The Word of a Child (28 page)

Mariah gave a theatrical shudder. "What an unpleasant
metaphor."

"Was it a metaphor?"

"Shall I give a lecture on similes, metaphors and
analogies?"

"If it pleases you. I won't remember."

"Nobody ever does," she said gloomily.

"Now come on. Don't lie." He let a grin tug at his
mouth. "You have to think about which is which, don't you?"

Her chin went up. "Certainly not!" The corners of
her mouth crinkled. "Almost never." A full-blown smile was born.
"Okay. Sometimes."

"Atta girl," Connor congratulated her.

"Which leads us from the point," she said
severely.

"Yeah." His own smile died. "I'm thinking that
you'd quit flogging this particular horse until I popped up in your life
again."

She let out a small sigh. "I wish I could say yes. The
truth is … sometimes. For days at a time, I might not think about what
happened, or why Simon and I were divorced, or what he might do to—" she
lowered her voice "—um, Zofie when he had her alone. But then, I'd wave
goodbye to her, smiling like everything was just grand—" she demonstrated,
this smile as bright and artificial as a theater marquee "—and then I'd
shut the front door and have this massive panic attack. Did he? Would he? Why
would he? I have wondered every wonder, thought every thought, ten million
times. I can't stop. I want to. But I can't."

Pity grabbed at his throat, roughened his voice.
"Sweetheart, she'll grow up. She'll be a feisty kid who'll look with grave
astonishment at anyone who tries to take advantage of her. And before you know
it, she'll be a self-confident teenager who won't take any crap. And then
she'll be all grown-up, and you can—almost—quit worrying about her
safety."

Although he'd seen the quick flare of astonishment when he
called her "sweetheart," Mariah chose to let it pass. She gave him a
smile that was a little better than her last attempts. "It's happening
fast, isn't it?"

"That's the way it goes. One night, you tuck her into a
crib, the next she's taking a driver's test."

"Now you
are
scaring me."

From the doorway to the living room, Zofie said, "You
don't look scared."

"Actually I was kidding." Mariah held out an arm
and her daughter naturally walked into the curve of her embrace. "Connor
was telling me how you're going to be a teenager ready to be driving a car
before I know it."

"I wish I could drive now," Zofie said, perfectly
seriously. "'Cept I'm too short. I can't see where I'm going."

"You could sit on pillows," Connor suggested,
straight-faced.

She wrinkled her small, impish nose at him. "But then I
couldn't reach the pedal to make the car go."

"Or stop," her mother said. "Remember, you
can stop, too."

Connor pretended to frown. "You're not going to make me
give you a speeding ticket someday, are you?"

"I'll be a good driver," she declared.

"Uh-huh," her mother said. "You, kiddo, are
reckless on your bike.
And
on the soccer field. Why should I trust you behind the wheel
of a car?"

"'Cause you have to. Once I'm growed up, I have to know
how to drive," she said logically. "'Sides, Daddy can teach me."

"Oh, don't play your father against me!" Mariah
tickled her daughter.
"Besides
—" she put emphasis on the first syllable "—he's
scared, too. All parents are scared when their children are first learning to
drive."

"Oh." Zofie considered it. "But you'll teach
me anyway, right?"

"Probably," Mariah conceded, with another big hug.
Her cheek was against her daughter's head, and only Connor saw her blink away
tears.

The evening wound down after that. Mariah started Zofie
getting ready for bed, while Connor insisted on clearing the table and loading
the dishwasher. He said good-night to Zofie when she reappeared in the cutest
damn pair of pajamas, flannel and oversize, decorated with comical chickens.
Her face was pink from being scrubbed, her hair newly braided, and her manners
excellent.

"Good night, Connor." She blushed a little more at
having said his name. "Thank you for coming to dinner."

"Thank you for having me." He smiled. "Sleep
tight."

"Mommy says that, too. 'Sleep tight, and don't let the
bedbugs bite.'" Her brow furrowed. "My bed doesn't have any
bugs."

"No bugs!" He pretended dismay. "Hey, when's your
birthday? Not until April? Hmm. Wait, wait. Christmas is coming." He
grinned. "I promise. Bugs for Christmas."

She went off to bed, cackling happily at his wit.

When Mariah returned, she was shaking her head and smiling.
"My daughter says she likes my 'Decktiv.' You should be flattered."

"I
am
flattered." He smiled, slow and warm. "Your
daughter is a total charmer."

"She is, isn't she? And smart, and sweet, and kind to
everyone. And, oh, just being her mother scares me every day."

He snagged her into his arms. "I've heard John say the
same thing about his two. It's the curse of loving someone so much."

"I know you're right." Her eyes sparkled with
unshed tears. "Sometimes it just … gets to me."

His thumb caught the first tear to fall. "Hey," he
said softly. "You're doing fine. You're doing great. It appears Simon is,
too. I wish I hadn't scared you all over again."

"You didn't." She smiled through her tears.
"Okay, that's a fib. But it wasn't just you. It's Tracy, too."

