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Newspapers? she thought. Was he talking about that article? Why bring that up? Why was he picking on her? He didn’t care. “I was here.”
“I know. I saw your bag. I checked your room.” His voice softened. “Sleeping again, Zo? Don’t you sleep at night?”
She didn’t answer. If he was home any amount of time, he would know.
The sight of his cereal made her hungry at last. She looked in the refrigerator. A tuna casserole her mother’s friend Carol had brought over three days ago sat there, browning around the edges. Carol was a warm, generous person, but she was not a cook. Zoë shut the casserole safely away and sat down with her father. She served herself some cereal too. She thought she could handle cereal.
Her father was staring at her. She suddenly felt sorry for being a bitch. He looked sad. It wasn’t his fault he had to spend so much time at the hospital, so much time making up work, so he could pay for a private room. Maybe if all his side of the family weren’t off in California it would be easier on him. He should let me help more, she thought. But she could hear exactly what he would say. You can help by not worrying your mother.
“How’s Mom?” She hardly dared ask.
“Not too good this time, love. She’s still trying to be a good soldier, but it’s wearing thin.”
“Is she staying?” Please say no, Zoë thought.
“Yes, a few weeks. Maybe more.”
Zoë saw the pinched look on his face, and the tears behind his eyes. Maybe forever, she thought. Yes, it’s forever this time, but he can’t tell me.
They both ate silently and mechanically. There was no enjoyment, just the surrender to physical need. Her dad had turned back into Harry Sutcliff, the man whose wife was dying, the man who had forgotten he had a daughter.
Several times she took a breath to speak, but the words died in her throat. “Dad?” she finally said hesitantly.
“Hmm?” His gaze was distant.
“Dad. About Lorraine.”
“What? Had a fight?” he answered vaguely.
This isn’t grade school, she wanted to yell, but she said quietly, carefully, “She’s moving.” Suddenly she was almost crying. All it would take would be his arms around her, and she wanted that badly.
“Hey, that’s exciting,” he said, missing the point. He slurped his milk absently.
The tears stayed backed up tight. A lump hurt her throat, and she wanted to scream it out. Where was the old Dad who might have said, “Well, tell her to stand still.” He would have laughed at his own joke, then turned serious to hear her out and comfort her. He didn’t always understand like her mother did, but he tried. I guess he’s in there somewhere, she thought. She didn’t try to tell him again. His world was too shattered for her to add her own cracked pieces to the pile.
Mom would know what to say, Zoë thought. Even now, she would. If only they wouldn’t cut my visits so short. It seemed like she’d no sooner remembered what she wanted to say than they were hustling her out the door again. No one listened to her.
“I’m going out for a walk,” she said abruptly. She had to walk or she’d scream for sure. She got her denim jacket from the hall closet. “Bye!”
“Don’t be too long,” her father called.
Doesn’t he realize what time it is? she asked herself as she walked up the street. Almost ten. What happened to worrying about “the newspapers”?
The night was crisp and sweet like apples. A gibbous moon hung plump and bright. She headed for the small local park. It was a plot of land on a street corner, scattered with trees and holding a thick maze of bushes near the center. There were a few swings, a slide, a seesaw, and three battered animals on springs that bobbed you back and forth drunkenly, until your backside grew too sore to sit on them.
Zoë loved to come late and wander alone after even the wild children had been dragged home. She dreaded the advent of the bright lights the safety-conscious community wanted to install. She liked it as it was now, with the few lights making golden pools in the mysterious darkness.
She settled on her favorite of the three heavily etched benches. It faced the gazebo not far away, at the very center of the park. The pretty little domed building had always fascinated her. It had sets of steps all around like a carousel, and its open gingerbread sides were barely walls. It was always kept freshly painted summer-white and reminded her of a tiny palace from an Indian fairy tale. She had heard that bands used to play there once, on Sunday afternoons; now children sheltered there when it rained. Take me into your story, she thought.
Moonlight lit the gazebo, tracing it with silver, but a shadow crept inside, independent of natural shades. She tensed. Her hands gripped the edge of the bench. She leaned forward to decipher its meaning, peering into the mottled dark. She saw someone within.
A figure detached from the shadows. Her mouth dried. Mother of two found dead, she thought. It moved toward her, stepped into the moonlight on the side closest to her, and briefly she thought to run. Then she saw his face.
He was young, more boy than man, slight and pale, made elfin by the moon. He noticed her and froze like a deer before the gun. They were trapped in each other’s gaze. His eyes were dark, full of wilderness and stars. But his face was ashen. Almost as pale as his silver hair.
With a sudden ache she realized he was beautiful. The tears that prickled her eyes broke his bonds, and he fled, while she sat and cried for all things lost.
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