Alice opened the fridge and bent to survey its contents. There were a tomato and a carrot that had seen better days—but they might be okay in a Bolognese sauce. “Waste not, want not” was Mrs. Featherstone’s motto. Alice added ground beef to her list, and an onion.
“I’m talking about Michael of course,” Mary continued.
As if she needed to clarify. Mary had complained consistently about her son-in-law, Michael, for the entire three years Alice had worked for Mrs. Featherstone. He didn’t sound so bad to Alice. There were no allegations of affairs or violence; he was just particular about personal boundaries. Which, with Mary as a mother-in-law, seemed to Alice a wise thing.
She checked the use-by date of the milk and yogurt.
“After everything I’ve done for them, he turns around and tells me to give Audrey some space! He says she needs to get used to being alone with the baby. Can you believe it? I’m the grandma! Every girl needs her mother around when she has her first baby.”
Alice wondered if she had a point here. She would have loved to have had her mother around when Zoe was a baby, but she died while Alice was pregnant. Seven months from diagnosis to death.
“Audrey had said nothing of the sort, obviously. That’s how I know he’s interfering. She would have told me if she wanted time alone.”
“Would she though, Mary?” Mrs. Featherstone asked.
“Of course she would. She’s my daughter. Mothers and daughters don’t have secrets. They have a soul connection. Right, Alice?”
Alice stood, a limp lettuce in her hand.
“Anyway, I told him he had no right to tell me what to do with my own daughter—no right at all—not after the way I’ve supported them,” Mary continued before Alice could speak. “Emotionally not to mention financially. I actually have a good mind to cut them off. See how they’d do then! Audrey, she’d be lost without me. She couldn’t function…”
The lettuce rolled off Alice’s hand, onto the floor, landing with a thud.
“Alice?” she heard Mrs. Featherstone say. “Alice? Are you all right, dear?”
Mothers and daughters don’t have secrets.…
She’d be lost without me.…
She couldn’t function.…
Alice wanted to respond but she couldn’t make her mouth comply. She took a breath and tried again, but all at once it hit her—a profound sense of horror. She caught her reflection in the window. Her arms were wrapped around her middle and she rocked like a woman going mad.
6
Ten minutes before lunchtime Zoe put up her hand. The class had broken into groups to discuss an assignment, so there was a general hum of noise in the room, which made it slightly more bearable. Still, with her hand in the air, she felt under a spotlight, onstage. Like a thousand bugs were crawling on her.
“Yes, Zoe?” Mr. Crew said when he finally noticed her. It had taken at least a minute, which wasn’t even close to a record. She made it easy for people to not know that she existed.
“Can I use the restroom?” she said in a small voice.
Mr. Crew tapped his ear as though he were trying to shake something loose. “I’m getting deafer every year. What did you say?”
“The restroom,” Zoe repeated, mortified. “I need to go.”
It was the catch-22 she dealt with every day. She could use the bathroom at lunchtime with a bunch of people right outside the door (torture), or put up her hand and ask to go during class (also torture). Some days she’d do neither and instead wait until she got home. But today she really needed to pee.
“There’s ten minutes until lunchtime, Zoe,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Can’t you wait?”
A few kids glanced up from their desks. Zoe shrank down in her seat. “Uh, no,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Go ahead.”
She could feel everyone’s eyes on her back as she walked out. She could also hear their thoughts. Why is she so weird? Why does she blush so much? Why does she always need to pee? For the zillionth time Zoe yearned to be invisible.
She used the stall at the end, the one with the sink inside so she didn’t have to look in the mirror as she washed her hands. She’d taken to avoiding mirrors ever since she’d reached puberty and her breasts had failed to get the memo. Mercifully, she hadn’t fallen victim to the cruel acne that resided on every second teenager’s chin and nose, but she had been cursed with an abnormally large forehead, something she’d hoped was all in her mind until last week, when she’d dropped five bucks in the cafeteria and someone had called after her, “Yo, forehead, you dropped your cash!” When she’d asked Emily, “Do I have a giant forehead?,” Emily had frowned and said, “I mean … you do have a bit of a Rihanna thing going on. But it’s cuuute!” Emily once called a pimple “cuuute,” so Zoe wasn’t reassured.
