She jumped like she’d just stuck her finger in an outlet, and even through her perfect makeup, I could see the color drain from her face. “What are you talking about?” she gasped.
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. It’s written all over your face.”
Her face went from white to red, but, not surprisingly, she continued to stonewall. “Believe what you want, but you’ve known your real father from the day you were born.”
Usually, my mom isn’t much of a liar, which is why she’s so bad at it. She sounded more confident now, but I caught on to the lie she was telling herself. “All right, then. Tell me about my biological father.”
Realizing her tactics weren’t working, she went for slamming the metaphorical door in my face. “I think it’s time you leave.”
I sat back on the couch and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t think so. I think you owe me an explanation.”
Her gaze frosted over. “I don’t owe you anything! Certainly I have no reason to feed this ridiculous fantasy of yours.”
Maybe if I shoved some more information in her face, she’d realize how pointless it was to deny the truth. “Twenty-eight years ago, you filed a rape report with the police. You never pursued it, and as far as I can tell the case died before it took its first breath, but you did a paternity test on me. And Dad is not my biological father.” He wasn’t much of a real father, either, but that was beside the point.
Her eyes glistened like she was on the verge of tears, and lines of strain were etched into her face. I almost felt sorry for her, though I carried too much anger to let the pity take charge.
“Why did you never tell me?” I asked, and was pleasantly surprised when my voice sounded gentle, rather than accusatory.
She sighed and shook her head. “What good would it have done? It was better for all of us if we just…pretended it never happened.”
Yes, pretending was one of my mom’s greatest skills. “Do you think it was better for the other women he might have raped after you?” I couldn’t keep the sharp edge out of my voice, though intellectually, I knew how hard a rape charge can be for the victim, especially that long ago.
My mom’s lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. “We…I did what was best for my own family. I don’t expect you to agree. It’s not like you understand the meaning of the word ‘caution.’”
“But you did file a charge, at least initially.”
“I didn’t have a choice at the time. The police found me after…” Her hands fisted in her lap, perfect nails digging into her palms.
I forced myself to gentle my voice. “Tell me what happened.”
I didn’t really expect her to answer, so I was startled when she started talking.
“I used to do volunteer work at The Healing Circle when Andrew was young. One evening when I was leaving, a man dressed in scrubs accosted me in the parking deck. He forced me at gunpoint to drive him out into the suburbs. Then he…” She swallowed hard and wrung her hands. “He left me tied up in the backseat when he was finished, and that was how the police eventually found me. The Healing Circle said they’d had a John Doe they’d been examining in the psych ward, and that was probably the man who attacked me. But they never found him, never figured out who he was.”
Yeah, and apparently Mom never made a peep after that initial report. I had a strong suspicion she knew more about this John Doe than she was telling. But there was another question I burned to ask first.
“Why on earth did you and Dad keep me under the circumstances? It’s not like you ever loved me.”
Damn it, I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I wanted was to admit to my parents that they had the power to hurt me. But perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all, because my mom’s face softened, and some of the angry tension faded from her posture.
“Of course we love you. I love you. You’re my daughter, and no amount of fighting will change that.” She offered me a smile, but I didn’t smile back.
“Tell me why you kept me,” I insisted, glomming on to the question that troubled me the most. “Even if you do love me in your own way, you have to sort of hate me, too. I’m a constant reminder of what happened to you. How could you look at me every day after that?”
I could see the denial on her lips. But she must have seen how pointless it was, because she gave up the fight. “It wasn’t always easy,” she admitted. “But I’m your mother, and that’s what mothers do. They love their children unconditionally.”
“You could have put me up for adoption. It seems like the sensible thing to do. Why did you keep me?” I hoped that the third time I asked would be the charm, but I should have known better.
“I’m just not the kind of mother who can give up her child. What my attacker did to me isn’t your fault, and neither I nor your father—your real father, the one who raised you—has ever held it against you.”
That was bullshit, but I’d never get her to admit it, so I let it drop. “Tell me the truth this time. Who was my father? Because I don’t believe for a second that you don’t know.”
And with that, it seemed that our special mother/daughter chat had come to an end. “I’ve said as much as I’m going to say. Your father and I kept you for your own good, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Like hell it is!”
The softness that I’d seen was completely gone now. “Well it’s all I’m going to tell you.”
I looked daggers at her. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what else you know about my biological father.”
She raised one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Fine, then. Make yourself comfortable.”
And then she got up and left the room as if I weren’t even there.
CHAPTER 8
I hung around the house for about an hour, making a nuisance of myself, hoping she’d cave. But she carried about her business without giving me a second glance.
I almost gave up. Then I realized that there was more than one way to get information out of her. If she was going to ignore me, then I had free range of the house—including my dad’s study, where I swear he keeps every piece of paper that has ever crossed his path filed, indexed, and cross-referenced.
When my mom went to the kitchen to start dinner—which, seeing as she was Suzie Homemaker, was three o’clock in the afternoon—I didn’t follow her.
Being anal as hell, my dad had always kept his study door locked. When Andy and I were kids, we’d briefly made a game of trying to breach the fortress of the Forbidden Zone. That had ended when I was six and Andy was nine. We’d finally found a way to get in, Andy having appropriated a copy of Dad’s key. While Dad was at work, we let ourselves in. There wasn’t a thing in there that was of any interest to children our age, but it was such an exciting, forbidden thrill to be inside that we’d stayed far too long. Long enough for Dad to come home and catch us.
Now I don’t want you to get the impression that my dad is abusive. Really, he’s not. But he definitely believes in the old “spare the rod, spoil the child” philosophy. At age nine, Andy had thought himself far too old for a spanking. He found out the hard way he was wrong. It was an impressive thrashing that discouraged him from sitting down for a couple of days, but it wasn’t the pain that had made the strongest impression on him—it was the humiliation of it all, being spanked at that age, and in front of me.
Even at six years old, I was something of a stoic. I watched Andy struggle not to cry, and eventually lose that struggle. My own eyes welled with sympathy as I waited my turn, but when Dad took me over his knee, I was determined to be brave.
In the end, I’d broken just as my brother had, but I’m sure my dad was surprised at how hard he had to work for it. Andy was cowed by the whole experience, his spark of childish mischief extinguished. You can’t say the same about me.
Since there were no children in the house anymore, I was gambling my dad no longer locked the door. Even so, I held my breath as I tried the knob, letting out a sigh of relief when it turned in my hand. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me. Hopefully, if my mom started to wonder where I was and came to check on me, she’d assume I’d gone home like a sensible girl.