We had been unsure of what to tell her and when. We broached the subject when she was seven, by telling her that Jack wasn’t her real daddy, but she wasn’t terribly interested then. I think she was nine when she began to ask questions: ‘Do I look like my real dad?’ ‘Is my real dad rich?’ ‘Is his house bigger than ours?’ ‘Has he got a dog?’ ‘Is he dead?’ I was tempted to say that he was dead to stop the questions.
I got called into the school once and a teacher told me that Lucy had been saying her mother didn’t know who her real father was. The shame washed over me like a blood-red tide. It angered me that I was going to have to lie to this nosy bitch. I chose not to. When I didn’t respond to what felt like an accusation, the teacher got flustered and implied that I should make something up until Lucy was old enough to cope with this information. I bristled.
‘Are you suggesting that I lie to my child? She’s coping fine.’
‘Well, no, it’s that she might be teased.’
‘So she hasn’t been teased yet?’
‘No, not yet, but children can be judgemental.’
‘So can teachers,’ I said, standing up from the desk and swinging my bag on to my shoulder.
We had allowed everyone outside immediate family to assume that Jack was Lucy’s father, and I think most of the time Lucy forgot that he wasn’t. He certainly did.
But now nineteen-year-old Lucy had further questions. ‘If my father was the rapist, I’d want to know.’
Jack stepped in. ‘He wasn’t. She was twenty-three when you were born, you know that.’ Jack was doing all the talking.
‘Mum, why didn’t you ever tell me? You’ve told me everything else, haven’t you?’
‘It’s a private thing. I didn’t even want to tell your father. How many people do you want to tell, about Simon?’
‘Ruby, for Christ’s sake,’ said Jack. I was furious with him.
‘I’m sorry you went through that, Mum.’
When she went back to her room, Jack looked at me triumphantly. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You didn’t have to go into detail and Lucy feels less alone.’
‘I don’t believe her,’ I said.
70
‘What?’ said Jack, and I could tell he was shocked.
‘I don’t believe her. There were so many inconsistencies in what she told us. Kids these days, they experiment with all kinds of sex, even violent sex.’
‘But I met him, I confronted him. And he quit his job. If that’s not an admission of guilt –’
‘Yes, he was an asshole, but you said he denied it. Maybe he quit his job to save his marriage. You threatened him. But that doesn’t mean he raped her. And that email she sent him –’
‘But the bruises, the bite marks.’
‘Maybe that’s the way she likes it.’
‘What? Why are you saying this? Whatever happened to “hashtag I believe her”? Whatever happened to the sisterhood? What kind of mother are you?’
‘Jack, her behaviour since it happened, it’s not normal.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She went back to work last week. It’s been twenty-six years for me, and I can’t even go back to Boston. She’s not acting like a real rape victim.’
Even as I said the words, I knew how twisted they were. How twisted I was.
‘I don’t think there’s a rule book for how rape victims are supposed to behave.’
‘Did you see her eating last night? She has her appetite back already.’
