If I had told him all those years ago that he’d one day consider selling, he would have cast me off as ridiculous. He has put so much love into the hotel’s care and evolution, adjusting to her changes—the growth spurts—and remaining competitive among the other hotels in the area. Giving it up is not a solution.
I return to the table chart with my eyes misty. I know exactly where to put all the players. He watches me.
“What happened to us?” he asks.
I don’t have the energy to fight.
“Emma?”
I glare at him. “I’m right here. I’m the same person I was a week ago. I’ve apologized. I’ve begged for your forgiveness. What happened to us?” I ask. “What happened to you?”
“I want to go back to the way it was before.”
“We can’t do that,” I whisper. “But we can be something better, stronger.”
A few minutes pass before he speaks. He’s staring at a gorgeous framed photo of the Ross against the wall. I study it, too. The sweeping walls and windows, the surrounding trees and grass, the people. They form the soul of our home. And whether it’s a body or a building, how can anything develop without giving it the love to grow?
“Remember how much we used to love being here?” he begins, his words an echo of regret.
“I still love it here,” I reply. “I’ll always love it here.”
“It’s time,” he whispers.
“Don’t do this,” I beg.
“Things will be better. You’ll see.”
“No, you’re wrong. You love this place. Your kids love this place. It was never about the walls or the carpet. It was the people.” I recall the memories that are etched in my heart. Laughing until we cried, until our bellies ached, our long, breezy goodbyes, sitting at the bar and ordering Shirley Temples and then shots of tequila, telling him I do. “We always said that words could never describe her. It’s always been a feeling . . . inside.”
He shakes his head. “Emotions screw up sound business decisions.”
I take a step forward, unsure if I should touch him.
“You’re not going to be able to fix everything, Bobby. I know you want to. I know it’s in your blood to protect those you love, but it’s not always possible. Moving won’t bring your little girl back. Or make what she did go away.” Then I add, “Or change what I did.”
“That’s not what it’s about.”
My voice is uneven but determined. “I know you’re pissed. It’s warranted. But walking away, selling the hotel, having Grace arrested, and rejecting Zoe—it’s wrong. You can move us out of here, you can ignore Zoe, ruin Grace’s life, but all it’s doing is destroying us.”
“You already did that,” he says with callous eyes, “when you lied to me.”
This is exactly how I’d imagined it. Maybe even worse.
“How can you let Grace get away with hurting our family?”
“Our family?” I stab back. “This isn’t a family. When was the last time we were a family, and I don’t mean in a glammed-up, phony interview? Family doesn’t abandon each other at tough times. Families don’t pick and choose the parts to love. Families fight for each other no matter what tries to break them apart.”
“I don’t know my family anymore . . .” His voice cracks.
My face flushes with heat. Words like I’m leaving or separation had never touched us, but neither did words like sexual cyberharassment. Monty Greer is the nail in our coffin. “What are you saying, Bobby? You want a divorce? You’re done? Tell me!”
His eyes fill with tears. “I love you.” He says it like it’s the first time, and he’s not sure I’ll believe it. It’s a flimsy string holding us together.
“Those are hollow, empty words—worthless if you leave.”
“I don’t know how to do this, Em. I don’t know how to give her what she needs. I don’t know how to forgive you. To stop seeing you with him. To stop hating what you’ve done—what you’ve kept from me. It’s playing over and over in my mind. How can I make it stop?”
My eyes shut, and I inhale deeply. When I open them, I take the few steps between us, and grab hold of his eyes. “Let me tell you what love means. It means we’re all profoundly human. That we make mistakes, and we accept each other’s faults. It means we value each other more than our pride.” My voice changes. “I love you, Bobby. I loved you all those years ago on the beach, even when I didn’t know it myself. And I wish I could go back and change what I did, but I can’t. And when I tell you I love you, I’m giving you all of me—including my commitment to make us whole again.”
His eyes fill with confusion. He doesn’t move.
