A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 7

"I'm so sorry, baby," I say, reaching out to touch her, but she jumps back.

"I'm sure you are." She says this in a sarcastic manner, then flops down on the edge of her bed, the very same spot she was sitting in minutes ago. There are drops of blood on her pink comforter that look like burgundy stars coming out of her fingertips. She leans back even farther and looks at me. "So where is he?"

"Gone." "Gone where?"

"I don't know."

"He'll be back," she says matter-of-factly.

"No, he won't."

"Yes, he will."

"He can't come back."

She looks at me again as if she doesn't believe me. "Who's going to stop him?"

"The police."

"Don't call them, Ma. Please. Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because then the whole world will know."

"The whole world won't have to know. Shanice, baby," I say slowly, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have believed me anyway."

I bite my lip and flip the light switch on and ofF, but luckily the bulb has been blown out for some time. George promised to fix it weeks ago. Now I know why he hasn't. "What would make you think that?"

"Because you believe everything he tells you."

"That's not true."

"It is true. Even Granny said you're a fool when it comes to men."

"Did she really?"

"I agree with her," she says, crossing her arms.

I feel like strangling her. Why on earth would Mama be discussing my relationships with my twelve-year-old daughter? "Your granny is not in a position to judge how I've handled myself."

"But I am. I know how many of your boyfriends were already married, even the pervert who finally married you."

"Let me tell you something to set the record straight, Shanice. After your father was killed, I was afraid to get too attached to any man, which is why I did things the way I did. I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."

"I don't really care. All I know is, if you'd done what you were supposed to do with your husband, I wouldn't have had to do it for you."

"What did you just say?" "You heard me."

I want to slap her into next week. How dare she talk to me this way, in this tone of voice. Besides, she doesn't know what the h.e.l.l she's talking about. She's probably in shock. Traumatized. Because this entire conversation isn't even close to what I imagined. I came in here to comfort her. To try to understand what has happened. Which is why I decide to overlook the nasty things she's saying. "Maybe you're right."

She looks genuinely surprised. As if she was ready and prepared for battle. "You're getting fat."

I want to tell her about the baby. The baby. What about the baby? What am I going to do with his baby? Don't want anything of his. Nothing. But too much to think about right now. Forget this baby. Help that one over there. "Has he hurt you?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"What all has he done to you?"

"I don't want to talk about this right now."

She reaches over and picks a book up from a pile-clearly one she's already read-and puts it in her lap, then opens to a page at random and starts twirling those braids around her fingers. "I need to know, Shanice."

"He did enough."

"How long has he been touching you?"

"Touching me?" She lets out a sarcastic chuckle.

"Yes."

"He's done more than touch me."

"How much more?"

"How about right after you married him. When I was seven. You were always asleep when he came in to say good night to me. He would flip that light switch off right over there, but then he didn't leave. He would walk over here and lay down next to me and give me a good-night kiss. But then he didn't get up."

I feel nauseous. I know he hasn't been doing this to my daughter for five f.u.c.king years. Where was I? How in the world could I not nodce something like this? And how in G.o.d's name could she have gone all this rime without telling me? "He's been doing this to you for five years?" "Six is closer to it. I'll be thirteen soon, remember?"

"Shanice," I moan.

"It's cool, Ma. But 1 cleaned up."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at all the s.h.i.t in here. Why do you think he bought it?"

I don't want to look. I know what's in here. Too many stuffed animals. Too many dolls. Too many video games and gadgets. Hundreds of trinkets. I blink and blink and blink until all of it disappears. "But, Shanice, you never gave me any sign that anything was wrong."

"My granny noticed," she says tartly.

Is this the daughter I've got to live with from now on? Is her sweetness gone? Has that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h destroyed it? I have never heard my daughter swear. Nor has she ever used this tone of voice when talking to me. Her head is down and I see her shoulders droop and she starts shaking her head back and forth and then she sits back up slowly.

"I'm standing here going over and over in my head why I didn't see any signs that something was wrong."

"Because, instead of being a cop, he should've been an actor, that's why. I mean, he was this whole different person in the morning. At night he came in here. He said things. Did things. At breakfast, he was my stepdad again. He was two people."

