“What’s wrong with you?” he says.
“Do you see what you’re doing to her?” I fling his hand away and step inside our room.
He follows and takes a seat at the foot of our bed. “Don’t make it more than it is. I’m not good at this stuff. My fourteen-year-old daughter with a boy doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t get to pick and choose. She needs you.”
“Fathers aren’t supposed to know their daughter’s exploits,” he argues back. “I’ll deal with the investigation.”
He tiptoes around the truth, and all it does is open my eyes. I see the whole of him, and it alarms me. “How can you judge her like this?”
“How can I not?” he snaps back.
“You don’t get to do that to someone you love!”
“She doesn’t love herself! If she did, she wouldn’t give herself to a boy like that. Someone she doesn’t even care about.”
His lips are moving, but I’m somewhere else. Every nerve in my body is inflamed, about to catch fire. He just ripped into my chest and swiped at my soul.
His phone rings, and he answers it while I take a seat in the corner of the room and rock back and forth. Maybe the soothing motion will wipe out what he’s just said.
As soon as the door closed behind Monty, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Sitting against the cold tile, I cried until there were no more tears. I washed my face, dumped the bottles of tequila in the garbage, and climbed into bed. That’s when I saw the phone off the hook. Hours he must’ve spent worked up and suspicious. I set the receiver back on the cradle. It was seconds before it began ringing. I knew it was him, and this was long before caller ID. There was silence on the other end. Not at all like the comfortable kind we’d fallen asleep to.
“Bobby.” It was a whisper.
He only needed to say one word, “Em,” and I was plagued with regret. “I’ve been calling you all night.”
I was crying too hard to answer, but I covered the phone so he couldn’t hear. I reached inside the drawer for the ring, placing it back on my finger, knowing it was forever marked.
“You were with him.” His voice was broken. “Emma, just tell me. Is he there?”
“Bobby, please don’t do this . . . I really don’t feel well.” I had no recourse. Pretending to be sick was the only excuse. Everything he’d accused me of, I’d done. His self-fulfilling prophecy had come true. I was a cheat.
“Please tell me you weren’t with him,” he begged.
I was gasping. “I wasn’t with him.”
“Thank God,” he said, the relief a loud breath he’d been holding in. “You have no idea where my mind went. All I could think about was the two of you . . . I didn’t sleep all night.” He was going on and on, and I was only half listening, biting back the lies. “I’m so sorry, Em. I love you so much. Being away from you makes me crazy sometimes. I get jealous. He’s with you. I wish it were me. Only me. Only you.”
It wasn’t even a complete sentence. But it was everything. Bile rose from my stomach. I was horrified by my actions; shame was a physical threat.
“My schedule’s been crazy.” I forced the words. “I missed a rehearsal. We had to do it here.”
“I was wrong. It’ll never happen again. I’m sorry, Em. I’m sorry I said what I said. Please forgive me.”
And I listened and quietly whimpered while he apologized. Hearing his love didn’t feel good. The truth was like a nail lodged inside my heart; rusty and cold, it twisted my soul. All the love I felt for him coated my words with a disgusting shame.
Fear makes you do terrible things. Mine let him take the blame. The lies just kept growing, though some of them were true. I was sick that night and the morning after. And a little crazy, too. Over the subsequent weeks, no matter how hard I tried to conceal and to forget what I’d done, the betrayal found its way back. Then a jolt of truth made it impossible to forget.
My period was late. Very late.
His voice snaps me back to the present. “Emma.” And I wonder if he can see that the story I constructed is coming apart, and the messiness is pouring out.
“Zoe needs love,” I say. My voice is heavy with the weight of memory, the depth of what we both need most. “She needs forgiveness.”
“I’m doing that!” he yells, and I flinch. He slumps on the bed and talks to the ceiling. “I’m getting us out of here. We’ll find a nice house in a nice community where no one will know what happened. I’m giving her her life back!”
