed. He slid his hand onto the top of her leg.

  “Peter,” she said, out loud.

  His hand stopped, and he opened his eyes. “What?”

  “I have to leave,” she said, anxious.

  “Why?” His hand continued moving.

  “I’ve told you,” Emma said. “I have to be there when Tess wakes up.” She was still lying on top of him. She could feel his warmth through her silky dress. His arms were still around her. His hand slid again up the back of her thigh.

  “Not just yet,” he whispered. His fingers were warm, slow. He kissed her more. The clock now said six twenty-three. After a moment she spoke.

  “Peter.”

  “What,” he said. He slid his fingers further up. His eyes were on hers, steady, holding her still.

  Emma pushed herself up, off him. “I have to go, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t see why.” His voice was now challenging, unfriendly. “Isn’t Rachel there?”

  “I still have to go.” Emma stood up. She felt guilty, refusing him. But the night was over; the thought of Tess drew her now.

  Peter, relinquishing her, put his arms behind his head. He watched her without speaking, his mouth firm with disapproval.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said helplessly, but he said nothing. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “Emma, you don’t,” he said. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Peter, I’m away all day,” Emma said, pleading. “I only get to see her a short time in the morning, and then a short time at night.”

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning,” Peter said. “You get to work at nine-thirty.”

  “It’s six-thirty,” Emma began, but she could not go on. Chilled, disheartened, she could not explain herself, she could not say anything at all in the face of his cold disapproval. She walked to the door.

  In the doorway she turned, but Peter had rolled back over, his head submerged again in the pillow.

  “Well, good-bye,” she said.

  He looked up, his face set. “Good-bye.”

  Emma waited for a moment, hoping he would relent, smile, soften, but he did not. She walked slowly down the long hall. She stood before the closet, putting on her coat, pulling her hair outside the collar, shaking it down her back, slowly drawing the belt tight. There was no sound from the bedroom. She let herself out, shutting the door quietly behind her. She was still listening.

  The outside hall was grand and shabby; this had been an old town house. Heavy plaster cornices edged the high ceiling, their intricate silhouettes picked out in precise detail by dust. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard of stone tiles, soiled and chipped. The walls were a bleak oyster white, faint cracks trekking across them. The air in the hallway was unused, still chilled from the night.

  Emma pushed the unpolished brass button for the elevator and waited. The early air drifted around her legs, cold and unfriendly. She pulled her short coat close. She felt in disgrace.

  She had slept only three or four hours—Peter had wakened her over and over in the night—and her eyes now felt burnt, as though she stared out through blackened holes. She could feel the dark hollows beneath them. Her hands were deep in her pockets, her shoulders hunched. Her back was to Peter’s door, but she listened for it to open. She wished he would appear in his doorway, changed, kind, himself once more, apologetic, loving.

  The elevator slid silently up from below. Its window appeared, a lighted rising capsule, like a diving chamber. The door rolled open. Emma hesitated, then stepped on. She moved to the back and turned to face the front. It was Peter’s last chance. She pictured him throwing open the door, lunging for the elevator button, catching it just as the metal gate scissored shut.

  But his door stayed closed, the elevator door slid across the opening. The floor sank away beneath her, and Emma dropped swiftly through the darkness. At the bottom the door opened again, and she stepped out into the marble lobby. The doorman stared boldly at her.

  “Good morning,” Emma said briskly. She was suddenly conscious again of her sunglasses, black stockings, high heels, her dressy evening coat. It was so obvious she had spent the night, but didn’t live here. The doorman held the door for her, but she didn’t ask for a taxi. She wanted to leave this place.

  Outside, Emma walked quickly toward Madison. The early air was still cool and fresh, and she took deep breaths, trying to restore her presence in the world. I have my own apartment, she told herself, a job, my own life. How dare Peter be so hostile? She would not put herself in this position again, she told herself. She would not stay overnight.