Zoe walked ridiculously slowly back to class. The bell would go any minute and she could live without the spectacle of walking in again. At these kinds of times she yearned for a Klonopin. Just one sweet tablet to make everything—if not okay, better. But the problem with anxiety was that you worried about everything, including taking medication. What if the pills made her do strange things, what if she became addicted? The debate had culminated in a full-blown panic attack two weeks after the Klonopin had been prescribed, as she stood in the bathroom, bottle in hand, debating whether to take it. (Since then the bottle had remained in her bathroom cabinet, for emergencies.) Therapy had ended in a similar way—hello? One-on-one conversation; it had made Zoe so anxious she’d forced her mom to let her discontinue it over a year ago.
And so she steeled herself.
Lunchtime was, hands down, the worst part of Zoe’s day every day, but today was made crueler by the fact that Emily was meeting her in the cafeteria rather than at the stairs where they normally met. Zoe felt absurdly self-conscious as she slunk through the hallway. Was she walking too slouchily? Too straight? Was her fly undone? Her T-shirt tucked into her undies? Were people looking at her giant forehead? It was bad enough walking in with Emily, but going alone was a kind of torture.
When the bell went, she made for the line, snatched up a tray—something to hold on to—then slunk toward the cashier, trying to blend in. The trio of girls in front of her loaded up their trays with oily white food—Tater Tots, mac ’n’ cheese, fries. They were caught up in a conversation about reality TV, a conversation so easy and natural it made Zoe want to cry. All around her, people chatted easily while Zoe pretended to be totally gripped by the disgusting food behind the steamed-up glass. She shot a longing look at the lunch ladies, wishing she could be one of them: busy at her station, not required to sit, be sociable, make small talk. When she reached the end of the line, she swiped up some onion rings (she wouldn’t eat them, but she could push them around her plate for fifty minutes to give herself something to do) and proceeded to the cashier.
Having paid, Zoe did a discreet assessment of the room. She and Emily didn’t have, like, a regular spot; they “freestyled”—a term Emily had coined to mean that they moved around. Zoe would have preferred to have a regular table, a place she knew she could always head toward, but if Emily wanted to freestyle, they freestyled.
Zoe and Emily weren’t geeks exactly; they were more like nobodies—didn’t register on anyone’s dial at all. This was fine by Zoe, but Emily was determined to improve their social standing at any cost. She’d taken to brazenly talking to the coolest guys as if they were good friends. (“Hey, Fred, great game last night, man! Next stop, Super Bowl?”) Her optimism was sweet, if majorly embarrassing. (Like the day she stopped Amber in the parking lot and asked for a ride home. Amber hadn’t even tried to contain her amusement and roared with laughter as she drove away. Em’s cheeks had pinkened a little but she got it together and waved as Amber screeched out of the parking lot.) Zoe knew Emily longed to be part of the cool crowd, but rather than get down about being on the outer circle, she stayed focused on having a plan—the next person they could b
efriend, the next party they could attend. Luckily for Zoe, Emily’s plans never quite worked out.
Zoe had sat next to Emily in homeroom on the first day of school and Emily had latched on to her (weirdly, it wasn’t the other way around) saying she thought she had “this mysterious vibe going on” and she “so wished she could be mysterious.” Zoe doubted that, but she welcomed the friendship. Emily had invited herself to Zoe’s house that first day, and Zoe was floored to find that the prospect didn’t make her freak out. Her mom nearly choked on her wine when Emily bounced in, all bubbly and happy. Zoe’s previous “friends” had been made up of freaks and creepers (like Carla, the morbidly obese kid who, during a sleepover one night, had crept into their kitchen and eaten the entire contents of their fridge, including the condiments, and then stole away into the night and never talked to Zoe again). Then along came Emily, this fairly normal, nice girl, who thought Zoe was awesome. And around Emily—as long as they were alone—Zoe was awesome. There was no good explanation for it; Emily was simply one of her safe people. She’d come up with the term “safe people” in one of her few therapy sessions, and it seemed to fit. But there weren’t many safe people. There was her mother. Emily. Her grandpa before he died. Some of the old people her mom looked after (there was something so wonderfully nonthreatening about the elderly). And once upon a time, a few of her misfit friends, who, once they’d realized what was wrong with her, had moved on to greener pastures of friendship. Like Emily was bound to do eventually.
