Zoë
Zoë sat in the school library tapping her pen against her notebook. She was attempting to write a poem for critique class tomorrow, but all she had was a paper full of scribbled out false starts.
She wanted to write something beautiful about her mother. Something important, something that would mean a lot to her, something to spit in death’s teeth. The only problem was, she didn’t want Miss Calendar, the critique teacher, to know. Because she knew that the techno-poet would pity and give her some shit on how God had a master plan.
She wanted to write about something, but her mother was so important that anything else would be dishonest, and she didn’t write dishonest poetry.
As she walked out of the library, she thought, I’m really blowing school aren’t I? She fumbled with the combination on her locker as she considered that she had to work harder…her mom didn’t need any more worries.
“Damn,” she muttered fumbling with the locker door. It always stuck. She felt like kicking the stupid thing. Yet she just stood there glaring at it.
“It won’t melt, no matter how long you stare at it,” came a voice at her side.
“Lorraine! You snuck up quietly.”
“You’ve got to sneak about when you cut as many classes as I do.”
“Again?”
“Well, what’s the use? I’m moving, aren’t I? Right in the middle of the semester. I might as well give it up until after Christmas. Anyhow, it was worth it to see you use your X-ray vision.”
Zoë smiled, yet was sad as she watched Lorraine work magic on the locker door. Who would make her laugh when Lorraine left? Who else would blithely ignore her requests for peace and quiet and drag her to a party anyway?
“Come to the bathroom with me.” Lorraine said as Zoë stashed her books and got out her lunch. “It’s between shifts, so we might even be able to breathe in there.” They headed for the bathroom nearest the cafeteria. “I’m sorry about last night,” Lorraine said as she barreled through the swinging doors of the bathroom.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Zoë behind her, surprised. Could she dare hope Lorraine was ready to talk? They stood in front of the mirrors, and Lorraine pulled out a comb and tried to arrange her wavy black hair. (or dark brown depending on how you see it. It’s Faith, duh) “You think they’d replace these damn mirrors,” she said angrily. “They’re all cracked.” Then she stopped the pretense of combing and turned to face Zoë, who saw her friend’s face change suddenly. Uh-oh, Zoë thought.
“Zoë, I don’t want to move,” Lorraine barely got out before she started to cry fierce tears. “I won’t have any friends. I’ll have to start all over.” Zoë’s hopes plunged. She’d thought they were going to talk about her. It almost made her cry, too, but she held Lorraine, rubbed her back, and uttered an occasional “There, there” Inside, she was lost. How can I help you, she thought, when I can’t even help myself? It was disturbing. Lorraine was the strong one. She didn’t do this. The world was topsy-turvy again.
“I’m sorry.” Lorraine gasped after a while. “I’ve no right to feel this way. I’m only moving. But you…” she sobbed again.
She can’t say it, Zoë thought. We both know what she means, and she can’t say it. It isn’t your pity I want, she thought, and almost pushed her friend away, but stopped herself. Lorraine really did care. It wasn’t her fault that people didn’t know how to talk about death. Not Dad, not the neighbors, not Mom’s friends. Death’s partner was silence. Tenderness for her for her friend overwhelmed her dismay. “You nerd. You know you can always tell me how you feel. Usually nothing, including me, can stop you.”
“But I feel so selfish.”
You always are anyway, Zoë realized, but never on purpose. It was just the way Lorraine was. Zoë could almost take comfort in the familiarity of it. She gently shook her friend. “What will I do without you?”
That brought on more tears. “I’ll miss you so much, Zoë.”
They stood for a while, just holding each other. It was rare that Lorraine let herself be fragile. After her mother left she was too afraid of breaking for good. At least that was what Zoë guessed from watching her. We’ll have another thing in common now, Zoë thought, but at least you’ll be able to visit your mother. There was bitterness in this thought. She stroked Lorraine’s hair in attempt to atone. This was a moment when she could slip gently past Lorraine’s guard. I’m afraid, too, she prepared to say. I’m afraid my mother will die, and my father will grieve forever, and I’ll always be alone, because you’re going too.
But there was a bell ringing somewhere, and second period lunch was signaled. Damn, damn, damn, Zoë thought.
The doors burst open and a group of girls crowded in, already distributing cigarettes. Lorraine pushed Zoë away and hastily splashed water on her face. A blond with tasteless makeup stood staring at them with her lit cigarette in a carefully poised hand.
“You guys queer or something?” she asked jeeringly.
“Piss off, Morgan,” said Lorraine, putting her arm around Zoë protectively. “You know, you could break your wrist holding a cigarette like that,” and Zoë found herself being swept out of the bathroom. Things were back to normal.
In the cafeteria they sat at their usual table near the back door. “I’m going to buy a death-burger.” Lorraine said after checking her purse. “Hold the fort.”
Zoë nodded and started eating her sandwich. She couldn’t help but overhear the other girls at the table over. She was thinking about the boy in the park and a poem about him when she over heard the word, MURDER.
“She was Sheila’s,” the dark one said dramatically as she leaned across the table.
“Really!”
“Yes, they found her with her throat slashed.”
The tall one shuddered, “God its like Jack the Ripper or something.”
