The Good Daughter (27 page)

“They didn’t go to Tahoe.” His voice was deep and rough, as if he’d been smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey all day. “Howard’s car has been parked in the driveway since Friday evening.”

“Maybe they didn’t take his car.”

“Or maybe he just lied to you again.”

Kit ducked her head, her feelings hurt, and she didn’t even know why. But then, nothing about this Jude-Howard-Delilah thing made sense.

“Kit, Howard was home this weekend. He was out mowing his lawn yesterday, planting new rosebushes today.” Jude’s straight black eyebrows lowered over his eyes. “In khakis and a wife beater, no less. Imagine that.”

Kit looked up at him. “Did you see Delilah at all?”

“Yesterday, briefly, when she took a beer out to Howard. And then today she and Missy were out watering the rosebushes Howard had planted.”

“How did Delilah look?”

“Fine.” He paused, studied Kit. “It’s usually Missy that’s hobbling about.”

“Is that because she’s sick…or….?”

Jude held her gaze. “What do you think?”

Kit slammed her beer down on the table. “I don’t know what to think! That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re their neighbor. You’re Delilah’s self-appointed ‘guardian.’ What
should
I think? And should I be worried?”

“Hell yes.
I’m
worried.”

Okay. Not good. Kit exhaled and sat back heavily in her chair. If Jude was worried, things at the Dempsey house must be…terrible. “Why don’t you go to the police, then?”

“And what will they do?”

“Intervene. Help get Delilah out of there.”

“You want Delilah taken from her home?”

“If she’s not safe.”

“And you think putting her in foster care will be better?”

Her heart was racing. She hated this entire conversation. “You’re the one who lives next door to them. Would foster care be better?”

“Delilah wouldn’t think so.”

“But Delilah’s a child. She needs to be protected.”

“And yet Delilah thinks it’s her job to protect her mother.”

Kit dragged her hands through her hair, overwhelmed. Children shouldn’t be taking care of their parents, not when they were still children. “So you think I should do nothing?”

“I think you need to do what you’re doing now—pay attention. Keep an eye on her. Keep reading her journal. And keep in touch with me. And I’ll keep in touch with you.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough.”

He studied her from beneath his black lashes, not saying anything. Finally he said, “If I weren’t in the equation, what would you do?”

She frowned. Interesting question. If she didn’t know Jude, and couldn’t call him, what would she do? Go to Sister? No. Not yet. Because Jude was right. Once Sister saw Delilah’s journal, she’d probably want to expel her.

Kit sighed. “I’d wait, and watch…at least a little longer, because I don’t think Sister would understand, or be sympathetic, and I can’t go to the police, because I don’t really have anything to take to them. Do I?”

“Depends on what you have.”

Kit glanced down at the notebook on her lap. “Just this journal, and the things Delilah told me, about how she lied to Howard about the suspension to protect her mom, and the things you’ve told me about Howard.” She chewed on her lip, looked at him. “But that’s all hearsay, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’m afraid no one would really believe her,” Kit said.

“She has a reputation for being a difficult teenager. Her principal and her teachers all view her as hostile. I’m afraid the police wouldn’t have anything to move on. They’d look at the notebook and think her anger is typical of an unhappy fifteen-year-old.”

Kit thought of Fiona and her stepchildren and how often kids and parents and stepparents struggled with blending families. “So there’s nothing I really can do,” she said.

“Not yet. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be.”

She nodded.

“And your mom? She’s not okay, is she?”

Kit shook her head. Shook it again. Looking up into his eyes, and something inside of her tripped. Fell. Shattered.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said gently.

She tried to smile but couldn’t. Not when she suddenly felt so sad and tired. Life could be hard and sometimes she was tough and strong and then sometimes, like tonight, she felt bruised. Raw. And right now she was too bruised to bullshit. “She has cancer.”

His gaze held hers, but he didn’t say anything. She was glad. She was glad he knew how to listen.

“It’s terminal, and she’s in the advanced stages now,” she added, trying to slow her heart, calm her breathing. “We’re just trying to keep her comfortable now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. It sucks.” She was blinking back tears and trying to smile because she really didn’t want to fall apart here, in front
of him. “Makes me kind of crazy, so I try not to think about how little time is left. Instead, I spend time with her whenever I can. In fact, I’m staying with her all week. My dad had a family thing to do and so I’ve taken the week off from school.”

