Anger and fear shook her. Nothing was sacred. Nothing at all. She couldn’t even go home. She felt violated. She had almost made him a friend. I want Mom, she thought.
The bus showed up, as if on command, as soon as she reached the bus stop. She couldn’t turn back now. The rush-hour crowd had already thinned out, and there were plenty of seats.
At the hospital she swept by the reception desk without checking in. It’s my right, she told herself. She’s my mother. I belong here. She tried to look like she had business to attend to.
The elevator took forever to arrive, and when she got in, the car moved so slowly, she thought she’d scream. I suppose they don’t want to give anyone a heart attack, she thought as she scuffed nervously at the brass plaque on the floor that said OTIS. When the elevator finally stopped, her heart gave a lurch—what if Mom was sick like last time? But she got off anyway.
She turned the corner by the nurses’ station and kept on walking. Out of the corner of her eye Zoë saw the nurse there leap to her feet, but she wasn’t going to stop for an interrogation now. She wasn’t going to be put off. She had to talk to her mother. She knew the nurse was catching up by the rustle of petticoat against crisp uniform, so she ran the last few yards and flung the door open.
Her father looked up, startled, still clutching his wife’s hand to his chest. The nurse arrived behind her. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my daughter,” Harry Sutcliff answered, almost as if he were reminding himself.
Our daughter, Zoë thought. She’s not dead yet.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, “but she looked so strange. It’s okay?”
He nodded, so she left, leaving the door ajar.
“Zoë, what’s wrong?” her father asked. He seemed to be grasping futilely for reasons for her to be there. Had the house exploded? Had there been an earthquake?
He was distracted by a raspy voice from the bed. “Why aren’t you in school?” There was a quirky smile on her mother’s face, half amusement, half something more bitter.
Her words gave him something to hold on to. “Why aren’t you in school?” he repeated at Zoë, unaware of the inane echo.
“It’s okay, Harry, really,” her mother said in that whispery rasp. “What’s a day here and there?” Tubes rattled softly as she tried to gesture gay abandon.
Zoë saw her father struggling not to argue. He had always been strict about stuff like that. “But how many days?” He stared at Zoë accusingly. “I haven’t got room to worry about where you are every day, you know that, Zoë.”
“First time, Dad. Honest.”
“Well, you startled us.” It was said begrudgingly. She didn’t lie, he knew that. “You should think of your mother.”
“Harry,” his wife gently chided.
“I do think of you, Mom,” Zoë said. “All the time. I miss you, but the more I miss you, the less I’m allowed to see you.”
She circled the bed to the opposite side from her father and took her mother’s other hand. She had never seen a human being that color before, ashen blue. There seemed to be more tubes than ever, and her mother was lost amid the tangle. Oh, God. How can I tell her about that boy? she thought.
Her mother’s eyes had not left her since she entered the room, but now they lowered, ashamed. “Sorry, Zoë,” she whispered.
“Now look what you’ve done.” Her father’s brow was furrowed, as he fussed nervously with the bed sheets.
Zoë’s mother gestured shakily for him to stop. “It’s okay, Harry. You worry too much. I’m glad she’s here. Really. Go and get me some juice. I want to talk to my daughter.”
“You’ll be all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” She smiled, but it was tight and dry.
He left like a schoolboy on an errand, eager to please.
Zoë sat down.
“So tell me,” her mother said, “what’s going on in the outside world?” Her voice was weaker now that her husband had left, as if her strength were a show for his sake, to comfort him. Once again Zoë thought, I can’t worry her with tales of teenage prowlers. But will Dad listen?
“What’s going on between you and your father?”
Zoë was startled into raising her eyebrows. “Nothing.”