Zoe Letting Go

by Nora Price

  “Okay!” you signaled. “GO!”

  In a mad relay race, I jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel as you darted, pale and naked, into the space I’d just vacated. Hot water poured over your body as I ducked into the bedroom, steam rising from my skin. “That was flawless!” you called out joyfully, in a voice muffled by the torrential shower. “That was military-style precision!”

  I giggled and rooted through your top drawer for a pair of cashmere socks to slip over my feet, which were already returning to their previous arctic temperature. Normally you called me into the bathroom to keep you company while you showered, and while I waited for the summons, I checked my phone (nothing) and e-mail (nothing), wrote Z + E on the windowpane with my fingertip, coiled my wet hair into a bun, and then took it down again. Still not a word came from the bathroom. I perched expectantly at the edge of the bed and twirled my cozy-socked feet for five minutes. Now I was getting lonely. The door to the bathroom was only an inch or two ajar, so I knocked lightly before entering.

  “Elise?” I ventured, sliding inside. A jungle mist filled the bathroom, and I could barely make you out behind the fogged shower door. As your figure became visible, a prickle of confusion arose in me. What were you doing? I wondered. What weren’t you doing might have been the more accurate question—instead of exfoliating or shaving your legs or shampooing your hair, you simply stood still beneath the water, head tilted downward and arms at your side. Like a wax dummy.

  “Elise?” I tried again, louder.

  As if emerging from a standing sleep, you turned to look at me through the door. “Oh hey, Zoe,” you said, your words coming in slow motion. I peered closer, trying to distinguish the object that hung slackly in your hand. A toothbrush. I watched in puzzlement as you glanced at the toothbrush, paused a long while, and then returned to brushing your teeth. It seemed that the activity had been interrupted by your trance.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” you mumbled, your mouth still foamy with toothpaste. You spit, rinsed, and placed your toothbrush back on the ledge of the tub. Although the glass blurred your body, I still marveled at how narrow you were in silhouette. Wispier than a stalk of wheat, with limbs like long, fluttering scarves.

  I sat down atop the toilet and drew a star on the fogged bathroom sink. “You’re so quiet,” I said when you failed to start a conversation. The shower taps twisted shut, terminating the sound of rushing water, and I stood to hand you a towel as one wrist emerged from behind the glass. “Thanks,” you said softly, taking the offering and wrapping it awkwardly around your body. I watched, bewildered, until I noticed that you were holding something in your other hand. Something fragile.

  The door slid open. As you got out, I saw how bony your shoulders had gotten. Spiderlike, almost. Had you gotten too thin? No, I thought; it wasn’t possible. We’d been eating the exact same thing for months, and if I were still far from too thin, there was nothing to worry about in your case. You pulled the towel tighter and avoided my eye. Suddenly I felt like a trespasser—like an unwanted guest. I’d never felt that way before when I kept you company in the bathroom. Why hadn’t you invited me in this time?

  Your left fist was still closed around something as you opened the medicine cabinet and mechanically pumped moisturizer into your palm.

  “What’s that?” I asked trying to keep my voice casual.

  You kept your gaze trained on the mirror as you rubbed moisturizer onto your cheeks with one hand, despite the fact that the glass was fogged over and no more reflective than a square of concrete.

  “Hey,” I repeated, tugging at the edge of your towel like a toddler. “What’s going on?”

  You turned to face me, one hand circling lotion into your forehead. The closed fist extended in my direction. Instinctively I put my hands out, ready for you to bestow whatever you held in your fist like a gift. When you released, however, a web of something wet and tangled fell into my hands.

  “What—?” I asked, staring at the matter.

  “My hair,” you said.

  I peered at the bundle in my hand. It was indeed your hair—a pile of white-blond strands massed at the center of an upturned palm. A tumbleweed of hair. I looked up at you in alarm, but your eyes were already scorched with red.

  “This was all from—” I started.

  “Just now,” you nodded. “There’s more, too.”

  A tear wound its way down your cheek, leaving no trace on a face already shining with moisture.