“Who’s with her now?”

“No one. She’s asleep.” She saw his expression and lifted a hand to stop him. “She knows I’m here. And I told her I wouldn’t stay long—”

“Then let’s get you home.” He drained his beer, got to his feet. “You don’t live far, do you?” he asked her as they exited the pub into the night.

“No. Fifth and Judah.”

“Good. You are close.”

He walked her to her car. They passed his huge burnt-orange motorcycle on the way to where she’d parked. The bike had massive handlebars and fat tires and mean-looking chrome. “Does your mom like your motorcycle?” Kit asked.

“No. Says it’s dangerous. That’s why I’ve promised her to always wear my helmet.”

She smiled faintly. “I thought it was California state law to wear a helmet.”

They’d reached her car and Kit opened her purse, dug around for her keys.

“And your dad?” he asked abruptly as she retrieved her key ring. “What’s he like? Is he good to your mom?”

“Dad? Oh, he loves Mom. Lives for her. Treats her like a queen.” Her voice cracked as she added, “He’s going to miss her so much. But then, we’re all going to miss her. She’s our rock.”

“I’m sorry,” Jude said quietly.

She tried to answer, but couldn’t. She swiped at a tear, and another, horrified that she was coming unglued. “Better go,” she said huskily.

Suddenly his large callused hands were framing her face and
he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry so much,” he said, letting her go, stepping back. “And try to take care of yourself.”

Kit’s heart turned over, and not because of her mom, or her dad, but because this big tough guy in leather and tats made her feel good. How did that happen?

“Good-bye,” she said, opening her car door, sliding behind the steering wheel.

He was standing back from her, feet planted wide, hands in his jacket pockets. “Good night.”

Blinking away fresh tears, Kit started the engine and pulled away, aware that he was still watching her.

He didn’t make sense. He was scary and enigmatic and yet strangely soothing and calming, once she stopped being mad at him. But how could she feel good near him? How could she be safe with him? Wasn’t he dangerous?

Or was it just an illusion…the result of the bike, the long hair and tattoos?

She tried to imagine Jude with short hair and clean-shaven. Pictured him in something besides denim and leather. He was a good-looking guy, he’d probably look very
GQ
if you put him in chinos and a polo shirt…

But who was she kidding? Jude wasn’t going to ever wear chinos and a navy polo. He might shave for her, but he wasn’t going to cut off his hair.

And even with his head shaved, Dad would still never like him.

Which was too bad, since Jude was interesting. And funny. Really funny. He made her laugh. He also turned her on a little bit. He had a very masculine, alpha male swagger to him, and she could see him on the sidewalk on Twenty-fourth Street next to her car, his feet wide, planted shoulder-width apart, looking as if nothing could shake him, or move him, or knock him off-balance.

It wasn’t until she was dashing up the steps to her parents’
front door that Kit realized who else stood that way—feet planted. Shoulder-width apart.

Tommy.

Her dad.

And every fireman she’d ever met.

K
it didn’t sleep well. She dreamed of Jude all night. She woke up early, crankier than when she went to bed, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee and try to snap out of her funk.

Fortunately, Mom woke up in a good mood, with an appetite, and Kit made her soft scrambled eggs with cheese melted on top and her mother ate every bite.

Meg called Monday morning to check in and see how everything was going. “You okay there with Mom?” she asked, sounding worried.

“Doing good. How’s the cruise?”

“The kids are having a ball. It’s eat, eat, eat, swim, sun, play, and then eat some more.”

Kit smiled. “I heard there’s a lot of food on board. Have you guys managed to hit the midnight buffet yet?”

“We haven’t missed it once. I’m not kidding when I say I think I’ve gained five pounds already—”

“You can’t in just two days.”

“Oh yes you can if you’re eating six meals a day plus blender drinks every hour, plus ice cream sundaes in the afternoon and then desserts like bananas Foster or baked Alaska every dinner.”

“I do love desserts.”