Zoe walked slowly, searching for somewhere to sit. There were a few tables that had spaces, but none had room for two. There were some empty tables at the back of the room, but they were a bad idea—anyone could come and sit there and she’d be stuck with them for the entire hour. Harry Lynch, she noticed, sat alone at a corner table, rather than in his usual spot with the other football players—but when you were as cool as he was, you could do that. A sandwich was in his hand, suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth. He observed it for a moment then returned it to his plate.
Zoe hurried on.
Finally, she sat at an empty table, crossed her legs, and pushed her onion rings around her plate. Zoe didn’t have an eating disorder exactly; she simply didn’t eat in front of people. The way she figured, there was just so much potential for it to go bad. She became consumed by the way she chewed, the way her mouth opened and closed, whether she’d left a shiny oil residue on her lips. Not to mention the unholy minefield of something sticking in her teeth. They were normal worries, but where a normal person would carry a mirror or wet wipes in their purse, Zoe stopped eating in public.
“Sorry!” Emily said, clattering her tray against the table. “Whew.”
“Where’d you go?” Zoe asked, then immediately chastised herself. She didn’t want to be that possessive friend who wanted a full report every time her friend went to the bathroom. Mostly because Emily had told her she’d once had a friend like that and it had really annoyed her.
“I have news,” Emily announced, dragging the word “news” out and making it two syllables, and delivering it in an opera-style voice. It was cute and endearing, just like Emily. It made Zoe long to be cute and endearing.
“What is it?”
Emily pierced her with her blue gaze. “Um, just the most amazeable thing that could possibly happen. You’re not going to eat these, right?” She gestured to Zoe’s onion rings.
Zoe bumped them toward her. “Tell me.”
“I have a date with … wait for it … Cameron Freeman!”
“Cameron Freeman?” Zoe exclaimed, hoping it came across as excited disbelief rather than the truth, which was that she thought Cameron was a jerk.
Emily nodded, her red curls bouncing. She hated those curls, but Zoe would have loved them. Her own hair, black and straight, was as bland as she was. “And it’s all because of you.”
“It is?”
“Uh-huh. The reason it all happened is because Seth wants to date you.”
Zoe paused for a beat. “He does?”
“Yes!” Emily squealed.
Seth was in several of Zoe’s classes but they’d never exchanged so much as a word. Then again, Zoe didn’t exchange words with many people. But now that she thought about it, he had sat next to her on a couple of occasions, and perhaps even smiled once or twice.
Zoe’s face fell.
“Oh come on,” Emily said. “Seth is adorkable.”
Seth was adorkable. Small and prepubescent-looking, much like Zoe herself. He and Cameron were cousins and this was most likely the only reason they came as a pair. Without a cool cousin, Seth would have been relegated to a regular nobody, just like Zoe and Emily. He probably would have been perfect for her. If she went on dates.
“You should have seen Seth just now, he was having a full-on joygasm!” Emily adopted a wide-eyed expression. “‘Do you think she’d really go out with me? You don’t think she’s out of my league?’” She crunched on an onion ring cheerfully.
Zoe tried to imagine the scenario that Emily had just described. Emily and Seth standing around, talking about her.
“I told him you’d go, but only if I came along—I played up the shy thing. Then I said it would be majorly awks with just the three of us, and then … ta da … Cameron said he’d come too. Which was what I’d been angling for all along.”
Zoe felt the blood drain from her face. “You told him I’d go?”
“Oh no, don’t do that.” Emily’s eyes narrowed.
“Do what?”
