Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  She whimpers, “One stupid mistake and my life is ruined!”

  The world tilts, and I can’t steady the road—disturbing thoughts swirl deep inside. How much more can she take? My foot wants to stomp on the accelerator. It’s impossible to sit still when all I want to do is scream. The elements around us sense our agony. Heavy gray clouds darken the sky, and soon the rain is slapping the windows.

  “I’m sorry,” she cries.

  “Zoe, don’t. You didn’t ask for this. We’re not going to let this person hurt you any more.”

  The Ross appears, and the line of cars waiting for valet backs up onto the street. I pull off to the side and park in a loading zone. The wind and rain batter us, and I signal to the guys that the keys are in the car. Lightning flashes at our feet, and we run for the doors. In my rush, I remember the cooler and chairs left under the tent. Damn.

  Zoe disappears ahead. The floors are slick with cautionary yellow signs. Sandra approaches with concern in her eyes. My clothes are soaked, and I shiver from the cold.

  “Mrs. Ross, are you okay? Can I get you a towel?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’ll change upstairs.”

  “I won’t keep you,” she says. “Jenny’s sent the new arrangement. They called a few times to see if you’re pleased. And the Golans left a note after their recent stay.” She passes me the sealed envelope, which I take before slipping away. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Ross?” she asks, though I’m too far ahead to answer.

  I step through the bustling lobby without acknowledging my staff. I don’t smile at the girls behind the front desk or engage them in our usual discussions. They are the conductors who bring the hotel to life, the people who anchor it deep inside my heart. Today, those pieces escape me. I don’t know how to reel them back.

  The elevator ride is a momentary pause. A chilly plume of air snakes around me, and I drop to the floor. Zoe’s one single mishap is broadcast very publicly. I try not to judge. I try to be her mother, understanding and calm about a daughter who’s experimenting in her sexuality, but my judgment is skewed. I imagine pressing the emergency button to stop the nightmare from spreading. I could hide in this metal box where digital access is useless.

  Get up, Emma.

  My body wants to. The damp clothes make it hard to move. And I’m tired and I’m overwhelmed. Someone’s attacked my child. I get up. I stand. I remember: fight back.

  The elevator doors open, and I manage the few steps through the doorway. Jonny’s there—Bobby must have called him—and I collapse into his arms.

  “It’ll be okay,” he says.

  “I don’t see how.” I’m crying. “We need to get that video down. People are watching it!”

  “I’m here,” he says to the top of my damp head. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I won’t let anyone get away with exploiting my niece—who, by the way, has locked herself in her room.”

  I pull back and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. He hands me a napkin, but all I do is crumple it in my fist. He follows me to the office and to the computer. “This is crazy,” I say. “Do you know how to flag a video?” I feel lunch making its way up. “Zoe!” I call down the hall. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “Em, relax.”

  I fling his hand away from me. “Don’t tell me to relax, Jonny. I can’t make this go away for her. I can’t promise her she’ll be fine. How will she find her self-confidence? How will she ever trust again?” I blink back tears and push away the shocking stories in the news. Victims of cyberbullying who lose all hope. Innocent, helpless kids who resort to harmful behaviors. What if Zoe hurts herself? What if she’s trapped? A whisper escapes. “Kids kill themselves over this sort of stuff.”

  He takes hold of my shoulders and forces me to look at him. “Zoe will persevere. She’s strong and has plenty of people who love her.”

  “Did we do this?” I break down.

  “This isn’t your fault,” he says, pulling me close.

  “I swear I didn’t see this coming. At all.” I look him square in the eyes when I say, “I never thought it could be my kid at the center of some scandal.”

  Zoe slinks into the room. Her hair is dripping from the rain, and there are splotches on her cheeks. She takes a seat at the desk. She hesitates, her fingers seemingly afraid the computer might bite.

  “Honey,” I begin, but I don’t have the strength to finish. We face each other. Our puffy eyes and long faces reflect our shame. It’s useless to ask if she’s okay. She may never be okay, and we all know it.

