My stepdaughter never showed her hands or her back – it was during a trip to the beach that I understood why.
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
The truth was simpler and uglier: you can hide a lot of things under sweaters and blouses, but not at the beach.
"Mom, you didn't have to do that," Ben told me when I called him to tell him I had reserved a house.
"I wanted to."
Emily thanked me too, sweet and polite as always. It should have made me ashamed. But it didn't.
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The rental house was located right at the foot of the dunes, with its weathered grey wood and large windows overlooking the sea. As soon as we arrived, the grandchildren ran through the rooms, shouting with joy at the bunk beds and the seashell decorations.
Ben carried the suitcases two at a time. Carol opened the fridge and declared that whoever had filled it must have thought butter was a food group.
Emily disappeared into the back room with her bag.
When she came out 20 minutes later, she was wearing a long white sarong that reached almost to her calves, and a beach towel was draped over her shoulders like a shawl.
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Ben looked at her for one second too long.
"Ready?" he asked.
She smiled. "Ready."
We walked together to the beach, with all the sunscreen, folding chairs, and far too many bags. The grandchildren ran towards the waves. Ben followed them straight into the water. Carol settled down under a parasol with a magazine and a hat as big as a satellite dish.
Emily slumped down in a chair and opened a paperback book.
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The towel remained wrapped around her shoulders.
I sat down next to her.
For the first half hour, I tried not to speak. The waves came and went. The children shouted. Ben played ball with my grandson near the shore. Emily turned one page, then another, even though her eyes didn't seem to move much.
Finally, I said, "Aren't you going swimming?"
She kept her eyes fixed on her book. "I don't think so."
"The water is really nice."
"I'm happy here."
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I smiled, but there was a hint of annoyance in my smile that even I could detect. "We've come this far, Emily."
Her fingers tightened on the paperback.
I lowered my voice. "Two years is a long time when you're part of the family and you still feel like a stranger."
Then she looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're always protecting yourself. That you're always being careful. That you're always skirting around a subject no one has the right to talk about. Don't you think it might be time to trust us?"
"Mom," Ben called from behind us.
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He was already coming back up from the water's edge, with long strides.
I should have stopped. But instead, having built two years of certainty and pride around my suspicions, I persisted even more.
"What are you hiding?" I asked.
Emily stood up so quickly that the legs of the chair sank into the sand.
"I'm going home."
"Emily," Ben said, catching up with her just as she turned around. "Hey. It's okay."
But it wasn't working. I could see that clearly, even at that moment.
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She clutched the towel to her chest and headed towards the path, head down, taking quick little steps on the sand.
And then I did something that I will regret until the day I die.
I moved my foot.
Just what was needed.
The corner of her towel, which was trailing behind her, caught under my sandal. Emily took another step before the fabric came loose from her shoulders and fell into the sand behind her.
She froze, and so did I.
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The wind lifted the edge of her sarong and briefly pressed it against her back before the fabric fell back down.
And I saw the scars.
Pale, wavy scars stretched across her upper back and along both arms, disappearing beneath the swimsuit she had chosen even for the beach.
The skin on the back of her hands was also marked, with fine, shiny spots, the kind of scars that have been there for years.
My throat tightened.
Ben caught up with her in two strides, grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her so quickly it looked like he was used to it.
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