Escape Velocity

by Robin Stevenson

  “Mmm. Well, I haven’t exactly met her. I think she and my mom are not on speaking terms. And Zoe won’t tell me anything about her.”

  “Uh-huh.” I can almost hear Dana Leigh rolling her eyes. “Your mother certainly has a knack for cutting people off.”

  “I know. But I thought maybe, well, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

  “Don’t go there, honey,” Dana Leigh says. “Don’t go looking for trouble. Life’s hard enough without stirring up hornets’ nests.”

  “Just because Zoe won’t talk about it doesn’t mean it’s a hornets’ nest,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “She’s my grandmother,” I point out. “Don’t I have a right to meet her?”

  “Is that what you want? A grandmother?”

  I picture the clapping woman. She’s not going to bake me cookies or knit me sweaters. “Not exactly. But Zoe has never told me anything about why she left me and Dad. And now there’s obviously some big mystery about her own mother. So I wondered.”

  “Look, Lou. Your mom was what—twenty?—when you were born? Maybe that doesn’t seem so young to you, but believe me, it is.” She sighs. “People make bad decisions sometimes. Obviously she regrets it, or she wouldn’t have got in touch with you.”

  “It took her twelve years.” I stare at the smooth white ceiling, letting my eyes unfocus, and remember the whiteness outside the airplane window and the sense of disorientation that went with it.

  “Let the past be the past,” Dana Leigh says. “Crap. Customers. Listen, I have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hang in there, honey.” Dana Leigh’s voice is so kind, it brings a lump to my throat, and after I hang up, the apartment seems emptier and quieter than ever. I take a deep breath. Dad will be okay, Dad will be okay, Dad will be okay. I open the desk drawer to replace the pen and something catches my eye.

  A key. A small, silver, filing-cabinet-sized key.

  Thirteen

  I slip the key into the file-cabinet lock and it opens easily. I glance over my shoulder at the front door. If Zoe comes home, she’ll be furious. I tell myself that it’s her fault I’m doing this. If she would tell me the truth, I wouldn’t be forced to hunt for answers.

  I open the top drawer, my heart pounding. A row of file folders, alternating blue and gray, all neatly labeled. Alphabetical. I scan through quickly: Awards, Correspondence, Course Outlines, Escape Velocity, Expenses, Grant Applications, Income, Leaving Heaven, Promotion, Rejection Letters, Reviews, Short Fiction, Taxes, Workshops…All work related, nothing personal. I close the drawer quickly and open the bottom drawer.

  Just as tidy, just as organized. I flip through, trying to be quick because she could be home any minute, but not wanting to miss anything. Clippings, Documents, Letters… I stop, about to pull out the Letters file, but then I notice the next file: Lou. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I shiver. I raise my hand to lift out the file, and just as my fingers touch it, I hear my mother’s key in the lock.

  I slam the drawer shut, twist the key out, and drop it back in her desk mere seconds before she steps into the apartment.

  She sees me standing at her desk and frowns. “What are you up to?”

  “Looking for a pen,” I say, picking one up and closing the drawer. I hope the key is in the right spot and that she won’t notice that anything has been disturbed. “I was doing some homework and mine ran out.”

  She relaxes. “Homework already?”

  “I know. I can’t believe it either. Pages and pages of stuff to read, a paper to write…” Relief is making me babble.

  “Well.” She looks at me.

  I stop babbling, and there is a long awkward silence. I can practically hear my heart beating and the image of that pale blue file folder with my name on it lingers so vividly in my mind that I’m almost surprised she can’t see it too.

  “How was school?” she asks at last.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good.”

  Another silence. Finally Zoe sighs. “Well, I suppose I should let you do your homework. I wasn’t planning to cook tonight. Do you mind helping yourself to something?”

  “I can cook. If you want.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not really hungry.”

  The filing cabinet is pulling at me like a powerful magnet. It takes all my strength to keep my eyes from sliding sideways toward it. “So, are you staying home this evening?”

  She nods. “I have a grant proposal to finish. I’ve been procrastinating, but the deadline is coming up.”

  My heart sinks. No way I’ll be getting a look at that blue file tonight then.

  And then the phone rings and I forget the file. “That could be Dad,” I say.

  Zoe looks at me oddly, and I realize that I never told her he was having surgery today. She picks up the phone. “Hello?”

  I hold my breath.

  “I’m her mother,” Zoe says. “Can I help you?”

  Dad. The surgery. My hands are cold.

  Zoe’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “His bypass surgery?” A long pause. “Uh-huh. Okay.”

  She is staring at me, and I can tell she’s furious that I didn’t tell her he was having surgery, but I don’t care. “Is he okay?” I whisper.

  She turns her back on me and speaks into the phone. “Right. Yes. Do you know when he’ll be able to go home?”

  I let my breath out in a long shaky sigh. The operation must have gone well if she’s asking that.

  “I see. Very well. Thank you for calling.” Zoe hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Your father had bypass surgery this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it you already knew all about that? You didn’t think that perhaps you should have mentioned it to me?”

  Her words are clipped with anger, but I ignore her question. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. Sleeping, at the moment, the doctor said.”