  Jonny rubs her shoulder while she clicks on the mouse. “If I had known turning fifteen would suck this much,” she says, “I would’ve enjoyed being fourteen a lot more.”

  I stare at the computer as it lights up. I wonder how something so cold and artificial can heat me up like flames. I finger the phone in my back pocket, thinking I should call the police, let them deal with this madness. Why should Zoe have to find herself in a search engine? But Jonny’s nudged her aside, and he’s tapping the keyboard.

  “Who would do this to me?” Zoe asks. The absolute horror in her voice stings. The tears rush, and I have to hold her shoulders up. I pluck words from the sacred space I save for those I love most. It comes out as a whisper, but with vigor.

  “Zoe, we’re going to get through this.”

  She burrows deeper into me and nods. “Uncle Jonny, did you find it?”

  He doesn’t answer. We break apart and see his eyes locked on the screen. Zoe brushes him aside. “Let me do it.”

  She sighs like only broken children know how and faces the computer. Her gaze is fixed, and the tears leave a trail of sadness on her skin. I glance at the monitor and there’s Zoe and Price. It sucks the air out of me. Tiny print tells me the video went live last night. Last night. While we were at dinner. While Zoe began to return to normalcy and neglected to Google her name for the hundredth time. Comments have accrued. I don’t read them, pretending the video is of somebody else. Jonny rubs Zoe’s shoulders, but he doesn’t look at the screen. My hand rests on the curve of her back. Determination fills her chest and travels through to her fingers.

  Zoe maneuvers around the mouse pad, and I watch the arrow stop on “More.” In the drop-down menu, she clicks “Report.” Now she’s asked to choose a reason for flagging. She selects “Sexual Content.” “Please provide additional details,” it prompts. Someone posted this of me. I’m fifteen. PLEASE take it down. And with a pressing thud, Zoe takes a step toward healing herself and her reputation.

  “Submit.” She says it aloud.

  “Submit,” I repeat.

  She turns from the computer and collapses in my arms. I thank Jonny for being there with us, and he reminds us that he’s always there, for whatever we need. Our eyes lock, and I want to ask what’s going on between Bobby and him, but it’ll have to wait. “Can we talk later?” I ask as Zoe turns back to the computer.

  “If it’s about my mule of a brother, Em . . .”

  “You know?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  I steal a glance at Zoe, who’s deep in thought in front of the screen. I don’t respond.

  “Whatever happens,” he says, “you have to trust that he does everything for you and the girls. All four of you. Even if his decisions don’t always make sense.”

  I’m not sure what he means, but now’s not the time to dig further.

  “Love you, Zoe,” he says as he walks out the door, but her eyes are glazed over in a digital coma.

  “Zoe,” I say, refocusing my attention on her, “we should call the school. They need to know.”

  Dr. Mason had given me his private number for emergencies; this constitutes an emergency. Dr. Rubin follows. She wonders if Zoe might benefit from seeing someone outside of school. She offers three recommendations for private therapists, but Zoe says no.

  “She prefers to talk to you,” I tell Dr. Rubin.

  Her calm voice reassures me. “Your daughter’s in good hands.” />
  Soon Lily races into the apartment, out of breath. She holds her lacrosse stick in one hand and her phone in the other. A line of dirt coats her shorts; her face is flushed. The phone beeps and dings.

  “Everyone knows,” she says, her eyes sympathizing with Zoe. “We can’t stop this.”

  “We’re dealing with it,” I tell her. “Daddy’s coming home. We’re taking care of it.”

  Zoe drops her head on the table.

  “Are you okay?” Lily asks.

  “No,” Zoe mumbles into her arms. “Would you be okay?”

  I try to comfort her, but she pushes me away. “We’re getting it taken down.”

  I don’t know that I believe that. I thought we had contained the video, that her “friends” were deleting it. Nothing makes sense, and then there’s Bobby. And Jonny. And something in his voice troubles me.