“I’ll face your anger. I deserve it. I’ll love you better than before . . . you can count on that. But please support Zoe. It’s bad enough she has to live with her inner critic. Having her father denounce her is almost worse.” Then I change my mind. “No, actually, it is worse. For her, it’s much worse.”
I wait for his arms to wrap around me.
“Everything’s changed,” he says, not making a move. He had never backed away from me before. He was always the one to touch me first, to love me last.
“You think I’ve changed? You think I’m different?”
“The person I knew before didn’t keep things from me,” he replies.
“And the person I knew didn’t turn his back on his daughter and sell her home.”
“Don’t,” he says. “I’m going after those assholes. I don’t give a damn how much money the Howards have or how much influence they have in town. They’re going to pay for what they did to Zoe.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I can’t change your mind. You think it’s going to make it easier for you to hug Zoe again? To love her? To love me?”
But he’s not listening. He’s got it in his head that this is the battle he’s going to fight. If he can exact revenge on the Howards, maybe he’ll feel that he’s in control. Over Monty Greer, over Zoe, over Price Hudson, over me, over the hotel industry, over everything.
“You’re not going to be able to fix this, Bobby,” I say. “Not like this. The wrongs won’t go away. They’ll still be part of us.”
He studies me, searching my eyes. “Watch me,” he says.
Back in the apartment, Zoe’s draped across the couch, and I hand her a sandwich from the pool bar. My nerves are rattled, and I can’t bring myself to eat. She’s deep in a Damages binge, and I tell her how much I enjoy Rose Byrne.
“Mr. Harmon called,” she says between bites. “I think he was expecting you to answer.”
“What’d he say?”
“He told me it’s time to come back to debate. He won’t let me quit.”
“And?”
“Ugh. He gave me this whole story about how he was a teenager once.”
Mr. Harmon resembles the cantor from our temple. He’s tall. Lots of gray hair. A big, bushy beard that tumbles down his face. The kids in debate love him, but imagining him as a teenager has to be an interesting visual.
“He said I’m too talented to give it up.”
“You are,” I say, tickling the foot that sticks out of elephant-dotted pajama pants.
“Dr. Rubin says I need time to heal. I told Mr. Harmon that. And being watched and pointed at is not the best way for me to heal. Then he challenged me to debate him.” She smiles. “I like that he cares,” she says. “I’ll think about it.”
I close my eyes and hug her hard. She’s been forced to face what she did. I, on the other hand, lived a hidden humiliation that no one knew about. My own private little Idaho.
“Do you regret what you did, Mom?”
I hesitate at first. “I did. For a long time.” I brush her hair away from her face and behind her ear. “Every experience is a piece of our own personal puzzle. It’s part of our history. I wish I had figured that out sooner. It makes me wonder what might’ve been different. Giving up theater was a mistake.”
“You can go back.”
I laugh and stre
tch my legs across the cushions. “Nobody wants a middle-aged Rose Byrne. But I’ve been thinking about doing some volunteer work for one of the local theaters. For now, you girls are my priority.” Then I ask, “What about you?”
She tucks her feet beneath her. “This is a memory I’d like to scatter, like we used to do when we’d blow on dandelions. You know what I’m talking about? Some of the pieces stick to the flower, and the others disappear into the air. I’m not sure I’d want to keep them all.”
Her hair smells like strawberries. How astute she is. How insightful. I watch her in amazement. “Those are parts of you, Zoe. The good and the bad. They’re there to teach you something.” I smile. “Don’t ever wish them away.”
CHAPTER 26
Over the next few nights, Bobby keeps up his charade. He’s home for what he calls “after work” and then disappears when the girls go to bed, slipping back during the early morning. It’s a routine that reminds me daily of what I’ve done, but he seems to find it satisfying.
“Am I that repulsive you can’t lie next to me?”
“I need space, Em. I need to think.”
