Zoe preferred books about international espionage.
‘I thought it was a fantastic book,’ she told Frances, perfectly poker-faced. Your country is depending on you, Zoe.
‘Maybe you’re still high,’ said Frances.
Zoe laughed. Maybe she was. ‘I don’t think so.’
She couldn’t believe she’d got high with her parents. That had been the freakiest part of the whole experience. The fact that her mum and dad were there with her. Whoa, she kept thinking. There’s Mum. Whoa. There’s Dad. Worlds collided with volcanic sparks and supersonic booms.
She felt like she could spend the rest of her life remembering everything that happened last night. Or it could all disappear. Either way was possible.
But one thing that wouldn’t change when she left here was her mother’s revelation.
She and her mother had barely spoken to each other this morning. Right now she was doing sit-ups, although Zoe noticed that she was doing them with less . . . aggression than usual. In fact, as Zoe watched, she stopped and lay flat on her back with her hands on her stomach, staring at the ceiling.
All these years Zoe had longed for someone to blame other than herself. After Zach died, she’d been through all of his technology: his phone, his email accounts, his social media. She wanted to find evidence that he’d been bullied, that there was something going on in his life which was nothing to do with her that could explain his decision. But there was nothing. Her dad had done it too. He’d met up with every single one of Zach’s friends, interviewing them, trying to understand. But nobody understood. All his friends were devastated, as baffled as his family.
Now it seemed possible that there was nothing going on in the outside world. It was all in his head. It was the effects of the asthma medication making him temporarily lose his mind.
Maybe. She would never know for sure.
Her mother’s revelation didn’t exonerate Zoe, but it did give her someone with whom to share the blame. For just a moment, she allowed herself the pleasure of hating her mother. Her mother should not have let him take those stupid tablets. Her mother should have read that leaflet like a responsible mother. Like a mother with medical training.
But then she remembered the sound of her mother’s scream that morning and she knew she could never truly blame her.
It had been so wrong, and almost childish of her mother to keep this a secret, but that very childishness made Zoe feel better. For the first time ever, she saw her mother as just a girl: a girl like her who made mistakes, who screwed things up, who was just making it all up as sh
e went along.
Yes, her mum should have read the leaflet about the side effects, just like Zoe should have gone into her brother’s bedroom when she saw him lying on his bed. She should have walked into his room, sat on the end of his bed, grabbed his gigantic foot, given it a shake, and said, ‘What’s wrong with you, loser?’
Maybe he would have told her, and if he had told her, and if he’d made it seem serious enough, she would have gone to her dad and said, ‘Fix it,’ and her dad would have fixed it. She looked at her dad, the only innocent one in their family, on his hands and knees peering at the lock. He’d get them out of here. He could fix anything given the opportunity. He just hadn’t been given the opportunity to fix Zach.
It wasn’t okay, it would never be okay, but it felt like hard knots in her stomach were loosening and she wasn’t resisting. Other times when she’d started to feel better, when she’d found herself laughing or even looking forward to something, she had immediately pulled herself up. She had felt as though getting better would be forgetting him, betraying him, but now it seemed like there might be a way to remember not just the times they fought, but also the times they laughed so hard their faces hurt, to remember the times they stopped talking, but also the times they talked, about anything and everything, to remember the secrets they kept from each other but also the secrets they shared.
Zoe studied Frances’s profile as she too watched the group of lock pickers. Frances looked younger today, without all that bright red lipstick she wore every day even when she was doing an exercise class. It was like she thought her red lipstick was a piece of clothing she couldn’t be seen without.
Zoe felt all at once as if she was Frances, a middle-aged lady who wrote books about romance but fell for a romance scam; and she was her dad, who cried all the time without even knowing he did it, on his knees now trying to pick a lock; and she was her mum, so angry with the world but mostly with herself for the mistakes she’d made; and she was the hot guy who won the lottery but didn’t seem that happy about it; and she was his wife with the incredible body; and she was the gorgeous gay divorce lawyer; and she was the lady who thought she was fat; and she was the man who used to smile and play football. She was all of them, and she was Zoe.
Wow. Maybe she was still high.
‘It means a lot to me that you liked my book,’ said Frances, turning to face her, eyes shiny. It was sweet. It seemed like Zoe’s opinion really mattered to her.
Well done, kid, said Zach. Thou droning, dog-hearted dewberry.
Zach was still there. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to stick around while she finished uni and travelled and got a job and got married and got old. Just because he chose death didn’t mean Zoe couldn’t choose life. He was still there in her heart and her memory, and he was going to stay beside her, keeping her company right until the end.
chapter forty-nine
Ben
They got nowhere trying to pick the lock. Ben could tell straight away that it wasn’t going to work. They didn’t have the right tools and the locking mechanism was newly installed. There was some swearing and tetchy remarks: ‘You try it then!’
People kept coming up with suggestions for the security code, but that red light kept flashing its mean little fuck you rejection signal. Ben hated that red light.
He reckoned even his friend Jake, a locksmith, wouldn’t be able to do it. He’d once asked Jake if he could pick any lock anywhere. ‘With the right tools,’ Jake had answered.
They didn’t have the right tools.