  “It comes out in the shower,” you said. “I can feel it come out whenever I run my hands through my hair.”

  I did not know what to say.

  “I stopped brushing it last month because every time I was finished, there’d be clots of hair left in the brush.”

  Clots. I reached out and circled my fingers around your wrist, from which a few wet threads still dangled.

  “I’m losing my hair,” you whispered, the idea breaking over you like an egg cracked against the lip of a bowl. “Zoe, it feels as though my body is preparing to—”

  I squeezed your wrist tightly—violently—with my fingers. Your face contorted in pain, but I had no other way of stopping you from saying what you were going to say. And when I let go, your arm dropped lifelessly against your side. A chill winter draft was infiltrating the bathroom, cooling our skin and sucking away steam. I stood to put an arm around your waist, and you slumped against me like a child. Slowly, ever so slowly, I walked you from the bathroom to the bed, where you sat numbly as I wrapped a down comforter around your shivering body. Pale Elise in a pale blanket, I thought, holding you close to me. Outside in the darkness, a cotton-white layer of snow was accumulating on the windowsill and atop the trees. You always think the weather will be better by March—a little more pleasant, a little less bitter—but it isn’t at all. There is always one last snowstorm. Perhaps, I remember thinking abstractly, tonight will be the night.

  There was no heaving, no sobbing, and no moaning from you: just a steady line of tears following their gravity-bound path. A bruise was already starting to show on your wrist from where I’d clasped you, and I averted my eyes guiltily, staring out the window until I felt the featherweight mass of your body succumbing to sleep. The front door opened downstairs; your parents had arrived home from dinner. Late, as usual. The bustling adjustments of coat-removal and umbrella-folding drifted up to me, followed by the sharper sound of your mother’s heels ascending the stairs. Your bedroom door was closed, so all I had to do was reach over and turn off the light. The sound of clacking heels stopped—in my mind’s eye I saw your mother peering down the hallway to check if your light was still on—and then, thank God, the noise commenced once more in the opposite direction. They were probably drunk again. The sound of your father lumbering up the stairs followed and then faded as he entered their bedroom; with this cue I could exhale, safe in the knowledge that we were exempt from parental interference. Not that they would have thought to check in on you, anyway. They paid so little attention to their only daughter.

  I carefully unwrapped and got you into bed, trying not to disturb your sleep too much (no cause for worry; you barely stirred). I made sure that the comforter was tucked tightly on your side before maneuvering myself under the covers next to you and crowding in close, shrinking from the frigid air that stung every centimeter of exposed skin. I worried, at first, that our bodies wouldn’t be capable of generating enough heat for both of us, but they must have done the job somehow because I soon fell into a deep, dark, and dream-riddled sleep.

  When we awoke the next morning, it was still snowing.

  Love,

  Zoe

  [Day Thirty-One]

  I licked and sealed the envelope, intending to dash downstairs and drop it off in the box near Alexandra’s office before breakfast. It’s a quick errand, and one that I perform often, since I tend to write my letters to Elise around bedtime. I headed for the staircase, scraping my teeth against my tongue to r
emove the bitter taste of envelope glue. My stomach, now acclimated to the Twin Birch diet, rumbled expectantly. What a traitorous organ! I sniffed the air. What was for breakfast? Something with fruit, it smelled like. Behind me, I heard another early riser making her way down the hallway. Probably Jane, who occasionally went to the kitchen early to suck up to Devon by offering to dice fruit and stir the oatmeal pot. There was no point in doing these things—Devon was constitutionally immune to flattery, and therefore impossible to corrupt—but Jane kept at it. Some people are slow to learn.

  I kept walking, scanning the high ceilings and delicate crown molding as I went. By now the route was second nature, though the luxury of the house impressed me more with each day. I’d discovered, over the past week, that each item in the house had its own special purpose.

  Pieces of furniture that I’d passed without a second thought turned out to have specific functions, like a mahogany table with its own chessboard built right into the top, or a cabinet built to fit snugly beneath the stairs.