  “Did they say when he can go home?”

  She shakes her head. “They don’t know yet. But Lou—”

  “I’m going to my room,” I say. “I have homework.”

  We stare at each other for a moment and then I turn away, walk to Zoe’s spare room and close the door behind me.

  I lie down on the bed and cry and cry, my face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.

  Fourteen

  When I wake up, it’s dark and I’m starving. I get up, open the door and listen for Zoe. I can’t hear anything. I hope she has gone out after all. Not just so I can snoop—though I have every intention of doing so—but because being around her feels like such a strain.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m having a bath,” she calls out.

  I head to the kitchen, pop a slice of bread in the toaster, and think about that blue file folder. There’s an open bottle of wine on the counter, and I can hear soft piano music playing in the bathroom, so I’m guessing Zoe will be in there for a little while—but I’m nervous. Not about her catching me snooping but about what I might find. What if she’s written something about how unlikable I am? I can’t help remembering the last time I snooped and overheard that phone call. And it’s pretty obvious that nothing has changed. She still doesn’t want me around.

  Moving quickly because I don’t know how much time I have, I unlock the filing cabinet and slide out the file folder with my name on it. I lay it on her desk and open it. A photocopy of my birth certificate. And nothing else.

  I guess I should have expected that.

  I return the folder to the drawer and am about to close it when something else catches my eye. Right at the back of the drawer, out of alphabetical order and out of the blue/ gray color scheme, is a slim beige folder labeled Personal.

  Jackpot.

  I am too nervous to look at it right now. Zoe could walk out of the bathroom and into the living room at any minute. But if I put the file away, I don’t know when I’ll next have a chance to look. What if Zoe mo
ves the key? She looked suspicious when she saw me at her desk earlier. I can’t risk it. Not when I am so close to finding some answers.

  I grab the file, close the drawer silently, lock it, replace the key and head to my bedroom, clutching the file to my chest. I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My breath comes out in a long whoosh.

  I open the folder and quickly flip through the pages inside it. It’s a crazy mish-mash of stuff. Handwritten letters that will take ages to decipher, some photographs, newspaper clippings…nothing obvious, but I feel sure there are some answers hidden in here. I hear the water start to drain from the bathtub, so I hide the file safely under my mattress.

  I’ll look at it tonight, after Zoe thinks I’m asleep.

  I’m sitting on the couch reading a magazine by the time Zoe emerges in a fleecy white bathrobe, her hair wet and freshly combed. She smells like roses.

  “Did you get something to eat?” she asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Just making some toast,” I say.

  She follows me into the kitchen, and I take the now-cold toast out of the toaster. “You have peanut butter?”

  She hands me a jar from the cupboard. “Lou. Why didn’t you tell me that your father was having surgery today? I think I have a right to know what is going on.”

  Because it was none of your business. Because you don’t tell me anything. I twist the lid of the jar open and look around for a knife. Where does she keep the cutlery? I open the wrong drawer and stare down at piles of neatly folded matching placemats and napkins. The anger inside me is a cold hard knot, slowly tightening. “You know, Dad and I don’t even own placemats.” I glance up at her and for a minute, I think I hate her. “But you don’t really know anything about us, do you?”

  “Lou. That isn’t fair.”

  I stare at her. “Not fair? Are you serious?”

  “Open-heart surgery is a little more significant than whether or not your father uses placemats.”

  “I was just trying to make a point.”

  “And what was your point exactly?”

  “That you have never been particularly interested in us.” I wish I hadn’t started this conversation.

  “Fine. Be like that if you want to. But for future reference, if your father is having major surgery, I do expect to be told.”

  I want to ask if she’s worried she’ll be stuck with me if Dad dies, but the words stick in my throat. I can’t even stand to think about the possibility. I find a knife and scrape a layer of peanut butter across the toast, which is so dry and hard it breaks into three pieces. “Like you told me that I have a grandmother?” I say.

  “That’s a little different.”

  “Is it? It doesn’t seem that different to me.”

  “It doesn’t affect you,” she says.

  “And how exactly does Dad’s surgery affect you?” I drop the knife in the sink. “Anyway, you’re wrong. It does so affect me. I mean, I don’t even know my own grandmother’s name.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lou. Don’t be so melodramatic.”

  She puts the lid back on the peanut-butter jar and returns it to the cupboard. “Heather. Her name is Heather. There, now are you satisfied?”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  “Please don’t use that awful expression.” Her forehead creases in distaste. “Whatever. It’s so adolescent.”

  I shrug again. Whatever.

  “Believe me,” Zoe says, “my mother is not someone you want in your life.”

  “Why?” I meet her eyes for a second. “What’s she like?”

  She shakes her head and says nothing.

  I sigh. Closed door. “Fine. Look, if Dad has open-heart surgery again, I’ll tell you, okay? I honestly didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opens them, her face is expressionless. “Tidy up after yourself when you’re finished eating. I can’t stand a messy kitchen.”

