Page 3 of Off Limits

The house. I make a mental addition to the list of things I have to take care of tomorrow: find out who’s living in my fucking house. I also need to cancel the monthly e-transfers I set up to help Melanie provide for Danica’s care. Clearly that money isn’t being used as intended.

But there’s plenty of time to worry about the gruesome details tomorrow. Tonight is all about helping Dani settle in here, and making her feel safe again. Five weeks on her own, when she’s still basically a child. It makes my blood boil.

I take a sip of wine and pat her hand. “I’m so happy you’re here, sweetheart. And I’m going to take care of absolutely everything. There’s nothing you have to worry about.”

In the morning, I let myself into Dani’s bedroom and sit on the edge of her bed, the way I used to wake her up in the old days. I push the red curls off her forehead, gazing tenderly at her soft, flawless face, slack in repose. At my touch, her eyelids flutter lightly and then still, her long, thick lashes resting on her cheeks.

I almost can’t believe this is Dani, this little creature who is somehow so much like my wife and so much like my daughter, and yet somehow isn’t either of them. She’s changed so much in the past year. She has the same eyebrows and cheekbones and mouth, but her face looks more defined, as if the past year has chiselled away some of the cherubic roundness she had as a child. I lift a hand to her face, cradling the line of her jaw and running a thumb over her chin, just grazing the swell of her lower lip, and she furrows her brow, mumbling something about it being too early. She’s a true teenager now, more so even than when I last saw her, when she was sixteen. Back then, she was an early riser, and we would share a quiet breakfast while Melanie slept through the morning.

“Wake up, sweetie,” I murmur. I wish I could give her the day off to settle in, but she’s missed three weeks of school already, and I spent an hour on the phone last night with her social worker and the school principal. They were very clear that getting back up to speed at school is Dani’s number one priority.

“What time is it?” she groans.

I lean forward to kiss her on the forehead, before standing up to pull the curtains back, letting the bright morning light into the room. “Time to get up. I’ll get breakfast started.”

An hour later, Dani is perched at the kitchen island, scarfing down a second bagel, the long, thick mass of her hair pulled into a ponytail behind her. She’s wearing her school uniform—white blouse and green plaid skirt with white knee socks—and the effect is so innocent it makes my heart ache. She is my little girl still.

“I can take the bus,” she says politely, when I tell her I’ll drive her to school.

“I’ll drive you,” I repeat, shaking my head. My new house is much farther from North Vancouver than the old one, but my office is practically around the corner from her high school. “Doesn’t make any sense to take the bus.” I pick up her knapsack, and carry it out to the car to wait for her.

When she finally emerges from the house, my eyes are glued to her. She’s so beautiful, with her mother’s incredible hair, and her clear, rosy complexion. But there’s something else, too. Something different.

It’s the shapely definition of muscle in her bare thigh, the roll of her hips as she walks, and the bounce of her breasts under her blouse. The waistband of her skirt is rolled over so many times the hem is barely covering her ass, and she’s tied her shirt at her waist so that if she lifts her arms, skin will be exposed. For a moment, I’m transfixed—staring at her body.

But when I feel my cock start to stiffen in my pants, I’m yanked back into reality with a searing sense of shame.

I grip the leather steering wheel as Dani gets in the car. It’s myself I’m angry with, for the way I looked at her—for the way I felt as I looked at her—but I direct my anger at her as I say primly, “Dani, there’s no way that’s an approved way of wearing your uniform.”

She blinks ice-blue eyes at me, defiance making the line of her mouth hard for just a moment before she relents. I know the look well, she’s the spitting image of Melanie with that expression. There’s a whisper of exasperation in her tone as she mutters, “It’s just what all the girls do.”

She unties her shirt and shimmies her skirt down, smoothing the rough wool fabric over her knees modestly as I start the car.

We drive in silence as my thoughts churn. She’s changed so much. The Danica I knew, the one I said goodbye to almost exactly a year ago, was still a child—her thin body straight and angular, that stuffed bunny still grasped tightly in her hand more often than not.

What else has changed in the past year? With only Melanie for supervision, who knows what kind of trouble Dani’s been getting into. Melanie’s a dangerous role model at best.

I was always the strict parent. The one who had to act tough when it was called for; the bad cop. Mel was the fun, vivacious one, happy to let Dani watch an R-rated movie or eat junk food instead of dinner. At her best, she brought colour, excitement, and joy into Dani’s life. At her worst, she fostered moodiness, recklessness, and disobedience in her.

When Dani was a child, recklessness meant riding her bike on the road when she was specifically told not to, or staying out past her curfew. But now that she’s a beautiful young woman, what does recklessness look like?

An image of her shitty bedroom in that rundown apartment flashes to mind, with her crooked dresser and the dirty carpet. Is it possible that she took some boy into that cheap twin bed?

I look over at her in profile as I drive. My beautiful girl. At least she’s here with me, where she’s safe. She catches me looking at her and gives me a small, quizzical smile.

“It’s good to see you, Dani. I missed you.” My heart tugs a little as I say the words, realizing how true they are. Every day that we’ve been apart, I’ve worried about her. And with good reason, obviously. Melanie has proven without a doubt what an incompetent parent she is.

“Missed you too,” she says, the end of her sentence dropping awkwardly. I think she stopped herself from saying my name, which is good. But I wish she’d call me ‘Dad’.

I pull up in front of her high school, grateful, at least, that Melanie hasn’t taken her out of this school on some whim—as she’s been wont to do in the past. It’s an expensive private school, the best in Vancouver, and the only reason Dani attends is because I pay for it. Melanie would just as soon use the money for anything else. “I’ll be here at three-thirty to pick you up, okay?”

She nods, looking pleased, and I’m glad she doesn’t suggest taking the bus again.

I look out the car window at the mass of uniformed teenagers milling around the school’s sprawling lawn. I hate to think of her going into that old, ivy-covered mansion alone, facing questions about her prolonged absence. I had a conference call with the social worker and school principal last night, and I know her teachers have been notified about her situation, but I wish I could walk her in and protect her from the curiosity of her peers.

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek before grabbing her knapsack. “Thanks for the drive, Jean-Luc.”

I can’t help myself. “Thanks for the drive, who?” I ask, cocking a grin. It’s so weird to hear her addressing me by my name. Weird…and sad. I’d gotten used to filling a certain role in her life.

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