Daddy Issues

by Ava Sinclair

  “Ellie,” he said. “Get in the cab.” He paused. “Now.”

  Now she looked like a petulant teenager contemplating disobedience. Adorable. He pushed the thought out of his mind as he repeated the order. “Go on, now.”

  She eyed him for a moment, then shivered in her thin hoodie and got in the back of the SUV. William got in beside her. The interior was warm. The driver was an older, portly man in an Orioles toboggan. He peered at them in the rearview mirror as the button locking the doors clicked.

  “Rough afternoon to be out,” the driver said. “Rougher neighborhood.”

  “I figured as much,” William said. “That’s why I wanted to get her out of here.”

  The driver laughed. “Runaway kid?” He eyed Ellie in the rearview mirror. “When I was your age, my dad would have blistered my backside for being in this part of town alone.” He nodded to William. “I wouldn’t blame your dad if he did the same.”

  Even in the dim light, William could see Ellie flush.

  “I’m not a kid,” she said. “And he’s not my dad.” She paused, and only William caught what she said next, so quiet was her tone. “My dad’s dead.”

  The driver had pulled out onto the road and only shot a glance back as he replied. “My mistake,” he said. “But all these kids dress the same today in those damn hooded jackets and jeans. What happened to ladies dressing like ladies?”

  “Women’s rights,” Ellie said. “We even vote now. Shocker, right?”

  “I don’t think he means to be disparaging, Ellie,” William replied. “I happen to agree. A young woman shows herself to her best advantage in a frock.”

  “A frock?” For the first time, she looked and sounded amused. “Who are you? Mr. Darcy?”

  “You’ve read Austen?”

  “Yeah, even girls who don’t go to college like to read.” She sounded defensive, hurt. “Another shocker.”

  “Mouth on that one,” the driver said. “Too bad she’s not your kid. Like I said, I wouldn’t blame you.”

  Ellie glared daggers, and William realized with sudden clarity that he was wildly attracted to this young woman, who looked every bit the kid she denied she was. He was still studying her when she suddenly sat forward in her seat.

  “My house is right up here.” Ellie was grabbing her bag off the seat. “The yellow one on the left.”

  “Yeah, I know. I can read my GPS,” the driver growled. He pulled to a stop. “That’ll be…”

  “It’s on me,” William said. “So just give me the total once you’ve dropped me off at my house on Brockton Avenue.”

  A cold blast of air hit him as Ellie opened the door.

  He called to her and she turned.

  “It was nice meeting you.”

  She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “Um. Yeah. Whatever. Thank you.” And then the door shut and she was gone.

  A snowplow was coming past. The driver kept to the side and William took advantage of the delay to watch Ellie make her way to a narrow yellow clapboard house. Someone opened the door as she mounted the steps. It was a tired-looking middle-aged woman. She was rushing out on the porch, wringing her hands in a frantic manner. Ellie was taking her by the arms. It was clear she was trying to calm the woman, who was reaching for her, hugging her. Ellie backed away, her body language tense, and walked into the house, the woman on her heels. It didn’t take a trained psychologist to know that this was the behavior of a worried mother.

  I’m trying to get my own place… He recalled Ellie’s words from her visit to his office. Through the curtain, he could see their silhouettes—the younger woman shedding her coat and heading to the back of the house, the older woman following, gesticulating.

  A picture had emerged by the time the driver pulled onto the road in the wake of the plow. Young woman with no father, history of self-harm, in desperate need of escape from her overbearing mother. Defensive. Vulnerable. And very alone in the world.

  Prior to teaching, William had been in private practice with two other doctors. It was what his family had called a ‘posh’ practice, catering mostly to upper income families. But his clientele had what he considered an offensive sense of entitlement, and when he realized he was expected to function as a pill dispenser, he decided to leave the practice and take more meaningful work—a teaching position at the Hilliard University.