My face is hot. Monty’s touching me, and I push him away. My chest hurts. I’m no better than my daughter. In fact, I’m worse. My voice shakes. “You think that’ll make it go away? We sweep it under the rug, and it magically disappears? Are you that ashamed? You’d rather sell our home and hide?”
He sits up again. “Give me a chance to process it! It just happened. I need time to absorb it, to understand it.” He avoids my eyes as he says, “No father wants to think of his daughter like that.”
A desperate ache settles in my heart.
“I need time,” he says, finally looking at me. “I need to think about what she’s done. Can’t you give me that?”
I’m in Vermont, waiting the two minutes for the pregnancy test to signal my results.
A miserable quiet fills the air.
“They’ve lived in this fairy tale for too long,” he says. “Balance will be good for them.”
I’m no match for his logic, though I try. “Wasn’t being here good enough for you and Jonny?” And the name is a subtle reminder. “You’d tell me if there were problems with the hotel, wouldn’t you?”
“We’re fine, Emma. The world is different.”
“Why can’t you look at me when you say that?”
“Enough!” It feels like a slap across my cheek.
“You can’t shield them from what’s out there,” I say. “What keeps them out of trouble is in here.” My palm lands on my chest. “You can’t rip them from the only home they’ve ever had. This is where they grew up. This is where your parents would want us to be.”
His hair nips his forehead. He brushes it back and sighs. “They raised us to be better people than this. We raised those girls to be better than this. I’m giving them another chance.”
“And we just pull them out of school? What about their friends? They have a full life here! Why would you punish them like this?”
“You’re too easy on them,” he says, turning away from me. “Someone has to be tough. I know how boys think. Boys will see her one way. They’ll take advantage of her . . . they’ll think she’s . . .”
“Don’t say it,” I begin, stumbling on the words. “You can’t really think . . .”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. This is the right move,” he says.
“It’s our decision, Bobby. The family. You don’t get to decide! You said it yourself. They need balance. Stability. The whole world is watching her, and she’s exposed and scared. You need to figure out a way to love her. This little experimentation of hers could lead to something worse if you turn her away. She’s not that one single mistake. There’s so much more to her than a single mistake.”
This is how I convince myself that lying wasn’t wrong. I was saving us, saving myself. I could bury it so it didn’t happen. Then I wouldn’t be bad, used, and duplicitous. But maybe he needs to see I’m no different than Zoe. That our weaknesses tie us together, but we are lovable and worthy. It comes to me so fast I wonder how I didn’t see it before. It’s not scary. It’s a gentle tap on my heart, waking it up, reminding me of its worth. Tell him.
I shake the words away. Banish them the way I’d done all those years ago, but they are no longer containable. To pretend it didn’t happen is impossible, especially as I watch my daughter suffer so publicly. The past had entered the present with a mighty clap, and turning away from it wasn’t working. Clamping my eyes shut, I will the answer to appear. But nothing is clear. Except a new sound: it’s time.
He heads for
the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. I watch him from behind, the way the fabric slides off his arms and accentuates his muscles. He’ll be beside me in a few minutes, and I don’t know if I should try to love some sense back into him, or merely turn away. I think about letting him inside me and having his eyes hold on to mine when I break the news. Divulging the true story of what occurred so long ago could only happen when we were as close as two people could be, when our love was unquestionable and enduring. Then he would understand that love was pure and fluid, and imperfections could fade into the background.
I lift the blanket and slide underneath. I hear his steps on the floor as he shuts off the light. The blinds are up, and a luminous moon floats outside the window. The silver sky guides him to his side of the bed. When he’s under the covers, he rolls over with his back to me.
There’s something I want to tell you, I begin, in my mind. It’s going to hurt. He’d sit upright, and his eyes would grab hold of mine. People are imperfect, some tainted, some scarred. It’s possible to love someone who’s made a mistake.
He’d say, What are you talking about?
And I’d reply, I screwed up, Bobby. Like Zoe, I’m not perfect.