  At the corner, Emma turned down Madison. There was no traffic now, and the avenue was wide and empty in the early light. It was clean, slick with the night’s dampness. The Westbury Hotel stretched grandly southward, and Emma walked toward its entrance. The windows along the street—shops, the Polo Bar—were dark, the vitrines glossy and immaculate. Emma walked past, feeling calmer, relieved by their impersonal perfection.

  Two cabs stood at the Westbury’s big front doors. Engines off, taxi lights on, they waited for early fares. Emma went to the first, opened the door and began to climb in. The driver turned to her over the seat back. He was middle-aged and burly, unshaven, with black-rimmed glasses. There was baggy flesh beneath his chin, and a dark mole by the base of his nose.

  “No, no,” he said loudly, nodding toward the lobby. “I’m going to the airport.”

  “To the airport?” Emma said, confused. She looked at the dim and silent lobby. Inside the heavy glass doors the doorman watched impassively.

  “Yeah,” said the driver, raising his voice. “Go on, get out, get out.” He leaned over the seat back. His tone was insulting, and he waved his hands, sweeping her out. “Go on. Go. Go. Get. I’m not taking you.” He shook his head.

  Cowed, confused, Emma backed from the cab and closed its door. She walked to the second cab. As she climbed in, its driver turned toward her, his face dark and suspicious.

  “No, no,” he said, flapping his hand. He was Hispanic, short, slight, black haired, with gleaming dark eyes.

  But now Emma was prepared. “What do you mean, no, no?” she said. She sat down and shut the door hard.

  “No, no, I no take you,” said the driver, his voice loud.

  “Yes, you do too take me,” said Emma, angry. “Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street.”

  “No, no,” the driver said again. He shook his index finger at her and closed his eyes, refusing to see her, but Emma settled herself firmly on the seat and leaned back.

  “You take me to Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street or we’ll call the police,” she said. “You take me where I tell you to go. And don’t you tell me no, no.”

  “Why he no take you?” asked the driver, suspicious, but beginning to yield.

  “I don’t know why, and I don’t care. But you’re going to or we’ll call the police,” said Emma, suddenly furious. “Policia.”

  She crossed her arms on her chest and turned to look out the window. The driver did not start the engine; he was staring at her in the mirror. She felt his black eyes stabbing hatefully at her. She refused to meet them. She sat motionless, staring at the dim lobby and the statue of the doorman. At
last the driver muttered to himself and pulled down the taxi flag, starting the meter. He turned on the engine, and they pulled away from the curb.

  Arms folded, Emma stared out the window as the taxi rattled downtown through the empty streets. The driver drove too fast, hurtling through just-red lights, skidding around corners, shifting capriciously between lanes. Emma, who could not face another argument, sat silently on the slippery backseat, thrown sideways around corners, into the air over potholes. Angry, she puzzled over the first driver’s refusal. He had lied about the airport, there was no one but the doorman in the hotel lobby. But why had he refused her? It was illegal to turn down a fare.

  Emma saw herself, in her high red heels, her short skirt, her sunglasses. Her loose hair, the early hour, her solitude: the driver had thought she was a whore.

  A whore. Emma looked out the window. This was a bad morning.

  She leaned back against the seat, avoiding the sight of her skirt. Everyone wore these clothes: short, tight, stretchy, bright. Sexy was how you were meant to look. The magazines showed fifteen-hundred-dollar black leather dresses that barely reached the thigh. You wore them with wild hair and no bra. You wore them with slave bracelets tight around your arm, with wide chokers, tight around your neck. You wore them with stiletto heels, with leather boots that slid up over your knees. It was the way everyone dressed.

  We dress like whores, thought Emma, but we’re insulted to be taken for them. She stared out the window. She felt greasy, ashamed, as though she’d been caught at something. The cabdriver was watching her. His eyes flickered meanly at hers in the mirror, as though he knew something shameful about her.

  When they stopped at her building Emma gave the driver the exact fare, pouring bills and coins into his hand and sliding out of the backseat at once. The driver stared suspiciously at the money in his hand, counting. He called out to her, enraged.