  Lily showers and begins working on a project. She has to make a video of herself giving a weather report in Spanish. She enlists Zoe’s help, to distract her from her misery, but it fails. Zoe locks herself in her room again, and I’m left to film Lily desecrating the Spanish language.

  Bobby calls from the plane as it’s taxiing before takeoff. “How is she?”

  I want to climb inside the phone so he’s next to me. “Horrible.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” he says.

  The quiet that follows chokes me. He tries to bring up the meeting because he doesn’t want to talk about Zoe on the Internet, and I cut him off.

  “I don’t care about the meeting.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Locked in her room.” The phone feels icy cold. Like his words. “Can you talk to her?”

  “What time is the meeting with the attorney tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Did you hear me?” I raise my voice. “You need to talk to her. You need to let her know it’s okay . . . she needs her father . . .”

  “Is she going to school?”

  He’s not hearing me. He’s slipping away. A physical ache spreads through me. “I don’t know what to do, Bobby. I need your help. I need you to say something. She’s your child, for God’s sake. Talk to her!”

  My hysteria matches his stoicism and how removed he is. He speaks cruelly, a flat tone that slaps my ears. “The daughter I know would have never done something like this. The daughter I know had common sense.”

  I hear the captain tell the flight attendants to prepare for departure. “We’re taking off,” he says. And the phone disconnects.

  Stunned, I cradle the phone against my ear and sob. And I know that while Monty revealed our first crack, here is the evidence of another. And I’m terrified. Not only for Zoe. For all of us.

  CHAPTER 17

  The day is hours too long. I peel off my clothes and drop them in the hamper before taking a warm bath and stepping into my pajamas. The cold apartment chills my skin. The rain outside smacks the windows, and the pounding thunder shakes the walls. A black robe hangs on a hook, and I wrap myself in its thick fabric. It’s Bobby’s. His smell reaches my nose. I’ve been tracking his flight, and he should be home soon, unless the weather has other plans for him.

  Besides matters of family, I have never been much of an emotional type. Raised strong and strong-willed, I rarely yielded to the worries that plagued kids my age. But pain had never felt like this. Even when my father eventually left, instead of being angry for his absence, I felt oddly relieved. When Mom married Abel, I learned from him what it took to love a child. Even someone else’s. Being Zoe’s mom means my heart lives outside my body, and though I try, I can’t always keep it safe. I thought all the love I had for her would turn this horrid interruption in our lives around, but now I’m not so sure my love is enough.

  A dull ache in my forehead forces me to lie down, and when I do, I see Zoe on a well-known website. I see her body, her lips, and it fills me with such anger I punch the pillows. I punch and punch, out of breath, and I realize I’m punching him. Monty. And I hear his voice: Last night was amazing.

  And then there’s Bobby and me twirling on a merry-go-round. I’m so dizzy. I had just told him about my cheating father. He had said, “I’ll never hurt you like him. That will never happen to us.”

  I punch. The hatred rises in me like a volcano. And even though I kicked Monty out, the shock at what I’d done was pervasive. It wasn’t him I hated—it was myself. I’d been wound up in principles that slowly broke apart. I had become my father, and I was disgusted.

  Spent, I collapse on the same pillow I’ve used as a punching bag. The realization magnifies Zoe’s mistakes and the pain she must be experiencing. What will become of her if the video doesn’t come down? What about Bobby? At the time, lying was my only option. He loved me all these years even with this part of me tucked away. The thought of telling him the truth sends a burst of fear through me. It’s freeing and frightening all at once. My phone dings, and it’s him. He’s landed.

  “Good night, Mom,” whispers Lily, as I bend over to kiss both her cheeks. I cross the room to Zoe, who lets me kiss her on the forehead and only that much. She hides under her comforter, the sheet and blanket a shield.

  I don’t immediately leave the room upon turning out their light. When they were babies, I’d listen for their steady breaths to signal they were safely tucked away in sleep. Lily’s always came first, her tiny body submitting. Then Zoe. Fitful at first. Erratic. And then a stable rhythm. The front door plucks me away from the measured peace. I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door behind me, as Bobby approaches.