  Lost in these thoughts, I didn’t notice the steps behind me increasing in pace until a few seconds later. There’s no hurry, I wanted to tell Jane—Devon was never going to give her special treatment for stirring pancake batter. The air was still heavy with breakfast odors as I approached the staircase. What was that smell? Grilled apricots? Waffles with blackberry jam? Stop drooling, I commanded myself. Make your mind blank.

  As I paused at the top of the landing, I registered the sound of footsteps once more. Jane—if it was Jane—should’ve broken off in the direction of the kitchen. Instead, the footsteps had continued to follow my course toward the staircase. I could think of no reason why anyone but me should require a detour downstairs, and my palm began to sweat around the envelope I held. The footsteps grew closer, nearing the place where I stood. I turned around.

  It was Caroline.

  She stopped in her tracks a few feet from where I stood, then took a single step forward, her eyes wild with purpose. I blinked. The sun hit my roommate from behind, shining through sparse strands of hair and setting the perimeter of her sweater aglow. She seethed with anger, and I saw that the person who stood before me was no longer the meek and fearful roommate that I’d grown accustomed to. She was, instead, a stranger intent on harming me. But why—?

  “I know,” Caroline said. She took another step forward.

  “Caroline,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and steady.

  “I know exactly what you did,” she continued, taking another step. Only an arm’s length of hallway separated us.

  As her foot slid forward to close the gap, I inched back instinctively, then shrieked: The heel of my shoe dipped over the edge of the staircase and into empty air. I flailed, grasping the banister for support, and pulled myself back up with a noise like a strangled cat.

  When I regained my balance, I found myself two steps beneath Caroline, who had been watching my struggle dispassionately from the lip of the staircase. Now she stared down at me from above, and I knew that it was only a matter of seconds before she smacked me or tried to push me down the staircase. Should I yell? It didn’t matter. By now, everyone was in or near the dining room, settling into her usual seat. No matter how loud I screamed, the corridors dividing us were too mazelike for anyone to discern which direction my screams were coming from. I held my tongue and clasped the banister hard with my left hand as Caroline raised her right arm. I shrank, waiting for the blow, and closed my eyes.

  It didn’t come.

  “You stole Brooke’s dress,” she spat.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “Why would I—”

  “You wanted to attack her,” Caroline said. “Because she knows what kind of person you really are. Someone messed up. Someone we can’t trust.”

  “I haven’t done anything!” I sputtered. The envelope in my hand had grown damp with sweat, and now I lifted it to Caroline’s eyes. “I’m mailing a letter, Caroline. That’s what I’m doing. That’s all I’m doing.” I turned and began taking the steps quickly, my rubbery legs bowing slightly with each pace.

  Caroline came after me. “You’re a liar,” she hissed.

  “Follow me everywhere you want,” I rebutted, my voice rising. “You already watch me sleep—now you can watch me mail my letters, and eat, and take a shower, and everything else!”

  I rounded the bend and headed for Alexandra’s office as Caroline stalked behind me. The red box gleamed at the end of the hallway like a beacon. Clutching Elise’s letter, I prayed that my sweat wouldn’t smudge the address beyond recognition. Upon reaching the box, I deposited my envelope through the slit and turned, furious, to ask Caroline whether she’d gotten her fill. The opportunity never came.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, her glance ricocheting from the mailbox to me and back again.

  “What?” I said, regaining my confidence. “There’s something about me you don’t know?”

  “No—” Caroline said, her skin turning ashen. She pointed toward the mailbox. “You said you were mailing a letter.”

  “And?”

  “But you put it in there,” Caroline said. She looked bewildered enough to cry.

  “I’m not doing anything to anyone,” I shouted. “I’m mailing a letter! What part of that is confusing you?”

  “That’s not a mailbox.”

  “What are you talking about?” I had no more patience for this. Wiping off my clammy hands, I moved forward, brushing past Caroline in the hallway. Just before I swung a left toward the staircase, she regained her speaking and moving abilities.

