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“We’ve got a long drive,” Diane said. “Good-bye, Zoë. It’s been nice knowing you.”
Lorraine glared at her stepmother and grabbed Zoë’s hand through the window. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Then the car was backing out of the driveway, turning onto the quiet suburban road, and heading for the highway. Zoë watched it disappear around the next corner. “GZN two five six,” she intoned, as if witnessing a car escape from an accident.
She trailed home, turning her back on what would now always be “Lorraine’s old house,” and which she would never enter again. Alone, she thought. No, not quite. She had a date coming up. She
smile dryly as she opened the front door and stepped into the silent house.
When her father returned home that night, he came to her room, where she was sitting in bed reading. Zoë smiled tentatively and patted her comforter. He accepted her invitation and sat, then he took a deep breath as if preparing himself for something that scared him. She tensed.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said, rubbing his chin nervously. “Your mother and I have been talking about it a lot. You’re right. I haven’t been giving you enough credit. After all, you’ve had to look after yourself so much lately, and you’ve done it and not complained. If that’s not mature, I don’t know what is. We just wanted to protect you, Zoë. But I’ve already said that.”
Zoë was embarrassed that he was apologizing, yet she was glad. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, however. She wanted a hug, but she felt too shy.
“I had a talk with this guy at the hospital. Your mom talked me into it. This therapist guy. Apparently they have these counseling sessions for families of—of … patients.”
Zoë knew what he meant—terminally ill. But he still couldn’t make himself say it.
“He made some sense; I was surprised, really. Don’t know why. Thought I was the only one who ever went through it, I guess. But he really hit the nail on the head a few times, about how I was feeling, that is.” He stared past her at the wall, as if it were easier to speak that way. “Anyhow”—his gaze shifted down to the carpet, still avoiding her eyes—“I thought you might like to come along next time. Next week, maybe. It might help us through this. I don’t know. God knows, we need something. They’ve got groups. That sort of thing.”
He rubbed at his corduroys nervously. She reached over to the fidgeting hand. Whoever this man at the hospital was, he seemed to have gotten through to her father. Maybe there was hope in this. “I’d like to give it a try.”
He looked up and gave her a relieved smile. “That’s settled, then.” He brought his hand down on his knee like a judge’s gavel. Then his smile faded slightly.
“She’s not going to feel too good tomorrow. Another treatment. But we want you to come the next day, Zoë, and have a proper talk—about everything, everything you can think of. I think we all need it. You can stay as long as you like.”
“I’d like that,” she said, daring to feel relief.
He took her hand. “We don’t want you to feel shut out. We never did.”
Zoë squeezed his hand back. “I know, but—well—I’ve felt so rotten.” She couldn’t hold the tears back. Damn, she thought, I don’t want to make him feel bad again. I don’t want to scare him off.
But her father took her in his arms and held her, and stroked her back. He’s really trying, she thought, and that made her cry harder. He was her daddy again. He would look after her and make things all right.
She was finally all cried out, and he pulled away. “Why don’t you get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead and left, closing the door.
Zoë turned out the bedside lamp and settled down to sleep. It should have been easier now, because she felt a weight was lifting from her. But she remembered Simon, and the weight came crashing down again. When is he coming back? she thought. What have I got myself into?
But her father was talking now, more open, so perhaps he would understand. Maybe he could get her out of it somehow. No. If she didn’t think Lorraine would believe her, why would her father? He has to believe, she thought. I don’t lie. He’d at least believe she’d met a dangerous young man and do something about it. Call the police, maybe, and not leave her alone.
She talked herself out of bed, and to her father’s door. She knocked lightly. No answer. She knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer. She opened the door and looked inside. He lay on the rumpled bedspread fully clothed and fast asleep. His briefcase lay beside him on the bed, unopened. He frowned in his sleep and snored slightly, an airy whistle like a child’s. He was exhausted. She realized how unfair it would be to tell him, how absurd to expect him to believe. I can’t wake him, she thought, and returned to her room. It’s up to me now.
She slept late the next day, and her father was gone when she woke; whether to the office to get a quiet Sunday’s worth of work in or to the hospital, she didn’t know. He’d forgotten to leave a note.
She spent some time reading, curled into an armchair in the den with a fat science-fiction book, part of a series. But often she found she had read the same paragraph over twice and still not understood it. Her thoughts kept on returning to the evening. Would he come tonight? Finally she gave up on reading and went down to the basement to throw some laundry in the washer, then she dragged out the vacuum cleaner.
Toward evening she sat at the kitchen table with her notebook and a pen, molding an idea into a poem.
At the heart of night
watch for the lone boy
waiting in the pale moon’s light
eyes forever changing ice to cloud
Stars
