“Did the situation improve?”
“Yes, it did. Cassie does well in structured environments. Two years later, she went to Columbia. Graduated magna cum laude. Now she’s starting a doctorate at Yale. But in moments of insecurity, she’ll revert to old behaviors, like driving recklessly. I don’t want to tell you how many speeding tickets she’s racked up in the past few years. When Billy brought Diana around, I think Cassie felt threatened, like her brother was casting her aside, so she raced home from school to assert her place in the family. She also acted aggressively toward me. Which is what Diana witnessed: Cassie trying to kiss me, to seduce me. Her misguided attempt to confirm that I love her. Please.” Lawrence holds up his hands. “I don’t want to demonize my daughter. Cassie has suffered tremendous loss. Normally, she’s strong and courageous. But on occasion, her fears get the better of her. As my wife used to say, ‘there’s no one more dangerous than a teenage girl.’” He pauses, catches himself. “To herself. In the sense that teenage girls are self-destructive.”
For a split second, DeFiore’s face twists in frustration, but Lawrence, lost in thought, doesn’t notice. I remember him in the conference room, squeezing himself, vacant with lust. Dwarfed by the enormous table, he looked diminished. Pitiful. A prisoner of his own cravings.
DeFiore asks firmly, “Lawrence, to reiterate, you were not kissing Cassie? There was no sexual relationship?”
Stirred, Lawrence shakes his head. “Absolutely not,” he says adamantly. “The idea is insane—absolutely insane. I’m sorry my family has been subjected to these lies.” He looks at Eleanor as he offers this apology, imploring her forgiveness. Please don’t be angry, he begs. I will make this up to you. Which I know because he begs me this same way.
Suddenly, there’s a shout. “This is bullshit!” Nate jumps to his feet. Scanning the gallery for me, his face is flushed. “It’s you, Dad. You’re the predator. Cassie was a kid. She did nothing wrong—”
“Order!” McKay smacks his gavel. He admonishes the gallery, and the trial resumes. Meanwhile, I’m trapped here, on this bench, in my body, so angry I could kill someone.
*
Hours later, I’m racing up 95 toward New Haven. After Lawrence’s testimony, I called an Uber, with instructions to the driver to meet two blocks from the courtroom. Then I hid in the ladies’ room until he arrived and ran out of the building. He ferried me to the hotel, where I picked up my Porsche, shot Nate a text （Thank you. I’ll call. xx）， and headed north.
I’m driving so fast the car is vibrating. The top is down, and the chilly wind pulls my face and whips my hair around like a flag. Traffic is heavy, so I weave across lanes, searching for holes. Every vehicle I pass is a near-calamity.
A mile from campus, there’s a turn I like to take at Mach speed; the kind of turn that’s hit or miss, as far as survival. Fifty yards out, I rocket forward. Driving this fast feels like flying, like nothing can touch me. As I commit to the turn, my wheels skim the pavement. I give myself over to the car. It’s out of my hands; I have no control. Nor do I care. I close my eyes, just for a second, just to feel the darkness—
An air horn jolts me awake. WAKE UP! A giant rig passes by; the driver blasts me again. WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
My car starts to skid. I careen out of control. I try to steady myself, hug the curve, right the wrong. I slam on my brakes, lead with my chest, and hit the steering wheel full force.
A third blast. The driver waves. I raise my hand. I’M UP. I’M UP. I’M UP.
57
THROUGH THE FOG OF MY HEADACHE, I HEAR MY PHONE ring, impossibly loud. When I reach for it, sharp pain riddles my chest. The ringing stops. Then starts again. It’s Lawrence. He’s already left a series of voicemails. “I had no choice. Cass, call me, please. Let’s figure this out.” He honestly thinks there’s a way back.
I won’t lie, the pull to believe Lawrence is real. It would be easy to give in, to put this behind us. But I’m angry too. If it’s his word against mine, I know who people will believe. Soon the anger will fade, and I’ll get weepy and sentimental, but if the universe could grant me one wish, I would stay rooted in place, strong and defiant. Please, I think. Don’t let me weaken. I’m split between the me who’s here, inside my skin, and the me who’s outside, watching. For the first time, however, one of us is asking for help.
My apartment is musty. I haven’t been here since before the trial started, a lifetime ago. In the kitchen, I crack a window and light a joint. Wake and bake, an old favorite. I still have a life, I remind myself. I still have school, my friend Eddie, Little Italy breakfast burritos. A future. The idea makes me laugh. How did Haggerty put it? You call this real life?
Lawrence keeps hounding me. More texts. More voicemails. Texts from Nate. A call from Haggerty but no message. Nothing from Billy. Or Eleanor. Christ, she must hate me.
A bang on my door startles me. It can’t be Lawrence, so it has to be Haggerty. Who else could slip past the doorman? I send him a text: go away
His reply is immediate: let’s talk
He keeps banging until I give in. But when I open the door, I see Eleanor.
“Oh my God,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh my God is right.” She hands me a brightly colored bag. “Double espresso. And biscotti.” But she’s flustered. “I’m not sure where . . . I should’ve called . . . I didn’t know . . .” She clears her throat. “After Lawrence’s testimony, I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I stayed at the hotel, in Princeton . . . I was up all night . . . thinking . . .” She exhales. “I just had to see you. But I shouldn’t have shown up, unannounced. I apologize.”
Immediately, I’m suspicious. She wants something. “Eleanor, you’re my mother,” I say. “You’re allowed to show up whenever you want.”
“I haven’t been much of a mother, I’m afraid.” Eleanor’s bangs hang over her eyes, which are bloodshot and filmy. Seeing her this way makes me feel superior, which is ironic since I’m the one with nothing.
Taking her coat, I guide her inside, and gesture to the table. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d never speak to me again.”
She sits down, sips her coffee. “Like you said, I’m your mother. Mothers forgive their children in ways they never forgive themselves.”
“Seems premature to talk about forgiveness when we haven’t even spoken of the sin.”
“What’s there to say? You were a child. He was my husband. He betrayed us both. You, worse, of course—far, far worse.” She stops. “How are you, Cassandra?”
It’s a strange question, coming from her. Has she ever asked me this before? So directly?
How am I? How am I? “I have no idea,” I tell her. “I feel sad—and sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. Not as far as you and I are concerned.”
“But to find out in court? Had I known . . . had I thought . . . I’m flailing here, Eleanor. I have no idea what to say except I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, or said no, or . . . I don’t know . . . not done what I did. But the way Lawrence described me, that I was a . . .” I choke on the word predator. “That’s not true. It wasn’t like that; it’s not how it happened.” I think of Columbia, my apartment, all the hours we spent together. Lawrence and I had a relationship; it happened every day.