  He’d longed to help people, so how had he ended up, he wondered, with a woman who embodied the very sense of entitlement and arrogance he hated? His relationship with Kathleen Kidd had begun innocently enough. He’d been flattered that she seemed to be taken with him, and had initially attributed it to the novelty of his company. He was British, she was very Middle America. She always made it a point to stop and flirt with him when she came by the department to pick things up she’d left in her old office. After an evening of drinks became what William thought was a one night stand, the flow of the relationship became a tide, pulling William along as he looked for a rock to cling to long enough to slow things down so he could climb ashore. But after that one night, Kathleen seemed to have settled that they were a couple, completely abandoning the show of sexual submission she’d effected long enough to lure him in. Any time he suggested a break, she’d start telling him why he was wrong, and failing the effectiveness of that, reminding him of her influence at the university.

  William was a considerate man, but not a weak one. He was tired of being herded toward a future with a woman he couldn’t love. Kathleen Kidd was a dominant woman, and there was nothing wrong with that. He respected and admired dominant women. But the problem was that he was a dominant man. He needed a woman who would be submissive both in and out of the bedroom. He knew Kathleen realized this, too, and offered him the concession of letting him spank her during sex. But he had no desire to spank Kathleen Kidd. She didn’t understand that there was more behind the act than just a sexual turn-on for him. He wanted a woman who needed and welcomed his correction. He wanted a true submissive. Staying with Kathleen was unfair to both of them.

  No, he was better off alone than in an unhappy relationship, at least until he found a woman open to the kind of old-fashioned dynamic he preferred.

  He glanced back toward the yellow house, wondering how Ellie was faring, and knowing that he’d not likely be able to put her out of his mind.

  Chapter Three

  Not only did the blizzard come in faster than anticipated, it also left faster than anticipated. The days of crippling snow predicted by forecasters turned out to be just two days of inconvenience.

  Ellie could not have been more grateful. She’d hardly slept the night Dr. Ashworth had brought her home.

  “Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Mildred Brewer had been in tears when Ellie arrived home, following her daughter from room to room. “No clue of where you were? No answer when I called? You could have been frozen somewhere in a ditch!”

  “Mom. I decided at the last minute to check out that study—you know, the one Dr. Gruber mailed us about. After I left the university, I realized my phone was dead.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Ellie! You should have stopped somewhere, borrowed a phone. For all I know you may have had a relapse and were somewhere bleeding to…”

  Ellie had whirled on her then, her voice shaking with rare emotion as she spoke. “Just stop it, okay? Has it ever occurred to you that I will never heal as long as you keep going out of your way to make me feel perpetually broken? Do you have any idea how it feels, living with someone who reminds you every day of the worst fucking moment of your life?”

  Mildred Brewer had stood staring at her daughter for a moment. When she replied, her voice was hard. “It was the worst moment of my life, too, Ellie.”

  Ellie had reached out then to hug her mother to her. “Yeah, I know, mom. I know. But if you could just…” She’d sighed, releasing the older woman. “Look. I’m tired and I’m cold. I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed.” When her mother started to speak, she’d put up her han
ds. “And no, I don’t need a cup of tea or warm milk or an Ambien, all right? I just need to be alone. I need to think. I’m going to go to my room and read and then I’m going to take an early bedtime. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  She’d not given her mother a chance to answer as she headed to the bathroom and turned on the tap. When she’d come home from the hospital, her mother had insisted that Ellie leave the door ajar when she was in the tub. At first Ellie conceded. Dr. Gruber had told her it would be empowering to bathe in the tub, to immerse herself in water that remained clear instead of red. And he’d been right, and now every bath felt like a tiny victory, so long as she avoided looking at her wrist.

  But tonight as she soaked in the steamy water, she forced herself to just that, tracing the two-inch silvery ridge running just below her palm.

  “The doctors said this was serious. That it wasn’t a cry for help…” Her mother had sobbed the words at her bedside. “But why? Why did you want to die? You could have come to me, you know.”