He’d grab me under the covers, remind me I’m beautiful and a great wife and mother. And I’d pull away. You love me. I know. I feel it in every part of my body. But you don’t know everything about me. Then the deep breath would follow to make room for my confession. He loved me unconditionally and unknowingly, but now he is snoring while the conversation I’ve imagined evaporates into the air. On most nights, I would tap him on the shoulder, but tonight I give him a firm shove against the back until he readjusts himself, and the grunts become softer and lower. I pray that he will understand that true love can exist even when you hide parts of yourself you don’t want anyone to see.
I curl into a ball.
The truth was hard to look at. It slid inside my dreams for weeks thereafter, sinful and interminable. I felt guilty and irresponsible. A string of what-ifs filtered through my mind: What if I hadn’t taken the phone off the hook? What if Monty hadn’t answered the phone? What if it had been a different movie that night? What if I hadn’t drunk? Despite how hard he pushed me that day, I did this. Our perfect love was no longer perfect. And it was all my fault.
Now my child is bound in the same prison of shame. Where the only criticism that is worse than the one coming from those around you is the one that comes from within. Nothing is louder than that voice. It wrecks perceptions and clouds judgment. When it says you are bad, you believe it.
My secret might have lived a long and silent life, but watching Zoe struggle has unleashed its fury. I was wrong all those years ago for not trusting him enough to tell him the truth. Maybe it’s my body next to his, or that he has rolled over and his arm has draped across my chest. We are momentarily united again. But it feels wrong and artificial, and I know what I must do to make it right.
CHAPTER 18
Zoe slumps at the breakfast table, Googling herself. She doesn’t touch her bagel, preferring to check the Internet every thirty seconds to see if the video is down. She bangs the keys each time she sees herself on the screen.
“Mom said it could take up to a day, Zoe.” Lily’s fingers tug Zoe’s hand away from the monitor. “Stop torturing yourself.” Zoe stares longingly at the balcony and the faraway sky, and I do my best to hush the noise buzzing in my head. Is my daughter okay? Her face bears the signs of a restless sleep.
Bobby slips into the room, and I can tell by his edginess he’s not going to join us. I’ll never hurt you. He does a good job at isolating himself, and Lily asks him what’s wrong.
“Tired. Long travel day.” He kisses the top of her head and walks over to Zoe’s side of the table. She turns away from him; he doesn’t even try to fix it.
To me he says, “I’ll meet you in the lobby. Call me when you’re close.” I don’t get up to straighten his tie or make him coffee, and he seems not to care.
“Everyone in this house is acting crazy.” Lily sighs.
“Are you sure you want to go?” I ask Zoe. “It’s okay if you stay home.”
I can hardly make out her answer. Instead she grabs her backpack and stuffs it with her computer and the Tylenols I’d given her for a headache.
When we arrive at Thatcher after a drive that consists of me giving a pep talk to Zoe’s one-word replies, I instruct Lily, “Please look out for your sister.”
She pops a breath mint in her mouth. “I always do.”
I watch them enter the building, joined by Shelby and Grace, who turn around to wave as I ride off.
I’m lost in thought and forget to call Bobby. As I near the corner of 26th and Collins, he calls. “I’m waiting in the lobby.”
I turn into the circular drive; I see him before he sees me.
With the spate of cooler temperatures, he’s dressed in a camel cashmere sweater with a gray collared shirt poking out. His black slacks frame his lean legs. He’s chatting with the valet and bellman. They adore him; it shows on their faces. When he notices me waiting, he shakes their hands, gives them his warmest smile, and takes my place behind the wheel.
On the way to downtown, we touch on everything but Zoe. It’s the kind of fall day that makes up for the fiery hot of summer. Bicyclists crowd the streets; dogs are out walking their caregivers. The air is clean and fresh. Inside the car we are suffocating.
“Have you met with the team about the wedding?” Bobby asks.
Shit. I forgot. “I’ll talk to them this afternoon.”
“We need a walkway for the wheelchair. And I want Mirielle to make those turkey sandwiches in the hot, buttery ciabatta rolls. Nothing fancy. But festive.”
