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Zoë was relieved to see a familiar amused look on her mother’s face. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to jump on you, silly. But I’m not sure a hot cup would have done quite that much damage.”
“Well, it certainly was a surprise.” Zoë felt herself redden.
“Zoë, I don’t care what happened, really. You’ve a right to be angry.”
God, she thinks I did it on purpose, Zoë thought.
“I used to get so mad,” her mother said. “Not so much now.”
Zoë remembered how, when her mother first got sick, she’d blow up at the tiniest thing. “ ‘Cause you were scared,” she said.
“Yeah. That’s part of it.” Zoë’s mother smiled at her.
“But you can’t keep it to yourself, or you burst at the seams. That’s why I suggested the, you know, the therapist to your dad. When you said he wasn’t talking.”
“He went,” Zoë said.
“You, too, huh? You’re going to need each other.”
When I’m gone, Zoë thought miserably, finishing the sentence for her.
Her mother reached for her hand and squeezed it, and her voice softened. “The world won’t shatter, Zoë.” She always seemed to know exactly how Zoë felt.
“We’ve all got to die,” her mother whispered, and closed her eyes, as if admitting this had been a great effort.
Zoë cringed as if she’d been slapped. Don’t talk about it, she pleaded silently. I don’t want to talk about it. No matter how many times she’d told herself her mother was dying, it was awful to hear her mother say it. She stared at her jeans, afraid to look up.
Mom tugged at her hand. “It’s not going to go away if you ignore it. There are no spells against death, Zoë.”
Zoë forced herself to look at her mother. Yes, there are, she wanted to say. Dark spells. I know one. But she knew she couldn’t. “You’re giving in. If you say things like that, you’re letting it happen.”
Her mother shook her head. “I’m just not so afraid anymore. That’s not giving in. Zoë, your dad’s going to need help. You’ve got to look after him.”
Zoë glanced at the door before she could help it. What if he heard?
Her mother saw the worry on her face and sighed. “I’m sorry to put this on you. It’s unfair, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have to be the strong one.”
Zoë’s fists clenched. She was right, it was unfair. The whole thing was unfair. She finally asked the question she had kept on asking herself ever since this began. “Why you, Mom?”
Her mother took a clumsy sip of water. “It happens to people all the time, why not me? I’m not special. Hush!” She touched her lips. The gesture was an effort. “I know. To you. But not in the whole scheme of things.”
Zoë looked at her mother with pride. She’s so much better than me, she thought. She’s brave.
“I don’t think I could feel that way,” she finally said.
“Well, people your age don’t believe they can ever die.”
Mom was quiet for a while. Zoë didn’t know if she was resting or thinking. An orderly pushed a rattling cart by the door. Someone down the corridor was buzzing the nurse.
“I suppose I’m still a little angry,” her mother finally said. “There’s things I’d still like to do. Did I ever tell you how I wanted a house in the country with a bunch of cats, and a studio with huge skylights?”
“Lots of times.” Zoë remembered sitting with her in the kitchen after school, when she took a break from painting. While they sipped hot tea, her mother would describe her perfect studio in minute detail. She never grew tired of plannin
g it. Her mother could never live Simon’s life—all nights, no bright, glowing days, no grand plans, only survival. She would pine, shrivel, become other than what she was. “What a half-assed life,” she could imagine her mother saying, and she smiled.
Her mother looked at her curiously. “Something funny?”
“Cosmic humor.”