  “Lady!” he said. “You don’ give me no tip!”

  Emma turned back to him.

  “That’s right,” she said. “No tip. A tip is extra. You were rude and unpleasant. Next time when someone gets in your cab you don’t tell them to get out. Then maybe you’ll get a tip.” She meant to sound Olympian, dignified, but her voice turned uneven. On the last words her voice broke altogether, and she slammed the taxi door like a two-year-old in a tantrum.

  “You fuck youself, lady,” the driver yelled, gunning the engine. He shot away from the curb in a swell of rage, leaving clouds of exhaust, quivering and blue, fouling the early air.

  Emma walked into her lobby. She was furious at Peter, the cabdrivers, and herself. Why had she stooped to the driver’s level? Shouting and slamming doors like a fishwife: she should have given him a meager tip and stalked away. But why give him a tip at all? Why should he be so rude and horrible, and why should she ignore it? Or reward it? “Lady” he had called her. Where were the rules here? She felt in a wonderland of impossible choices: be rude or be weak, be racist or be lectured. In the elevator she closed her eyes to rid herself of the whole thing.

  Upstairs, she let herself quietly into her apartment. She eased the heavy door shut behind her, holding the doorknob so it would turn soundlessly. Inside, she listened for a moment, holding her breath.

  She was home. In the silence, in the early light, standing in her own front hall, she felt calm begin to return. She hung up her coat and went in to find her daughter. Tess lay on her belly, her small rump slightly raised. Her face was turned toward Emma: the pale satiny skin, the innocent bluish hollows beneath the eyes. The swell of the cheek, the brief swoop of the nose.

  Emma leaned over Tess, stroking her head. Her breathing was soundless, and Emma watched for the tiny rise and fall of respiration. The small head was warm. Her pale hair was slightly matted, the fine strands sifted into each other, damp from Tess’s own heat, from the steady beat of her heart.

  Emma picked the sleeping child up, and carried her into her own room. She settled Tess in bed, pulled off her clothes, and climbed into bed with her daughter. She had forty-five minutes. Listening to Tess’s peaceful breathing, Emma closed her eyes. She began to drift toward sleep.

  Emma found herself somewhere else—a narrow street full of talking shoes—in the beginnings of sleep. Among the gabble of shoes something intruded: the rustle of sheets. Emma felt the slight shift of weight as Tessie raised her head; she heard the delighted intake of breath as Tess realized where she was. Emma kept her eyes shut, feigning sleep, but it was no use. She felt Tess’s delicate fingers on her face, her eyelids.

  “Is Mommy asleep?” Tess whispered earnestly. “Mommy, are you asleep, Mommy?”

  It was irresistible. Emma opened her eyes to Tess’s radiant face.

  “I thought you were not awake, Mommy,” Tess said, “but you are.”

  Tess sat up with a deep sigh of pleasure. Her eyes began to roam her mother’s room for things to explore. Weariness now broke over Emma like a wave. Her eyelids, unbearably heavy, resisted movement. Tess climbed cheerily down and began walking around the room, picking things up. Emma dozed, half-watching her, dazed with tiredness. At seven-thirty her alarm began to buzz.

  Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed for work, Emma carried Tess into the kitchen. Rachel, in her purple bathrobe, was already there. She looked sulky, and did not smile at Emma.

  “Good morning,” Emma said, determinedly cheerful.

  “Good morning,” Rachel said, not at all cheerful.

  “Rachel! Hi, Rachel!” Tess was radiant. “Rachel! Are you not dressed, Rachel? Did you have a good dream?”

  Rachel and Emma both laughed. Rachel was not sulky at Tess.

  “Hi, Tess,” Rachel said. “No, I’m not dressed yet. And you aren’t either.” Rachel smiled at Tess, but her face fell back into sullenness when she stopped talking, and she did not look at Emma.

