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Just after Lorraine left, two girls Zoë recognized from physics class sat down at the other end of the table. They unwrapped sandwiches and chattered away between bites. Zoë felt a little guilty about listening, but it seemed imposssible not to, especially when they sat so near. She chased an idea for a poem around her head, something about a silver boy in the moonlight, but finally the word murder caught her attention and held it.
“She was Sheila’s cousin,” the dark one said dramatically as she leaned across the table.
“Really!”
“Yes, they found her with her throat slashed.”
The tall one shuddered. “God, it’s like Jack the Ripper or something.”
“Ugh!” they agreed in unison.
Lorraine returned with her lunch, and the other conversation faded into the background. “Have you been reading the paper lately?” Zoë asked Lorraine.
“Not really. Who’s got time? Why?”
Zoë glanced at the girls at the end of the table, still engrossed in the details of murder. “Oh, there was something in the news. I saw a headline, but I didn’t read about it. I thought you might know.”
“Not me. They call me—Miss Oblivious,” Lorraine camped in her Saturday-morning-cartoon voice.
Zoë laughed to cover her irritation. It was too true. “Never mind.”
After school her father was outside to pick her up. “Hop in. We’re going to the hospital,” he said, but that was about all he said on the way. He concentrated on driving with the intensity of the newly licensed, as if one thing could block out all others. Zoë watched him carefully, waiting for news, but in vain. She wanted to say something, anything, to break the silence but couldn’t think of an opening remark. Then they were there.
People always talked about hating the smell of hospitals. As they went up in the elevator, Zoë thought this one smelled rather pleasant, like evergreen or something. It was irritating that there should be anything to like. She worried a piece of paper in her coat pocket to shreds.
At the door she hesitated, afraid to go in. What does Mom look like this time? she wondered. Her father opened the door for her and she had to step inside. Zoë’s throat seemed to close up when she saw her mother, a fragile stick-figure in the bed, with arms more bruised than ever from the needles and tubes.
“Mom?” she said in a slightly cracked voice.
Eyelashes fluttered, and her mother opened her eyes. She smiled weakly and her skin, dry as old parchment, crinkled with the effort. “Zoë,” she whispered back in a voice just as cracked. “Darling.” The bed whined as she moved it to a sitting position.
Zoë’s gaze flicked around the room. She was repelled once more by the institutional-green walls, barely relieved by a drab forest scene, and a calendar that marked off the days for the record keepers. Her mother’s name was in a slot above the bed, so each impersonal shift would know who she was. The medicine cabinet, cupboards, drawers, and counter were all painted white, and as easy to clean of stains as the pale tile floor. An unused television was tilted toward the window.
Her father nudged her forward. She started to sit, then wasn’t sure. She glanced at him and he nodded, so she lowered herself into the chair at the bedside. Her father fussed around his wife, fluffing her pillow, straightening her sheets—all smiles, all teases. Where was the silent man who had driven here? Zoë wondered. When he was satisfied the patient was comfortable, he flopped into a chair on the other side of the room, giving them space to talk. He seemed to deflate when out of her mother’s line of sight. He slouched, his hands dug deep into his tweed pockets, and glanced at Zoë with worried, unspoken questions. Zoë wished he’d ask them.
“A great view of the parking lot you’ve got,” she said.
“I’m glad you like it.” Zoë was shocked at how faint her mother’s voice was despite the ironic tone.
Zoë reached for her hand and noticed a tightness around her eyes that she knew meant pain, as did the way her mother’s other hand twisted a grasping of sheet. Zoë wanted to reach out and stop it. It hurt her to watch.
“Are you eating?” her mother asked.
“Are you?” Zoë shot back, glancing at the barely touched meal still sitting on the bedside tray.
“Touché.”
“Come home soon, Mom. I miss you.”
Zoë felt her hand squeezed gently. “I’ll try, darling. I’ll try.”
Zoë’s eyes filled with tears. Please don’t cry, she begged herself. Don’t upset her. “Guess what,” she said, grabbing for anything. “The rose by the gate still has a bloom on it.”
Her mother smiled. “Silly old thing. It doesn’t seem decent at this time of year, does it?”
They were silent for a while. Zoë hated the way hospitals sucked everything you wanted to say right out of your head. It’s bad enough that they leave the door open so the nurses can come and go, she thought, but then Dad sits there like some kind of guardian.
“I just needed to see you,” her mother finally said.
