The Truth About Delilah Blue (23 page)

Lila slammed the cupboard door shut. When it bounced open again and struck her in the chin, she grabbed the plastic knob and shut the door again, as hard as she could, again and again and again until the tiny red knob broke off in her hand. She threw it into the sink and leaned over the counter to focus on her breath, still herself, before she tore apart the entire kitchen.

“What is going on in there, Mouse?”

She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes, turned her face to the ceiling, and tried to wipe Lichty’s words out of her memory.
A terrible shame
. She’d wanted the scholarship. She’d ached for it. And she’d known she’d be upset if she was turned down. What she hadn’t counted on was this feeling of absolute nothingness. Of spinning somewhere in space without any sense of where she’d been or where she was headed.

It had been raining all morning. The incessant drumming against the roof, and dampness within the cabin, and grayness outside, had only added to her misery.

“Mouse?” She heard the rhythmic shuffling of his bedroom slippers against the bricks with the
clickety-click
patter of tiny canine toenails.
Clickety-swish. Clickety-swish.
Then Victor’s voice at the doorway. “What was all that banging?”

“Nothing, okay? It was nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It is what it is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She spun around. “I don’t really know. Because around here, nothing seems to be anything. Have you noticed? Whatever happens just happens. Nothing is explained. And whoever gets knocked down is supposed to get up, wipe their ass, and gallop on as usual.”

Victor looked confused. “But that’s not true at all. I’ve told you things were complicated back then. I’ve asked you to trust me when I say I did what I had to do.”

She slid down to the floor and thumped her head against the cabinet behind her.

He picked up the dog. “Enough of that now. You’re scaring the dog.”

“And why do you call her the dog? Why don’t you give her a name? Or, wait, give her one, then just go and change it on her. Just so she doesn’t get too settled.”

“It was a nickname. Lots of people have them. Wasn’t as if I started calling you Heather or Emily.” Victor slid into a chair and reached for the vinyl placemat in front of him. He held it up like a menu. “Could you get me a pastrami sandwich, my dear? With pickles on the side, if we’re not
out. And if you don’t mind, pour a bit of that kibble into the dog’s bowl.”

She stared at him, incredulous. Nothing about this situation had affected him. He still expected his wretched victim to tend to his every need. And feed the dog without a name. She reached for the kibble and dumped it into the bowl on the floor next to the oven, then pulled open the fridge and rummaged around in search of pastrami, finally locating it beneath a package of spinach tortillas.

Something about the little deli bag looking up all unperturbed got to her. She grabbed it, along with a loaf of bread, and slammed it on the table.

“You know what? Make your own damned lunch.” She reached for her keys and her purse. “And, by the way, that dog food you bought isn’t even the right kind for your dog. It’s for seniors. And she’s clearly not a senior.”

“Oh dear,” he said. “I hadn’t realized…”

“I’m going out.” She stormed out the door and into the rain, started up the front steps, slowing as she neared the top, turning her face into the drizzle.

Damn him for looking so helpless.

She marched back down and into the house. Without removing her wet boots, she walked into the kitchen, where her father sat staring at the door, just as she’d left him. She picked up the meat and the bread, pulled the pickle jar from the fridge, then set about making his lunch. “You always put on too much mustard,” she said as she cleaved the sandwich in half, rainwater pooling beneath her feet. “Makes the bread all soggy.”

A
N HOUR AND
a half later and it was a different day. The skies had cleared, the sun was sucking up the puddles on
the roads, and staff at sidewalk restaurants wiped down tables and chairs in hopes that the people filing out of cars and buildings might stop in, help make up for the morning’s lost profits.

Kieran—as she ambled along beside Lila in her usual puritanical uniform—insisted upon holding the dog’s green leash. The leash was long, the child was short, the dog was friendly, all of which added up to an animal who was able to race on ahead, hoist himself up on bare female calves, and mushroom his face up between the knees of every girl who happened by.