I vacillate between understanding and affliction and spend hours walking the beach with my thoughts. The temperatures have dipped to a breezy seventy, but instead of relishing the clear skies and crisp air, I sink into the sand and stare at the waves. Their repetition is something I can trust.
Lisa’s been calling and texting. She’s persistent when she wants something, and she’s not used to my silence. It’s been days since Jo Jo’s team of investigators arrived at her house and took Grace’s computer. Avoiding her has been a challenge.
Zoe returns to school after two more days at home. I could get back in bed and hide under the covers, but I won’t. My daughter got herself ready and went out the door, and I will, too. She’ll fake-smile to the kids in the hall, and I’ll do the same with our staff and our guests.
Before I head downstairs, I enter the study and take a seat at Bobby’s desk, where the Mac stares up at me. It’s been a while since I had any interest in visiting the Internet, even though it was once a morning ritual, logging in and studying the latest news. After opening the laptop and powering up, I scroll through CNN and the Huffington Post before landing on my Facebook page. Emma Grant Ross. I scan the feed and all the posts I’d missed. Dogs are still being abused around the world, friends are sparring over politics, and my high school classmate David Collins is still cracking the best jokes.
Bright red notifications line the top of the screen. Monica Hudson sent me a friend request, and I immediately accept. Friends have left words of encouragement, cryptic in nature, but real, on my wall. A few have posted a string of emoticons to illustrate how they feel. I visit the girls’ pages. Zoe’s account has been frozen until the investigation concludes, so I punch in Lily’s name and admire her profile picture—she and Zoe sitting on a raft floating in the ocean. She has hundreds of birthday wishes and collages with her friends. Grace’s birthday wish is there. Love my besties forever. It’s a picture of the three of them when they were five.
Everyone looks happy and content in Facebook bliss, and I’m reminded how different real life is compared to the one suspended on social media. Fakebook. I face the computer in a dull fog. And I am terribly sorry for my girls experiencing a harsh reality. They live in a land where expectation is unrealistically high. The crux of the digital world. Everything is documented with precise perfection. No one’s posting about their dirty laundry or the cat puke they had to clean up. But if someone gets ahold of your secrets and the flaws you wish to hide, the age of connectivity and accessibility makes it impossible to contain.
I reflect on my teenage years, nothing like the years that cement Zoe’s mistakes into technological memory. My girls don’t get to screw up. There will always be someone to document their fall, the fatal error that turned them left instead of right. Memory was once personal, a fluid, perception-based luxury. We could pull back on it as much as we liked. Or we could add to it as we wished. Now it was permanently engraved into history. No editing, no filters. It was no wonder the girls always needed to look their best, show their “prettiest side, be skinny enough.”
I have to see her page before I log off. Lisa. Her face lights up the screen, and I try not to miss her deep laugh. Her last post was a few nights ago. A dinner at the Palm. She and Drew were smiling at the camera without a care in the world. I hover over the “Unfriend” button. But before I officially cut our Facebook cord, giving mortality to years of friendship, I study her feed, the pictures and posts that make Lisa dimensional and real. After scrolling through their recent trip to Anguilla, the numerous bags and shoes with designer labels, an inordinate number of selfies with ironed-out hair and fake eyelashes, and their dog dressed in a tiara, I feel too sorry for Lisa Howard to press “Delete.” Her life, which had all the frills to make it full and complete, seems at times cold and artificial.
And then I see the pictures of the four of us. And I remember the woman who drove my kids home from school every time I couldn’t be there. And how she could make me laugh until I almost wet my pants with her witty sense of humor. She was the one to show up at our tennis matches with a jug of sangria and always hire a driver to take us home. She could be generous and easygoing. She had texted me every day since the scandal. Who was the one judging now? I know I’m not supposed to contact her, but the years of friendship have to mean something. I saw how keeping quiet had hurt someone I loved. Lisa deserved to hear it from me. She was owed that much.