Connor nodded, one of his hands easing over her back, gently
massaging, while the other cupped her cheek. "As a teacher, you're going
to encounter this again, you know. It happens."

"It shouldn't."

"No, it shouldn't," he said flatly. "But it
will."

Mariah blinked hard, sniffed and said, "We're doing it
again. Talking about nothing but. Why don't you come and cuddle on the couch
with me, and we'll talk about something completely trivial?"

Cuddling on the couch sounded good to him.

"Deal," he said. "As long as I can kiss you,
too."

Her lashes swept down shyly and pink blossomed on her
cheeks, but she also nodded. "That sounds nice."

"Nice," he said, "is only the
beginning."

Chapter
13

«
^
»

M
om wasn't working tonight
and hadn't said anything about going out. She was even
making dinner, a tuna casserole Tracy hated. The smell drifted down the hall to
Tracy's bedroom and made her nose wrinkle. But still, she liked it when she
and Mom had dinner together, just the two of them.

They could talk. Tracy lay on her back on the bed, staring
up at the ceiling decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars.

Maybe she'd even ask Mom about
him.
Tracy
kept thinking about what the police officer had said, about
how she'd never feel safe—never
be
safe—if she didn't do something. The whole idea of just
looking across the table at her mother and saying, "Did you tell that guy
he could have me?" scared her so bad, though. She didn't know if she could
do it.

And what if the answer was, "Sure, why not? I figured
you were old enough." What would she do then?

Even worse would be if Mom looked shocked and hurt and said,
"What are you talking about?" Things would never be the same if she
accused her own mother of something like that and was wrong. She felt hot one
minute and then icy cold the next, even thinking about it.

No. She couldn't do it.

They could just have an evening like … like when Tracy was little and Mom made dinner more often. Mom would tell her about people who came
into the bar and make her laugh. Tracy hadn't told her mother about the dumb
requests kids had when they came to the school office, either. Picturing them
laughing like they used to, Tracy hopped off her bed and headed for the kitchen
where Mom was singing along with Madonna on
MTV.

"What's for dinner?" Tracy asked, as if she didn't
know.

Mom turned from the oven. "Tuna casserole. Don't make a
face. I know you don't like it, but it's my best recipe, and I asked a friend
from work to dinner."

Tracy
's
hopeful mood went
bang!
like a balloon that met a sharp fingernail.

"You mean, a guy," she said flatly.

She should have known. Mom hardly ever cooked anymore, instead
of doing the microwave or order-in thing. Besides, just looking at her, Tracy could tell. Mom was all made-up, and her hair was bundled on her head in a way that
looked casual but Tracy knew had taken her forever. She wore her favorite tight
jeans, and heels instead of the fluffy pink scuffs she would have had on if no
man was around.

"You don't have to say it like that." Mom was
bustling, this cute ruffled apron tied around her waist. "Norm is nice. I
know you'll like him."

Mom always said that when she was bringing a guy home. Every
single time. Tracy didn't know if even she believed herself.

She was going on about how
Norm
was
sensitive about this little bald spot he had on his head, like
that
made
him nice, and how he'd been hanging around the bar every evening for weeks
because he liked Mom.

Fear swelled in Tracy's chest from a first tiny nub to a
huge, crushing thing.

"We're just friends…" Mom said.

"Sure," Tracy said rudely. Lashing out seemed to
quiet the fear. "Like Jason was 'just a friend.' Two days before he moved
in.
Friends
don't sleep in your bed. Do they?"

Mom faced her, eyes flashing. "What's so bad about my
having a boyfriend? Why should I have to be a nun just because I'm a
mother?"

"Because I hate all your
friends!"
Tracy
yelled. Her hands knotted into fists. "Either I'm
invisible, or else I have to hide from them!"

"What do you mean, 'hide from them'? Because they're
trying to be friendly?" Mom came toward her, one hand out.

Tracy
backed
up so violently the table shuddered when she bumped it.

Her mother stopped, her nostrils flaring. "I don't know
what they're teaching you at school to make you think every man who hugs you is
trying something, but I've told you and told you that you're wrong. You hurt
Jason's feelings. He and I might still be together if you'd just tried to be
nice."

The hurt was a quick knife thrust. Tracy let all her pain
sound in her voice. "You mean, let him feel me up? Walk into the bathroom
even when he knew I was in the shower?"

"It was an accident!" Mom yelled back.

"It was not! He did it over and over! You just didn't
want to admit it because you were jealous!"

Mom slapped her.

Tracy
stood
very still, feeling the sting.

"Oh God!" Mom clapped a hand to her mouth and then
reached out for Tracy. "I'm so sorry!"

Tracy
shook
off her touch and shoved a chair so she could back away. "It's true."

"Honey, you're a pretty girl. If he … maybe flirted a
little…" Mom was begging. She wanted an excuse.

"He grabbed my breasts."

Her mother pinched her mouth together. "I asked him to
leave."

Tracy
heard
herself as if someone else was talking, a long way away. "I heard him.
He's the one who got bored. You wanted him to stay. You never listened to
me."