“Let me hold him, Kieran,” said Lila, tugging the pug back. “He’s being lewd.”

She shook her head and growled. “You said I could hold him all the way until there, so I’m holding him all the way until there.”

“And the leash is soaked. You’re dragging it through puddles of slop.”

“Slop
.” Kieran shook her head in disapproval. “You’re so dramatic.”

Elisabeth had an appointment with Finn. No doubt to lie naked on her back among the debris in Finn’s work space. Lila couldn’t stop the image of Finn drunkenly crawling across the floor and rubbing clay-stained hands all over Elisabeth. More upsetting than this was Lila’s growing hunch that Elisabeth was reading way too much into the exchanges.

Lila had insisted Kieran spend the day with her. She had nothing special planned, just an afternoon filled with errands. First stop was the jeweler who had resized the bracelet.

“So do you dress like an executive every single day of
your life?” Lila asked Kieran as they tied the dog to a bicycle rack outside the store.

“Only if I need to feel grown-up.”

“Huh. Does that happen a lot?”

Kieran sighed, as if her sweater weighed twenty pounds and her back were buckling from her managerial duties. “Almost all the time.”

“Bummer.”

Kieran examined Lila’s clothing. “Why do you dress like that?”

Lila looked down at Victor’s oversize sweatshirt—the gray one she’d cut the arms out of and made into a dress—bare thighs, and kneesocks with ever-present doodled boots. “I don’t know. I’m artsy, I guess.”

Kieran stopped and considered her sister’s outfit more carefully. “Always big and baggy on top. And then bare legs. Like look at me but don’t look at me.”

Lila was too shocked, too annoyed, to answer right away. A bus roared past, sending a fine spray of puddle water toward them. They darted to the side, but not before Lila’s boots got spotted, which only irritated her further. “You think that’s how people see me?”

Kieran pursed her lips together and mulled this over. “How should I know? I’m not even eight.”

Inside the store, the child was dumbstruck in the face of jewels set against black cloth, and the way they sparked and winked beneath halogen spotlights. She pulled away from Lila and hopped from case to case, drooling over the gold, platinum, and diamonds. As the shop assistant took Lila’s ticket and headed off to the back to locate the resized, re-clasped bracelet, the owner invited Kieran behind the counter and encouraged her to drape her neck in finery.

Even Lila had to admit the girl looked cute, gobbed as she was with pearls and chains, her prim blouse rumpled by extravagance.

“Can you take my picture, Lila?” Kieran asked as she admired herself in the mirrored wall.

Lila pulled out her phone and snapped a few times as Kieran crinkled her nose and grinned. Kieran was a natural, posing for the camera as if she’d been doing it all her life. There were poses sitting on a stool, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Hands on hips with feet planted apart. Modeling must be in the genes. But when she caught Lila grinning from behind the camera, she stiffened up. “I’m done now. Can we print one for me?”

“Maybe when we get home.”

“Can we go home now?”

The owner waved toward the open door behind him. “I don’t mind printing it out for her. Just send it to me from your phone.” He gave her his e-mail address, disappeared for a minute or two, and returned with a warm sheet of paper. “Here you are, Missy. Pretty in pearls.”

Kieran thanked him and, as he disappeared with Lila’s debit card, stared at her image, her cheeks flushed pink with pride. “Lila, can we play hide-and-seek?”

“Not here.”

“Please
.”

The jeweler came back to say Lila’s debit card didn’t work and did she have an alternate method of paying. She dug through her bag for rumpled bills and change at the bottom.

“Please.” Kieran tugged at Lila’s sweatshirt. “Play with me.”

“How much did you say?” Lila asked the man.

“Thirty-five dollars, fourteen cents. That’s with our November discount.”

Kieran tugged at her belt. “Do a long count. A hundred.”

“No. There’s nowhere to hide here anyway.”

“You’re lucky,” said the jeweler, slipping the box into a paper bag. He summoned a quiet burp and released it into his hand. “Discount ends tomorrow.”