I pick up the phone and dial her number. My hands are shaking, and my heart pounds through the phone. The call goes directly to voice mail, and I’m shamefully relieved. “Lisa. I should’ve called sooner . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sure you know by now . . . this thing with the girls . . . Grace . . . we had no choice. Bobby’s so angry. He didn’t see any other way.” I stop to take a breath. “Please call me. We need to talk.”
I’m downstairs in the lobby when Elle’s wedding dress arrives. Bobby exits the elevator simultaneously, and we bump into each other like strangers. The delivery man smiles at us, mistaking my blush to mean something else. “I have a special delivery for the bride.” It’s an enormous garment bag filled with wishes and dreams. I signal Sandra to call for Elle, but Bobby insists we take it to his office for safekeeping.
Our fingers brush as we carry the bundle through the lobby. I consider the dress—its white satin bodice and fine lace—and I imagine being at the start of a great romance. Having a chance to do it all over again. I remember my own gown, now in a box preserved for safekeeping. Maybe one of the girls will wear it. Maybe they’ll want something with fewer memories.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m holding the dress like a bridesmaid might, careful not to let the train—even though it’s covered in plastic—drag along the floor. When we near the end of the hallway, he’ll let go of the dress and lift me across the threshold. He had done that numerous times before when we were teenagers. We’d sneak into guest rooms, pretend we were husband and wife. Sometimes we didn’t make it to the bed.
But he doesn’t notice when we walk across the threshold. He hangs the dress in a nearby closet and instructs Tabitha to let Elle know it’s there. And it’s safe. She hands him his schedule for the day, and he takes a phone call. I feel let down. Misplaced. I’m somewhere I’m not supposed to be. So I leave.
I’m driving down Collins Avenue to the 41st Street Walgreen’s when I get a text from Lily. The car speaks her message to me. “Grace is a no-show today.”
My stomach flip-flops. I get through the dry cleaners, Epicure, and a stop at the dermatologist’s office for some eye cream. I’m approaching the car when the call comes through from Jo Jo. “Grace Howard was taken into custody.”
Jo Jo says it again, but I can’t bring myself to respond. There’s a band around my chest, pulling and contracting. It’s difficult for me to speak. Lisa didn’t answer the phone. It’s too late. They were
taking Grace away.
“Mrs. Ross? You there?”
I step into the car, trembling. “Yes, I’m here,” I say, though I’m far away. I’m outside looking in on the soiled fragments of our former friendship. I imagine Grace shackled like a criminal. Her blue eyes rounded in fright. Drew Howard curses, threatening to take us down with the wave of his hand. And poor Lisa, my friend, is cowering in a corner wishing her status could make it all go away.
“Mrs. Ross, it’s going to be okay,” Jo Jo says, though it doesn’t feel that way at all.
I am still, fleshing out my thoughts, blinking away the images of Grace being carried away.
“I’ll call you when I have more information,” she says.
We hang up, and a text comes through from Monica. Are we making a mistake?
Yes, I want to shout. It’s all one huge, colossal mistake that we’re making worse and worse, but I don’t know how to stop it.
The phone rings, and I know who it is before I see Lisa’s name sprawled across the glass. Don’t answer it. It’s too fresh. She’s too angry.
I let it go to voice mail. It’s a safe place for her to unleash her rage.
Sitting in the parking lot, I wait for the incoming message alert, but it doesn’t come. The car waiting to take my spot honks.
The phone rings again.
I feel the desperation in the shrill sound. Lisa’s name juts pinpricks into my skin. It’s a mistake, but then it’s all a mistake. I can’t ignore the actions of a desperate mother. We had been friends for years.
“Lisa.”
Her voice is stripped, hoarse, and breathy, and when she describes in detail what has become of her daughter, she’s a mother begging for mercy. “They showed up at our house today, Emma. Our home. They’re treating Grace like a criminal . . . I don’t know what she’ll do if she has to stay overnight. Grace never sleeps out. I don’t know how she’ll survive.”
Somebody's Daughter Page 24