  “There wasn’t even a stamp on that letter!” She shouted after me. “It’s not going to get sent.”

  “For your information, Alexandra stamps them.” I continued walking down the hall, faster this time.

  “There’s something the matter with you, Zoe,” said Caroline’s voice from behind, and I heard her pursuing me once more.

  “Oh?” I called over my shoulder from the foot of the stairs. “I appreciate the diagnosis.”

  “That’s Alexandra’s inbox,” Caroline blurted, speeding up to match my pace. “It’s not a mailbox. We’re not even allowed to send letters. You’re the one who can’t be trusted! You’re the one with issues—”

  She stopped, clamping her mouth shut as Alexandra strode into the room.

  “What’s going on?”

  A set of keys clanged in Alexandra’s hand as she swept toward us from the direction of the front door. She must have overheard the argument when she let herself in.

  “Caroline, go to breakfast immediately.”

  I smirked at Caroline, who looked as though she’d been hit over the head with a bag of hammers.

  “Go,” Alexandra said. “Zoe, my office. Now.”

  Good, I thought. Not only would I get to skip breakfast, but I had a few questions for Alexandra myself—specifically, about whether Caroline had been telling the truth about the letters. Was I really the only one allowed to send mail from Twin Birch? Why on earth would I get special treatment?

  As I followed the therapist into her all-white office, a section from the Twin Birch memo came back to me with startling clarity.

  Patients arrive over the course of five days, with arrivals staggered so that each patient can receive a customized initiation.

  A customized initiation, I thought, meant that the administrators could control exactly how much information was doled out to each one of us. Naturally, each patient would assume she’d been given the same spiel as the next patient. There’d be no reason to think otherwise.

  Alexandra sat down, fuming, but I remained on my feet. A number of queer thoughts were occurring to me at once. For starters, what would it mean if I was the only girl allowed to send letters from Twin Birch?

  Sensing my inattention to her efforts, Alexandra stood up and zeroed in on where I stood. Before I could protest, she’d taken my elbow and guided me to a sitting position on the couch, and the gesture surprised me so much that I real
ized what her goal was only after she’d accomplished it. With a quick series of movements, she’d manipulated the situation so that she no longer appeared to be my enemy, instead taking on the physical position of an ally.

  No, I thought. This woman is not your friend, Zoe.

  “Why am I the only one allowed to send letters?” I asked, not bothering to hide the accusation in my tone.

  Alexandra looked at me sympathetically but didn’t answer right away.

  “You are sending them, aren’t you?” I continued. “They’re getting to Elise, right?”

  “Zoe—”

  “Tell me that’s a mailbox. Tell me Caroline is wrong!”

  “Zoe, please calm down.”

  A sickening realization dawned on me. “That,” I said, pointing a shaking finger at the red box outside the door, “is not a mailbox.”

  “No, it’s not,” Alexandra said.

  I sprang up from the sofa and began to pace. Alexandra had suddenly become, in my eyes, a person who had unilaterally deceived me for the past five weeks. I didn’t trust her, her choreography, or her insipid white leather sofas. I wanted urgently to slash the leather surface to ribbons—to shred the afghans and overturn the chairs. Then I stopped pacing. If possible, the situation was worse than I’d originally suspected.

  “Elise hasn’t been responding to my letters,” I said, my voice spiked with accusation. “I thought it was my fault. But it’s not.”

  Alexandra leveled her gaze at me.

  “It’s yours,” I went on. “She hasn’t been responding because you haven’t been sending them,” I said. As soon as the words were out, I knew that I was right.

  Alexandra watched me. “It’s true,” she said. “I have not been sending your letters.”

  “That’s why she’s been ignoring me!” I yelled. I didn’t care if the girls upstairs could hear me. I’d scream loud enough to bring down the house if I wanted.

  Alexandra stared back at me serenely, and the sight of her indifference provoked me to further heights of apoplexy. I punched the box of Kleenex on the coffee table, sending it to the ground with a bounce.