  “Are they asleep?” He looks as tired as his girls, his face unsettled.

  My arms are crossed, and I don’t greet him warmly. “You should go in.”

  “I don’t want to wake them,” he says, though that had never mattered before. One of our few arguments was about settling the girls down for bed. He had a way of riling them up when I needed them to wind down.

  He is halfway down the hall when I catch him, forcing him to stop. “Don’t do this to her.” He doesn’t move, his body painfully stiff. “And don’t do this to me.”

  His head dips downward, and while he’s much bigger than I am, it feels as though I’m holding him up. “Why’d she have to be so careless?” he asks. “How are we supposed to fix this for her?”

  “Bobby.” I touch his face. “We may not be able to fix this.”

  His tie is undone, splayed unevenly around his neck. His eyes are dark. “I don’t know how to love her through this.”

  His uncertainty pulls at me. I’d never seen him so stripped and afraid. “You do,” I say. “You love her better than anyone.”

  He opens his mouth to say something else, but nothing comes out.

  I back up against the wall, and he eyes my silk pajamas. “I’ve really missed you,” he says.

  Helplessness collides with loneliness, and I ache to be close again.

  He unties the bathrobe and brings a hand around my waist. His eyes follow the line of my top down to the satin ribbon of my bottoms. He tugs at the delicate string while finding my eyes. I want to punish him, push him away, but I let his fingers undo the bow that sets us apart.

  His hands travel up my body and rest on my shoulders. From there they stroke my face. I arch to meet him, my toes balancing me so I can fall deeper into his grasp. When his lips come down on mine, they’re terribly sad. The stubble scratches at my cheeks. His mouth is urgent, but mostly needy. We stop, and he hugs me instead. It’s all either of us can manage. A week ago, he would have taken me right there in the hallway. He would have lifted my top over my head and held my arms up while he tasted my neck and breasts. He would have ripped the tie from my pants, letting them fall to the floor at my feet, and he’d start slowly, his fingers tracing my thighs, his lips following.

  “Daddy?”

  Zoe’s voice pulls us apart. He lets go and yanks on the tie around his neck. I retreat, the spaces inside me hungry, but hushed. Zoe looks so small walking toward us in her boxer shorts and T-shirt.
Her glasses sit awkwardly on her face.

  He doesn’t want to, but he turns around. She picks up speed and races to his chest, throwing herself into him. I can tell his arms want to fit around her, but they don’t. He kisses the top of her head where he had once kissed her cheeks. It drains my body of the tenderness I felt moments ago, and I shake my head at him.

  “How was New York?” she asks.

  “It was okay, Squirt,” he says, using the name he hasn’t called her since she was four.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Her raspy voice is tired with sleep. She sounds as though she’s given up. “I had no idea this would happen. Please help me.”

  “I’m doing everything I can, honey,” he says, patting her on the head and nothing else. “Get some sleep. You have school tomorrow. We’ll talk when you get home.”

  “Aren’t you driving us?” She pulls away and stares up at his face. “It’s Friday.”

  Years ago, when I had tried to talk him out of their Friday morning drive with its hour-and-fifteen-minute round-trip, his response had been “I won’t get those minutes in the car back.”

  “Mom and I have an early meeting. I’ll see you when you get home.”

  Zoe’s disappointment crawls through me. “You can drop the girls off, and I’ll meet you,” I say.

  “I can’t, Emma.” He’s hiding behind his contempt, and I wonder if Zoe can see through it, too.

  “I’ll make it up to you, kiddo,” he adds.

  But she turns from him, the rejection crowding her face. She throws herself in my arms. “Go to bed,” I say, hugging her.

  She slips down the hall, shoulders slouched. I take off in the opposite direction. Bobby tries to say something, and when I’m almost at our bedroom door, he grabs my arm and forces me to face him.