Page 2 of Off Limits

Women were always wild for him, I think, remembering the social worker today, and for one bizarre, fucked-up second, my mind briefly imagines him in a naked embrace—what he would look like gazing deep into a woman’s eyes. How much softer, how intense, his gaze would be. How powerful his shoulders and arms would look.

Shame sears through me, and I look down at the polished floor, chasing away the thought. What’s wrong with me?

“I’ll show you to your room,” says Jean-Luc, still effortlessly carrying my bag over his shoulder, and I follow him up a circular metal staircase leading to a second floor mezzanine that overlooks the living room and the view through the windows. There’s nothing to see but the tops of huge, ancient pine trees, and beyond them, the ocean. Three large wooden doors face the bannister, and at the far end, there’s an open area with a desk. Jean-Luc indicates each in turn. “Guest room, your room, my room, office.” I love that he’s already calling it my room.

The doors are all at least eight feet high, and he swings the second one open and waves me into an airy, industrial-looking room, nearly the size of the entire apartment I’ve been living in with Melanie. It has polished cement floors and a skylight and its own small washroom with a sink and toilet. Several potted trees are gathered in one corner, soaking up the light from above. There’s a large bed dressed in white linen against the wall, and a padded reading bench under the window.

It’s an incredible room, better even than my room at the old house, and I beam with happiness as he places my hockey bag on the floor and runs a big hand affectionately over my hair. “You get settled in,” he says, his dark eyes crinkling with warmth. “And I’ll start dinner.”

When he closes the door behind me, I take a deep inhale, drawing in the peaceful energy of my stepfather’s home. It doesn’t smell anything like the apartment, with its damp mildew smells and the constant odour of the neighbour’s cooking. It smells fresh and clean—faintly like Jean-Luc himself, and slightly like sage.

It’s the nicest place I’ve been in since I last saw Jean-Luc. Since the last time I was home.

I sit down on the bed and clutch Bunners to me, lowering my nose to the rabbit’s head and inhaling its familiar scent. Melanie tried hard to get me to part with the stuffed toy, even going so far as to throw it in the kitchen garbage one time. But I’d always found it and retrieved it. I refuse to give it up, no matter how juvenile it is. Bunners was the first piece of Jean-Luc I could grasp and hold on to, and even now it reminds me so comfortingly of being a child in Jean-Luc’s care. How safe he always made me feel, how he was always there for me.

There for me even now, after my mother has left both of us. Ironically, the one parent I’m not biologically related to is the one I have the deepest bond with.

I should have called him a long time ago, I think.

I could have been home all this time.

Jean-Luc

ONE BY ONE, I drop shrimps into the skillet, each one making the hot garlic butter spit and hiss. Then I lift my cold glass of riesling and take a sip, watching the shrimp sear with satisfaction. The hot, kinetic drama in the skillet reflects the tumult of my feelings. Feelings I need to keep carefully controlled around Dani.

It’s the old song and dance of parenthood. I got all too used to this in my eight years with Melanie. She would do something crazy, something impulsive and selfish, and I would tamp all my feelings down and act like everything was fine for Dani’s sake, to protect her from the chaos of her mother. To protect her from the frightening intensity of adult emotions: fear and pain and anger.

I’m raging inside at Melanie’s negligence, burning up like the pan-seared shrimp, but on the outside I’m as cool as my crisp, clear glass of wine. I lift the bottle, and top up my glass.

When dinner is ready, I call up the stairs to Dani and turn my attention to plating the food. It’s comforting to hear the sound of her feet padding down the stairs, her gait somehow still familiar to me. But when I carry the dishes to the table, I nearly trip over my own feet at the sight of her back.

For half a second, I think she’s Melanie. She has Melanie’s hair exactly. Mel’s pride and joy was her thick, loosely curly, bright red hair that she always wore long. Dani’s grown up in the year since I’ve seen her. She has her mother’s straight, slender shoulders, and her lean arms. It jolts me, briefly, this image of Melanie at the table, and I can almost let myself imagine, for a second, that my wife has come back to me.

I serve the pasta, and pour myself another glass of riesling, giving my stepdaughter an encouraging smile and telling her to eat. She’s so like Mel, it’s astounding.

Melanie is an exceptional beauty, and in the past year, Danica has really blossomed into her spitting image. Her face is more angular and she’s too thin, but her body has filled out. Tiny waist, slim arms, full breasts—she’s clearly inherited her mother’s unholy proportions.

But…lifting my eyes to her face, I can’t deny that she’s even prettier than Melanie ever was. Her mouth is plumper. Her eyes, the same shade of icy blue, are wider and more innocent. She doesn’t have Mel’s jaded, suspicious look.

She’s youthful, untainted…my sweet little girl, even if she is on the cusp of womanhood.

I take a sip of my wine and twist the watch on my wrist as Dani scarfs down the food. I’m too on edge to eat, and I watch her hoovering the food off her plate with bitter concern. She’s clearly starving. I wonder how long it’s been since she ate a proper meal; what her last meal even was. And with no less shock and horror than I felt this morning when I first found out, I wonder yet again how Melanie could actually abandon her own child.

“What did your mom say before she left?” I eventually ask, pointlessly. Whatever the reason, I already know it won’t be a good one. But I can’t stop myself from asking, from wondering what excuse Melanie provided.

“She said she was going to New Mexico for the weekend with—“ Dani’s eyes flick briefly up to me, “—with her new boyfriend. She’s texted a couple of times but she doesn’t pick up if I call. A couple of weeks ago she just said she was going to stay for a while longer.”

I inhale and lift my wine glass. “What about money? Did she leave you any?”

She laughs—a little bitterly, I think. “No. And she didn’t answer any texts about that. So yeah…no.”

My hand tightens around the glass, whitening my knuckles, and I inhale again—a deep, steadying breath to relax my fingers, so I don’t break the delicate Waterford crystal. “You should have called me. You know you can always call me.”

“I know.” She stares at her plate. “I just didn’t want to have to tell you that she rented out the house. I kept thinking if I could just make it through one more day…”

“She’d come home.” I nod. I know exactly what that feels like. “I hope you know you never have to hide anything from me. I’m always going to come to your rescue, no matter what.”

She lifts brilliant blue eyes at me then, a hopeful, untroubled expression on her face. She’s so easy to please. So quick to be reassured. “Yes, Dad. I should have called. It was silly not to. She just kept telling me…that it was over, you know? That I had to forget about you. And that you couldn’t find out about the house, no matter what.”

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