She counted out $35.14, watched the man recount the money, and then scooped up the paper bag. When she got to the door, she turned around, looked for her sister. Kieran was nowhere to be seen. “Kieran? Time to go buy dog food.”

A tall cardboard sign fell over to reveal Kieran sitting cross-legged, elbows resting on angry knees, photo of herself on her lap. “You didn’t even
pretend
to look for me. You didn’t even know I was gone!”

T
HE WALK TO
the pet store had been quiet. Kieran hadn’t been able to take her eyes off her photo. After she tripped over a curb, got tangled—twice—in the dog’s leash, and walked straight into a baby stroller, Lila had threatened to take the photo away. But Kieran threatened to shout out that Lila wasn’t her mother and was abducting her, so Lila took the dog leash in one hand and Kieran’s elbow in the other.

You could smell the pet shop before you could see it. A whiff of Riverdale Farm back in Toronto, complete with twenty-five-cent pellets and goat fur and dung-packed hooves, wafted toward them from the open door. Kieran parked herself beside the window full of dachshund puppies—a tempting vista for any child—and informed
Lila she could pick out the dog food on her own because she wanted to examine her picture.

“Come in. We’ll play hide-and-seek in here while I shop. This time I’ll look for you. I promise.”

Kieran sat cross-legged on the sidewalk and placed the photo on her lap. “I’m not falling for that.”

“Seriously. I’ll even count to one-fifty.”

The twitch of her mouth revealed the count of 150 tempted the child, but Kieran pushed her nose in the air. “No.”

“One-seventy-five and you get to pick the dog cookies.”

“Two hundred and you choose your own stupid cookies.”

“Two hundred it is.” Lila started inside with Kieran and the dog on her heels, but stopped to allow Kieran to stuff the photo in her purse. As she waited, a poster tacked to the door caught her eye. The poster flapped in the breeze of a passing bus.
STOLEN DOG
, it read in thick black marker strokes. Under the ominous headline was a full-color photo of a pug. And not just any pug. A pug with a serrated green collar. A pug with a matching lime green leash. A pug that could very well be squirming right now in Kieran’s arms.

The poster said the dog’s name was Sammi. Barely daring to breathe the name, Lila whispered, “Sammi?” Sure enough, the dog looked up. Squirmed. Yipped.

Victor had stolen a dog. A
dog
.

A tall, ponytailed man of about thirty, with a gold hoop earring and the tattoo of a winged horse on one arm, emerged from the back of the store, wiping his hands as if he’d been eating lunch. He smiled. “Turned out to be a nice day after all.”

“I’m ready to hide now, Lila,” Kieran sang, setting
Sammi on the tile floor, then pushing up her sleeves. “You have to count to two hundred like you promised.”

“What’s your pup’s name?” said the man.

They had to exit fast, before the clerk made the connection and called the police. Kieran had dropped to the floor to inspect a stack of cartons for crevices. “Kieran, we’re going.”

“But you said—”

“Now.” She grabbed the child’s arm, scooped up the dog, and ran back to the car.

S
EPTEMBER
20, 1996

Victor peered through the flaps of the nylon pup tent pitched on his living-room rug and listened to his daughter’s breathing, soft and relaxed, as she lay strewn across the pillows and duvets she’d dragged inside. God, he loved when she was with him. Since she’d arrived, he’d washed the smoke out of her clothes, had her shower and change into fresh pajamas, and fed her ready-made beef stew he’d picked up from his local market and heated up until steaming. Fortification, perhaps. As if any effort he made on this overnight, these fifteen hours he had with his girl, could steel her for what she might face later.

He hadn’t heard from Graham all day. The judge had been assigned, that much was certain, but Graham had been curiously silent. Victor had tried to convince himself it was a good sign. That Graham was so relaxed, so confident of their chances, he didn’t feel the need to call.