  Once Zoe has gone to bed, I pull the file out from beneath my mattress and lay it on my bed. I want to race through it, to see what is there, but I force myself to go slowly and examine everything, being careful to keep it all in the right order. A small faded color photograph: two children, both blond, a boy and a girl. Another picture, this one black-and-white: a young woman with long fair hair, holding a baby. There is a Christmas tree in the background. At first I think it is Zoe, with me, but this baby isn’t a newborn. I study the picture and turn it over. Neatly inked on the back is the date: Christmas 1975.

  So the baby could be Zoe. With her mother, Heather. I study the woman’s face. She is smiling, pretty, young. Maybe twenty or so, not much more than that. She doesn’t look much like the clapping woman at the reading, but I can see that it’s her.

  I wonder what went wrong.

  Another picture, this one a school class photo. A sign at the front of the group says Fessenden Elementary School, Grade Three, 1983. I scan the rows of children and pick out a small blond girl in the front row who could be Zoe. She’s smiling, but her smile looks tense and forced. I try not to read too much into that. Half the kids in the picture have the same unnatural grimace. Maybe they were all saying “Cheese.”

  Under the class photo is a letter. I pick it up and try to read it, but the ink is faded. I skip to the end to see who it is from: Garland. My father. I didn’t recognize his writing; I guess it used to be a lot neater. My hands are shaking a little as I move the letter under the bright bedside light and start piecing together the sentences.

  Dear Zoe,

  I know you said you didn’t want to hear from me but… something something…should know that the baby is doing well. I named her Lou, and she is a beautiful girl. She is only…I think it says five months…can sit up all on her own. Lots of smiles. I miss you like crazy and still hope you will change your mind. I guess you will be graduating in a few weeks. Congratulations. What are your plans? At least let me know your new address when you move off campus. I’m sending a photo of Lou so you can see for yourself how sweet she is.

  Love,

  Garland

  There’s no baby picture of me. Maybe she didn’t even keep it. And I bet she never wrote back.

  I place the letter back in the file and pick up a newspaper clipping. It’s a newspaper article.

  LOCAL TEEN DEAD AFTER DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT

  A local teenager is dead and two others seriously injured after their vehicle crashed into a hydro pole on Jerseyville Road. According to friends, the trio had been at a party and were on their way home. The driver of the vehicle, seventeen-year-old Thomas Jonathan Summers, was pronounced dead at the scene. Two other teens, whose names have not been released, remain in hospital in serious condition. Police say that alcohol and excessive speed may have been factors in the collision.

  The article has been cut from the middle of a page, so I can’t tell when it is from. But if the driver was a Summers, he must have been a relative. I’ve always thought Zoe was an only child, like me. I’m sure that’s what Dad told me. I look back at the first photograph in the pile. The two blond children, the girl maybe four or five and the boy still a toddler, round-faced and pudgy.

  I look at the photograph for a long time, but the pieces stubbornly refuse to fall into place. I am more confused than ever. Finally I slide the photograph back into its place in the file, turn over the newspaper clipping and flip through to see what else is in the file. Another photograph, this one of a family I don’t recognize. A bearded man; a heavy woman in a brown flowered dress and one of those stiff-looking eighties hairstyles; five children, ranging in age from toddlers to teens. I turn it over, but there is nothing written on the back except a year: 1989. Zoe would have been fourteen or fifteen. I look at the photograph again. The oldest is a girl, her hair as blond as Zoe’s but curly, her face unsmiling and partially turned away from the camera so only one heavily made-up eye is visible. It doesn’t look like Zoe, but I suppose it
could be her. The age is about right. There is a blond boy, maybe a couple of years younger, his hair long and his expression sullen; and three younger children, one in the woman’s arms. If the girl is Zoe, who are the others?

  I look to see what else is in the file, but there isn’t much. A series of postcards, all in my dad’s handwriting. It looks like he sent one every time we moved, making sure Zoe always had our current address. The early ones include a few sentences: Lou just started kindergarten and she can already read; Lou is eight now and swims like a fish; Lou won a prize at the science fair. They get shorter and shorter, the most recent ones just a signed card with the change of address on it. Then one from three years ago: Lou has had a lot of questions about you lately and I really think it would help if she could meet you. Please think about it, Zoe. It’d mean a lot to her.

  That must have been when she got in touch. I had always wondered why she decided to, after all those years of no contact at all. Still, it surprises me. From what I’ve seen, Zoe’s decisions aren’t usually influenced by other people’s needs. I stare at the file, leaf through the pages again, but that’s it. There’s nothing else in there. I roll onto my back and stare at the oil-spill painting on the wall. None of this makes sense. None of it explains my mother, why she left me, why she won’t talk about the past.

  Every little clue leaves me with more questions.

  Fifteen

  The next day, I ask Zoe if I can stay home in case Dad calls, but she says no.

  “Sitting around here worrying isn’t going to help you or him,” she tells me. “You can call him after school.”

  “Will you be home?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m meeting someone for coffee this morning. A man I met at Brian and Richard’s place.”

  “Oh.” A new boyfriend, I guess. I can tell by the way her eyes linger on my face that she wants me to ask about him, but I don’t care.

  “He’s a writer,” she volunteers. “A journalist. Simon. Nice name, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She sighs. “What about that boyfriend of yours? Tom? Have you heard from him lately?”