  Even through the pain, Ellie had almost laughed at that. Yeah, she’d thought. But then you’d probably have wanted to kill yourself, too.

  Then she recalled her mother’s next words, the ones that had caused her to turn her face to the wall to hide her tears: “I called your father, Ellie. I haven’t heard back from him, but I’m sure he’ll come see you now.”

  No, he won’t.

  The water was starting to get cold. Ellie rose from the tub and grabbed a towel from the wicker stand by the tub. She was careful when she stepped off the bathmat. Her mom had been cleaning again. It was how she dealt with things, cleaning. Ellie could hear her mother late into the night sometimes, coughing as she moved from room to room, cleaning for just the two of them.

  She wiped away the fog on the bathroom mirror. Looking at her reflection, she was seized by guilt for snapping at the driver who’d assumed her to be a teenager. At twenty-five, Ellie could easily pass for eighteen, if even that. Were it not for her curves, she could shop in the tween department of most stores. She opened the towel, her eyes roaming her own naked form. Her breasts were small. Mosquito bites, one boyfriend had said with a laugh when she’d gotten up the courage to remove her bra. She’d not seen him again after that night. It had taken a few bad boyfriends for her to retroactively see there had been some truth in Dr. Gruber’s words. Her period of promiscuity had been a subconscious attempt to garner male validation so often missing in fatherless girls. But even now she didn’t think the kindly old psychiatrist was entirely right. Yes, during those brief encounters she’d felt wanted. She’d even fancied that these men loved her. But not once did the eager, fumbling hands or whispered, false promises come even close to meeting her deep need for the kind of love and validation her father had denied her.

  Ellie pulled on her bathrobe and walked to the bedroom. Kneeling by her dresser, she pulled out the last drawer to reach the envelope she had hidden there.

  Ellie swallowed a lump in her throat as she removed it, remembering her excitement the day it had arrived. She’d made it a point to beat her mother to the mailbox each day so as not to spoil the surprise. When the acceptance letter from Hilliard University came along with the glossy booklet showing snapshots of students flourishing in campus life, she’d been so proud and happy. Hilliard wasn’t an easy school to get into, especially for an older applicant. But her high school grades had been excellent, and her SAT scores impressive. The only thing holding her back was money.

  It had taken more courage than she knew she possessed to finally track down Roman Brewer. When he refused to take her calls, she’d finally shown up at his office, waiting for him in the rain until he exited.

  She’d only seen him in pictures to that point, but when she said his name and he turned, Ellie was struck by how much her father looked like her. Same high cheekbones. Same bright blue eyes. It was hard to believe this handsome man had been married to her mousy mother. It was no wonder she was so crushed when he left her with a baby.

  Ellie had thought he’d flee, but he’d instantly known who she was.

  “You found me.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “I won’t try to explain…”

  “You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m looking for help.”

  She held out the letter and he took it. They were standing under an awning as the rain fell around them. Ellie had bitten her lip as she waited. He looked up at her. “Congratulations. Hilliard is a good school.”

  “I need tuition,” she said. “I got a partial scholarship and can apply for loans, but that won’t cover it all. This is where I want to go because it has the best instructors for my major. Mom’s sick. She can’t work. If you could help…”

  He was quiet for a moment. “What are you going to major in?”

  She allowed herself a hopeful smile. Her voice was almost shy when she answered. This was her father, and he was taking an interest in her. “History. I love history. With a minor in literature.”

  “Hmm.” He held out the letter and she took it. “Tell you what. Meet me tomorrow night at DeSoto’s. I’ll buy you dinner and take care of your tuition. I owe it to you. But nothing else. I’m remarried. I have a family to think of.”

  What the hell am I? Ellie thought, but didn’t put the thought into words. She was too happy. In fact, she was all but shaking with happiness at how well this had gone.