Meg’s tone turned serious. “Wish you and Mom were here, though, Kit. We all miss both of you.”

“I like being with Mom, and I don’t think she could have managed the cruise. She gets tired so easily and sleeps most of the day now.”

“What about food? Is she eating all right?”

“Cleaned her plate this morning. Couldn’t believe it.”

“Oh, good! Cass was telling me that as it gets closer to…you know…Mom will have difficulty swallowing food. Have you noticed that yet?”

“Sometimes.” Kit could picture an hourglass, and the sand was slipping down faster and faster now, leaving the top almost empty. “Now and then, but she had a good morning, and a great breakfast, so try not to stress. And truthfully, I like cooking for her. I make her smoothies between meals, and then little tea sandwiches at lunch to tempt her appetite. Mom loves my egg-salad-and-cucumber sandwiches and I cut off the crusts and cut them into pretty shapes. We eat on her bed for all our meals now. It’s like being at camp.”

“I love you, Kit.”

“Are you getting all mushy on me, Mags?”

“We’re on a cruise eating baked Alaska while you’re keeping Mom comfortable and cutting her sandwiches into shapes, and turning lunch, which I’m sure is a chore, into a tea party—” Meg broke off. “I just love you, Kit,” she said when her voice was steady again. “And we all are grateful to you, not because you’re selfless and perfect and some kind of martyr, but because you are you. You have always,
always,
given others the benefit of the doubt. You always try to be loving, and it’s not an act, it’s just you, and
you have to know, we wouldn’t be half the family we are without you.”

“I love you, too, Mags.”

“Wish you were here.”

“Go easy on those sundae bars and dinner buffets…it’s so much harder taking the weight off now than it used to be.”

“Thanks, Kit.”

“Anytime, Mags.”

“I
hate
that name.”

Kit gurgled with laughter. “I know you do.”

S
ometime very early Wednesday morning, between two-thirty, when Mom woke Kit for assistance to go to the bathroom, and six o’clock, when she woke up in a soiled bed, she had an accident.

The frantic ringing of the porcelain bell woke Kit and she flew out of bed, racing to her mother’s side.

Her mom was still shaking the bell when Kit got there, and she took the white bell with the green shamrock from her mother and set it back on the table. Kit had bought the bell in Ireland. It was a touristy trinket but Mom collected shamrocks.

“Oh, look, look,” Marilyn cried, struggling to pull back the covers to free her legs. “Look what I’ve done. How stupid! I can’t believe it—”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I don’t know why it happened. I didn’t even feel a need to go—”

“It’s fine. It’s happened before—”

“When I was going through chemo. But I’m not going through chemo. There’s no reason for this.”

But there was. They both knew it. Advanced stages…end stages…final stages…

Just a matter of time now before it was hospice care.

Fuck.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up,” Kit said calmly, so very glad she could sound calm, nonchalant, when part of her on the inside was screaming. Panicking. She didn’t like this. She didn’t want to do this. Death, dying, bodily functions, the loss of bodily functions. She wasn’t the nursing type. She was the reader, the teacher, the girl who loved books and ideas and escape. She’d never liked reality. Had never been comfortable with reality. This is why she got lost in beauty, poetry, fiction, fantasy…

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” her mother choked, trying to untangle her legs from the mess of the sheets and crying with shame.

“I appreciate that. I wouldn’t want you to see me poop or deal with my poop—oh, wait, you did. You changed my diapers for years.”

Marilyn laughed and sobbed at the same time. “But you were a baby!”

“And now you’re a baby, so what?”

“Don’t make me laugh, not when I’m so upset!”

“Aw, Mom, let me make you laugh. It’s the least I can do for you.”

“
Least?
All you’ve done is wait on me and help me to the toilet and now you’re going to have to help me bathe and do my sheets—” She broke off, tearful and angry. “I don’t want to do this, Kit! Don’t want you to have to clean me, and I definitely don’t want your dad to have to do it either. I don’t want his final memories of me to be of him lifting my nightgown to wipe shit off my bony ass!”

Kit was shocked to hear her mother swear. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened and she stared at her mother for the longest time, absolutely incredulous that she’d put
wipe shit
and
bony ass
together in the same sentence.