He padded into the dining room and stood in front of the sideboard his parents left him, along with the antique table and eight battered leather chairs, before they died—his mother after
what seemed like a lifelong battle with Alzheimer’s, his father of a broken heart. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden knobs of the center drawer and paused.

Drastic. Crazed. Unheard of. It was what his mother, in her better days, would say of Victor’s preparations. Illegal, his military father would say. But neither of them had ever met with what Victor faced four days before his hearing. They’d never had to contemplate, even for a moment, losing the right to watch the way their child’s eyelashes flutter in her sleep. Or to hear the sweet, unselfconscious whisperings between her Barbie dolls as she lay on his living-room floor, unaware anyone was listening.

Before he could pull open the drawer, the phone rang, and Victor hurried into the kitchen to pick up before it woke Delilah.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“It’s me,” said Graham. “Sorry I didn’t call earlier. Kelly dragged me all over town to look at new office space. Apparently, we don’t have enough square footage to accommodate—”

“Who’d we get?”

“What?”

“The judge. That’s why you’re calling, right? Did we get the right judge? That older woman?”

Graham was silent for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly. “We didn’t. We got Henry Schiff. Midforties and recently divorced and, even more recently, dropped twenty pounds and started training for Ironman competitions. But that’s not the reason I’m calling.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Before I left the office, I heard from Elisabeth’s lawyer. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Delilah drinking alcohol at some bar?”

“It was nothing. I swear to God. She picked up someone’s
dirty glass—a nearly empty glass—and downed it on a bet with another kid. Why do I have to explain this to you? She saw a pool of disgusting backwash and figured she could shock a few people. How was she to know there was rum in it? Looked like Coke to her.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Oh come on, Graham. You can explain away this one. It could have happened to anyone.”

“It’s the kind of thing you mention to your lawyer when you’re about to go before a judge to ask for more access.”

“I figured…I don’t know what I figured. I was hoping it would go away.”

“Well, it didn’t and it won’t. Anyway, I know Elisabeth’s lawyer. We articled together at Torys. He didn’t have to, but he gave me the heads up.”

Victor felt his heart hammer against his chest. “The heads up about what?”

“It’s the law, Victor. He had no choice.”

“No choice about what?”

“Once Elisabeth told him it was Delilah’s second episode of drinking, he was bound by the law to report it.”

“To whom?”

“Children’s Aid.”

Victor was silent. He could hear the sound of Delilah snoring softly in the next room. “You there, Vic?”

“I’m here.”

“Buddy, I hate to be the one to tell you. You’re going to be investigated.”

Back in the dining room, Victor fought to control his breathing.

Children’s Aid. Investigating
him.

This hearing was always going to be a he said/she said affair. It would be Elisabeth’s word against his. And all he had was his reputation as a father. Now—with an investigation under way—his reputation looked dubious, if not fully sullied. And then there was the larger issue. The issue that drove Victor to fight for custody of Delilah in the first place.

The accident that damned near killed her.

When Elisabeth laid her fingers across her bare throat and let them trail down her open-necked shirt, exuding sensuality, professing her absolute innocence, which parent would this newly single judge believe? Sure as hell not the one being investigated by Children’s Aid.

Sweat dribbled down Victor’s collar; his hands shook. His old Boy Scout motto rang in his head,
Always Be Prepared.
He and Graham used to laugh about it. About preparing themselves for alien invasions, for alligators in sewers, for when sparrows attack. They envisioned themselves after the apocalypse, sitting in the middle of the ice rink at city hall in their Boy Scout uniforms—sashes decorated with badges for every possible accomplishment—surrounded by the lifeless bodies of the unprepared.

No smiling today. He opened the drawer and felt around beneath the stack of folded, pressed linen napkins. Pulled out a fat manila envelope and dumped its contents.

Laid out on the sideboard was a well-padded bankbook, as well as new passports, new birth certificates, one-way airline tickets—two of each—along with one vital sheet of paper: a permission letter from his ex-wife. Forged.

Victor’s only shot at a life worth living.