I yes him, because I’m kind of shocked that he can think about buttery sandwiches as we’re heading to meet with lawyers about our daughter’s video.
“Did you see in the paper today the Arsht Center is looking for someone?” he asks.
I turn to him with a fury in my eyes. “Seriously, Bobby? Like I can think about that now? The girls need me. Now more than ever.”
He acts as though I’ve kicked him, and we refrain from talking. Whatever. I cross my arms at my chest and brush a hair off the top of my silk blouse. It’s black. So are my pants. I’ve decided I’m in mourning.
The building in downtown is one of Miami’s tallest. The circular drive through the parking garage makes me more nauseous than I already am. I hold on to the dashboard for support. We pass through the glass double doors and board one of the blocks of elevators. Bobby hits thirty-nine, and we stare at the walls in silence.
“Mrs. Ross. Mr. Ross.” The petite blonde greets us in the lobby of the impressive modern office high in the sky. The views from any window capture the Miami skyline and east to the beaches. “Jo Jo Sturner.” She smiles and gives us her hand. “And this is my investigator.” She gestures at the wiry man by her side. “Javier Harden.”
I appraise her. The young woman’s gaze is firm, apologetic, and she reminds me of Reese Witherspoon with her turned-up nose and smiling blue eyes.
Bobby thanks her for seeing us on short notice, and we follow her through a maze of corridors to her office. She motions for us to sit across from her in matching chairs, while Javier stands nearby. We take her card from her outstretched hand.
“Nathan’s a close friend. He’s familiar with my work with the Cyber Civil Rights Legal Project, the pro bono work I do for online sexual abuse and harassment. Javier used to be with the State Attorney’s office. He retired after 9/11; he specializes in cyber sex crimes. Most families don’t know how to proceed. I’ll lay down the groundwork, explain Zoe’s rights, and provide facts about what we’re dealing with.”
Their combined sensitivity and grit are well matched. They assure us they are there to help. “Our number-one priority is your daughter’s psychological health. Beyond that, there are victim’s rights, and because she’s a minor, strict laws are in place to protect her. I
’ll help you navigate the inner workings of the Internet, sexual cybercrimes, and emerging laws, and Javier here can explain the scope of computer crimes. It’ll be up to you to handle the toughest part—Zoe’s emotional well-being.”
A collection of grief prohibits me from saying much. “It’s tough.”
Jo Jo looks directly at me. “This doesn’t define her. No one action ever does.”
I want to believe that. The tears gather, ready to fall. A box of tissues sits on her desk.
Jo Jo sits up straighter. “Mrs. Ross, let’s start at the beginning.”
Hearing myself retell the story makes me uneasy. I’m sure the sharp pain between my eyes is defeat as I tell Jo Jo and the wordless Javier about the bathroom and the video Zoe got herself trapped in. “We thought the kids were deleting it.”
Javier finds a notepad tucked inside his pocket. He doesn’t look old enough to be retired, but 9/11 changed people. His fingers curl around a pen, and he asks, in perfect English but for the tiniest accent, “Do you have any idea if Zoe was coerced into the act, Mrs. Ross? Is there any indication she may have been harmed?”
“We have no reason to believe she was assaulted,” Bobby says. “I’m not sure if she remembers or if she’s being completely up front. This is very out of character for her.”
“Can Zoe substantiate that the acts were consensual?” Javier asks.
I’m stone-faced. Fingernails cut into my palms.
“These are uncomfortable questions, Mrs. Ross,” Javier continues. “We need the facts.”
I dab at my eyes and continue. “They were drinking. Maybe someone slipped something into her drink. We’ll never know, but she said it was consensual.” The flush crawls up my back.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. and Mrs. Ross,” says Jo Jo. “It’s unpleasant. It might be a long, arduous process.” She leans in closer. She has flawless skin. “But she has parents who love and support her.”
Something in her drawl reels me in. What she says makes sense, but it’s tough to accept when it’s your child, the person you were supposed to save from everything, including herself.
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