"This is a sickness."

"Yeah yeah yeah. He's sick all right. Why do you think I never wanted him to take me to track practice, Ma?"

"Because I knew you didn't care for George."

"Didn't you ever wonder why?"

"I thought it was because he wasn't your real dad."

"I don't even remember him, Ma! I was four years old when he died."

"Oh," is about all I can say. I want to go sit next to her. I want to put my hand on her head the way I used to when she was little and pull her face between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s until I feel her breathe. I want to slide her head down my belly until it rests in my lap and stroke her hair until she falls asleep. The way we used to.

"What do you do in there at night?"

"What?" I'm startled not only by the question but by the fact that she's still over on the bed and I'm still standing by the door. She is not in my lap. And she's not my baby anymore. But I'm still her mother. "That's none of your business."

"He made it my business."

"I read."

"I do, too. See, here's a book to prove it." She holds it up, then drops it back in her lap.

"And then I sleep."

"Well, I learned how to sleep with my eyes open and stay awake even when they were closed."

I cover my mouth and feel tears rolling down my cheeks. She knows I'm crying. But she doesn't care. She's not even looking at me. And why isn't she crying?

"What else did you do in there?" she asks.

"What normal grown-ups do."

"Normal?" Now she gives me a cutting look. You'd think she hated my guts. "He's not normal," she says.

"I know that now."

"Granny says you read too many romance novels."

"How does your granny know what I read?"

"Because I told her."

"I read what I like to read."

"She said you're living in a dream world. And you know what? She's right."

"Stop it!"

"You stop it."

"Okay," I say, and blow my nose on my sweatshirt. I look at her again, still sitting there. I'm going to get her a new bed. This one's out of here. Tomorrow, in the trash it goes, along with anything and everything else he's ever bought her. I cross my arms and watch her read. "Shanice?"

"What?" she asks, still not looking up.

"Why couldn't you just tell me this was going on?" "I've already told you."

"No you didn't. You said I wouldn't have believed you, but that's not good enough. There has to be another reason. Why?"

"Because he said that if I ever told he would do more than what he'd been doing, and it would hurt worse."

Something thick is moving up into my throat. I reach down and grab the white trash basket and let whatever needs to come up, out. Shanice doesn't budge. She just keeps right on reading. I set the basket outside the door. I'm hot. And I'm even more confused. Since she was seven years old? My baby. That sick son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. When I met George he was in the process of divorcing his second wife, a woman I'd never met, but I knew she had two daughters about Shanice's age. Had he done the same thing to them? And what about his grown daughters by his first wife? I think I have the first one's number somewhere. I need to know. I have to know. But how could he have been so clever? I'm not that stupid. And for so long? And why on earth would a grown man want to mess with a little girl? My little girl? "I'm sorry," I hear myself say again.

"I heard you the first time. Can you go now? I just got the new Goose- b.u.mps and I really want to finish it tonight. It's called Why I'm Afraid of Bees. Hey, this should be cool, and I can relate, because I've already been stung at least a hundred times. Get it?"

"Shanice?"

"What?" she says in a clearly irritated tone now.

"This isn't the end of this."

"Probably isn't."

"No. I mean I should have you checked out."

"I've been checked out. Like they say in my dance cla.s.s: I've already had my rite of pa.s.sage."

I wish she would stop this. But I know why she's doing it. I don't blame her. But she's my daughter. I love her. And I need to take steps to let her know that I have her best interests at heart regardless of what she thinks or how it looks. "I should probably get some kind of counseling for you."

"I already have a counselor at school."

"I don't mean that kind."

"Oh, you mean a shrink?"

"Maybe."

"I don't need to see any shrink. There's nothing wrong with me. It's your husband who's the freak. He's the one who needs to see a doctor. Not me."

"I'll tell you what. We can think about this for a while and see what happens. How's that sound?"

"I know I'm gonna feel the same way next week, next month, and probably even next year, too."

"You don't know how you're going to feel."

"You don't either."

"You're right. But I want to know."