  Emma ignored Rachel’s mood. She had been up for over two hours, had gotten dressed twice, traveled sixty blocks and dealt with three hostile men. Rachel had barely gotten up, she had not gotten dressed, and was already cross.

  Emma lifted Tess into the high chair, buckling the cotton strap across her small belly. She got out bowls and cereal.

  “Okay, Tessie,” Emma said, “what do you want this morning, Mommy cereal or Tessie cereal?” Emma liked monotony in meals; she had, week in, week out, the same cereal for breakfast, the same sandwich for lunch. She ate granola, with milk and yogurt, but Tess ranged energetically back and forth across the cereal field. At the question Tess leaned forward, hunching over her clenched fists, then threw her head back, supple and elastic, like a gymnast. She closed her eyes.

  “Which do I want?” she asked the air. “Which do I?”

  Emma filled her own bowl and shook on a white dollop of yogurt. “Better hurry up, or I’ll finish mine.”

  Rachel stood in the doorway, her face remote.

  “So, Rachel,” Emma said, placating, “What’s on for today?” She did not dare look at her.

  Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “Park in the morning. Nap in the afternoon. Supermarket afterwards.” Her tone was heavy with indifference.

  “The park!” Emma said to Tess. “Oh, Tessie. You’ll have fun at the park.”

  Tessie sucked her breath in. “I like the park.”

  “When I come home,” Emma promised, “you can choose two books for me to read. But right now, I have to go to work.” Emma stood up, and Tess looked anxious at once.

  “Do you not have to go right now, Mommy?” she coaxed.

  Ah, here it was, the dread moment. Now speed was of the essence. Emma kissed the top of Tess’s head.

  “I have to go right now, or my boss will get angry with me, and he’ll say I’m not doing a good job.”

  She was talking fast, brightly, but she knew it wasn’t working. Nothing worked at this stage.

  Tess’s face began to crumple. The eyebrows pulled together, the fragile skin furrowed, the mouth drew down at the corners. Misery took over. Tess’s eyes filled, but
she said nothing. She dropped her chin on her chest, her small body jerking with each breath.

  “I have to go, Tessie, but I love you. I’ll call you on the phone as soon as I get to work. Okay?” Tess would not look at her. Emma squatted next to the high chair, trying to look up into Tess’s face, but Tess twisted her face away. Now she was crying loud, anguished sobs.

  Emma looked up at Rachel. This was where she was meant to step in, comforting and distracting, pulling Tess onto a different path, away from this one of despair. Instead, Rachel turned to leave the room.

  “Rachel, could you come and take her please?” Emma said.

  At this, Tess wailed louder. Rachel turned back without a word, and walked heavily over to Tess. She plucked her from the high chair: Tess shrieked as though bitten, twisting wildly in Rachel’s arms.

  “No, no!” she said, “I want Mommy! I want Mommy!”

  Rachel began patting her, jiggling her against her chest, but she said nothing.

  “She hasn’t had her breakfast,” Emma said.

  Rachel gave her a look of contempt. “I thought you asked me to take her,” she said.

  “I did,” said Emma. “I just wanted you to know she hasn’t eaten.”

  “I know that,” said Rachel.

  Rachel and Emma glared at each other. Tess was crying loudly, and Rachel held her like an infant, jogging her, the long brown fingers tracing calming circles on Tess’s unhappy back.

  “Can I ask you something?” Rachel said. Her tone, her eyes were insolent. She stood with her legs apart, swaying back and forth with Tess.

  At the sound of Rachel’s voice, Emma folded her arms on her chest. “What is it?”

  Rachel’s short black braids were in full toss, her bathrobe was open over her droopy white nightgown. Emma was dressed for the office: turtleneck sweater, neat skirt, stockings and heels. She was already a part of her other life, the larger world, far from this domestic disorder. She was impatient, ready to walk out no matter what. But this is what husbands do, she thought suddenly, walk out on all of this—the crying child, the snarled mess of emotions. They leave all this for their carpeted, air-conditioned offices, their secretaries, as if the things here weren’t real, or serious.