“Go all cray-cray. This is good. Seth is cute.”
Zoe tried to breathe, to act normal. But Emily was looking at her too closely. Zoe focused on uncrossing and recrossing her legs, being careful to keep one off the floor at all times.
“It’s not forevs, Zo, it’s just a date. I even suggested a movie so you don’t have to talk.”
With this last statement, Emily’s demeanor had changed a little—only slightly, but Zoe was attuned to these kinds of things. Her voice held an edge. A warning. Do this. Panic started to flood Zoe. This was it. She’d been handed an ultimatum—this date or her friendship. Except, in her case, it wasn’t an ultimatum. An ultimatum indicated choice.
“I know you hate people and generally being social,” Emily continued. “I get it. Hey, I even dig it. You’re weird-chic. But come on! This is one night. If you’re my friend, you’ll do this for me.” Emily was pleading. Zoe had never heard Emily plead. “You know I’d do it for you.”
Zoe did know that. Emily had more than proven herself. Sat with her, just the two of them, because that’s what Zoe preferred. Spent Saturday nights watching movies. Let her borrow (and then keep) the black skirt that always made Zoe feel slightly less horrible, even though it looked amazing on Emily.
“Zo, it will be fine, okay, I promise.” Emily had softened now. “I’ll be right there with you. And Seth is so crazy about you he won’t even care if you don’t speak. Think of it as a date with me. You don’t freak out when we go to the movies, right?”
“No.”
Emily smiled at her with a sense of finality that said, There, that’s settled then. And Zoe fought the tears that welled in her eyes. And, as usual, she had an immediate, sharp longing for her mother. She wondered what it said about her that, at fifteen, when things didn’t go according to plan, the first thing she wanted was her mommy.
7
Alice lay on the couch, dry-eyed and numb. Her brain ticked over the same three things in rotation—cancer, Zoe, her breakdown in front of Mrs. Featherstone and Mary. Amazingly, Mrs. Featherstone had been the one to take control, instructing Mary to find tissues and insisting that Alice head straight home.
Now Alice crossed her ankles on the coffee table, narrowly missing Kenny. Damn cat was always underfoot. Kenny had always unnerved Alice, the way he slunk around, smirking as though he knew her most guarded secret and was going to tell. Zoe said it was the cat’s “wisdom” that made him look like that. One thing to be said for
the cat was that it was one of very few living things that Zoe felt comfortable with, and indeed, relaxed around. And for that, Kenny had Alice’s begrudging respect.
Next to her feet was a stack of bills, including those from her medical appointments, out-of-pocket expenses that she had to find the money for. As she flipped through them, Alice considered how her diagnosis would affect her financially. Her business was steady—in fact she had so much work that she’d recently hired two part-timers—but it wasn’t enormously profitable. She always managed to get the bills paid but there was no safety net, no additional pool of money they had to dip into, other than her salary. She allowed herself to fantasize, just for a moment, about having two salaries to rely on. Two parents. The kind of life where an illness meant an opportunity to rest, to sleep, to be cared for by loving relatives. She could concentrate on getting better and leave all the daily stresses of her life to others. She was ashamed to admit that she found that scenario somewhat appealing. As though cancer were a health spa, an opportunity for some “me” time. In that scenario, money wasn’t the concern of the sick person. She wondered if this was how it would have been had she married. Indulgently, she let herself sit with that thought for a moment. But only a moment. If she thought too hard, she’d remember why she hadn’t.
The phone rang. It was Kate, the nurse from the hospital.
“How are you doing,” she asked gently, “after this morning?”
“I’m fine,” Alice said. “I’ve taken the afternoon off work.”
“I think that’s wise. It’s a lot to take in.”
“So, what do I need to know?” Alice asked once the niceties were out of the way.
“You shouldn’t eat anything after midnight the night before the operation. On the day you’re to wear no makeup, no lotion, no antiperspirant, no jewelry, no piercings or acrylic nails—”
“Nothing to tempt the doctors away from their wives,” Alice said. “Got it.”
The Mother's Promise Page 3