  On the ride home that day, she’d fantasized about how she’d tell her mother. Her husband’s abandonment had broken Mildred Brewer, who bore no resemblance to the pretty, smiling woman in fading photographs on the mantel. But despite being left with a child to raise on her own, Ellie’s mother had never spoken ill of him. In fact, she’d done all she could to excuse him, to explain it away. She never pressed for child support, which baffled Ellie. When she was older and asked, her mother maintained that Roman Brewer would eventually come around and make everything right.

  “He’ll do right by you, Ellie.”

  How happy her mother would be, Ellie thought, to know that at long last, the man who’d left her daughter was at least ready to help secure her future.

  She’d worn her best dress to DeSoto’s. She’d waited for an hour, reminding herself of her mother as she made excuses for her father’s tardiness. After ninety minutes, the manager came over with a note he said had been delivered to the doorman, who’d brought it inside.

  Sorry, but I can’t do what I said I would. I talked it over at home with my family, and on second thought I can’t get involved in this. I can’t risk helping you if it hurts the life I’ve made for myself. I’m sure you understand. Good luck. RB

  A week later, mired in feelings of abject rejection, Ellie had attempted suicide.

  She didn’t remember feeling particularly sad, just hopeless. Her mother had been diagnosed with COPD and was on disability. She’d have to cut back on work. No more than twenty hours a week at the factory until she could quit. Doctor’s orders. When Mildred Brewer told her daughter, she knew what it meant. Even going to community college would be out of the question now. She’d have to work until her mother’s money came through, and how long would that take? She imagined herself becoming like Betty Spooner, the prematurely graying thirty-seven-year-old down the block who lived with her sick mother.

  In retrospect, Ellie knew she should have gotten help, should have gone to someone, anyone before the crippling weight of despair led her to spend her last bit of cash on a pack of razors and a bottle of whiskey. If she’d had someone like Dr. Gruber to talk to, she’d have known there were other places to take her despair than the void.

  He’d suggested her imagination, and that’s when she’d started writing her stories. Just firing up her laptop, as she did now, had become therapeutic.

  She sat in the chair by the fire, her hands folded in her lap across the crisp pinafore of her dress. Father stood beside her, his arms crossed. “You know I’m only doing this for your own good, a
nd because I love you.”

  Jenny nodded, a tear slipping from her eye.

  “You will be confined to your room without supper, and if you complain you will be paddled hard. Again. Understand?”

  “Yes, father.”

  He reached down to grasp her sharp little chin, tilting it up until she was forced to face him. “And tomorrow you will do your lessons without complaint?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Good. Your education is important to me.”

  Ellie paused in her writing. She often imagined how her characters looked, how they sounded. Was it a coincidence that she’d suddenly imagined a British accent? Or that the man with the open arms looked just like Dr. Ashworth?

  She clicked off the document, feeling silly. Then she stopped chiding herself. It made sense, she supposed. He’d been kind to her, concerned for her. He’d been worried enough to follow her from the train at a stop from his home. He’d called a car, not just for himself, but for her.

  Ellie recalled the conversation in the SUV, the driver’s remarks about how young people could benefit from a spanking. Even now, she flushed as she remembered how a heat had moved through her. She wonder if Dr. Ashworth would have agreed with the driver, if pressed.

  Ellie had never been spanked, but loving fathers spanked their children. This she knew. They didn’t beat them, but they did spank them. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s pa had spanked her and her siblings. And in English literature there were many references to spankings, although not in Jane Austen’s books. Still it was her favorite literary time period, and in her mind, the man punishing her had the stern caring of Mr. Ingalls, but the form and accent of the man who’d brought her home.

  Turning back to her computer, she opened a new file. Her fingers flew as she started typing a fresh scene of a fatherless ward taken in by a British lord.

  He put her over his lap, and she did not resist as he lifted her skirts. She knew that as her guardian, he was in full control. She’d never had a father’s oversight, and knew that Lord Grayson was dedicated to acclimating her to a new life where she would be punished at his discretion. His hand fell on her upturned bottom and she cried out at the sting.