“Ugh!” they agreed in unison.
Lorraine returned with her lunch, and the other conversation faded into the background. “Have you been reading the paper lately?” Zoë asked Lorraine.
“Not really. Who’s got time? Why?”
Zoë glanced at the girls at the end of the table, still engrossed in the details of murder “Oh, there wasw something in the news. I saw a headline, but I didn’t read about it, I thought you might know.”
“Not me, they call me –Miss Oblivious,” Lorraine camped in her Saturday-morning-cartoon voice.
Zoë laughed to cover her irritation. It was too true. “Never mind.”
After school her father picked her up in his old Citroen. “Hop in, we’re going to the hospital.”
Soon they were there, and before they knew it, they were in the room. Zoë barely had strength to look at her mom. Where golden hair used to be, there was a blad head with only a few wisps of triumphant hair. Her eyes were closed and looked sunken in. She was so skinny that you could see her bones. She had dark circles under her eyes.
“Mom.” Zoë said her voice cracking.
The room was a light green with cabinets lining the far wall, an unused television in the corner, and a little nightstand next to the hospital bed. Next to the bed on one side was a chair for guests. There was a glass of water and a box of tissues on the nightstand and under it a trash can.
Her father busied himself with keeping her mother comfortable, fluffing her pillow, giving her soft kisses, and fixing her covers. He finally slouched out of her line of sight and stuffed his hands in his tweed pockets.
“A great view of the parking lot you got there,” Zoë said breaking the silence.
“I’m glad you like it.” Zoë was shocked at how faint her mother’s voice was despite the ironic tone.
Zoë reached for her hand and noticed a tightness around her eyes that she knew meant pain, as did the way her mother’s other hand twisted a grasping of sheet. Zoë wanted to reach out and stop it. It hurt her to watch.
“Are you eating?” her mother asked.
“Are you?” Zoë shot back, glancing at the barely touched meal still titting on the bedside tray.
“Touché”
“Come home soon, Mom. I miss you.”
Zoë felt her hand being squeezed slightly. “I’ll try darling. I’ll try.”
Zoë’s eyes filled with tears. Please don’t cry, she begged herself, don’t upset her more. “Guess what.” She said grabbing for anything. “The rose by the gate still has a bloom on it.”
Her mother smiled. “Silly old thing. It doesn’t seem decent this time of year, does it?”
They were silent for a while. Zoë hated the way the hospital sucked everything you wanted to say out of your head. It’s bad enough they have to leave the door open so that nurses could come in and out, she thought, but then dad sits there like some kind of guardian.
“I just needed to see you,” her mother finally said.
“Okay.”
“You need to eat more, sweetheart. Wear some make up.”
Zoë laughed gently and sniffed. “I remember when you would have taken a washcloth to me for wearing makeup, now you’re telling me to wear it. Do I really look that bad?”
“Heaven’s no! You’re just old enough. You should get your hair cut in one of those new styles.”
Zoë stroked a tuft of baby fine hair. “Like you, huh.”
“Well my punk look wasn’t actually intentional.” She smiled, “And it looks a little pretentious on an old lady like me.”
“But you’re not old.” Zoë said, her voice wavering.
“I’m thirsty,” her mother said, still deft at diverting disaster. “Could you hand me my water?”
As Zoë reached for the water, a nurse poked her head in. She looked at dad and nodded. Dad came over and placed his hands on Zoë’s shoulders. “That’s enough for now.” He said kissing her head.
“Rupert no!” his wife protested, struggling to sit up in bed.
“You know what the doctor said.” He answered, unyielding.
I’m being squeezed out again, Zoë thought bitterly, but she leaned and kissed the cheek offered to her.
“They totally ignore what I want around here.” Her mother said, as if apologizing.
Her father took her outside and gave her cab fare, telling her to order a pizza and have Lorraine over.
Riding home in the taxi, she worried about how much to tip, to keep her mind off her mother and Lorraine and all the other worries.
When she reached home she tipped the driver and waited until he left. She realized she couldn’t go inside, she wasn’t ready to face the suffocating silence.
She decided to go to the park, hoping to see that boy again. She watched young children play on the swings and run around chasing each other until their brothers and sisters took them home.
Sometimes Zoë wished she had a brother or sister. Someone to take charge so she didn’t have to. Some one to take care of her when she was alone.
She sat on her favorite bench and didn’t move. Suddenly chills racked her body and she pulled her coat closer.
“It’s a beautiful night,” came a soft voice from beside her.
She turned swiftly, heart pounding. A young man sat there. The lamp outlined him against the bushes like a ring of frost around the moon. He smiled at her as a cat smiles, with secret humor. “You scared me.” She whispered fiercely. Who was this person invading her bench?
“I’m sorry.” He said, but didn’t look it.
She recognized him then, from last night. As if he saw this he said, “We’re even now. You scared me.”
“Why should you be scared?” Zoë demanded. “It’s you sneaking up on people.”
“Why should you be?” he asked.
Zoë bristled defensively. “I don’t like evasive conversation.”
“Do you like any conversation?”
“No, I want to be alone.”
“I think you are alone.” He reached for her hand. She snatched it away and stood up. How dare he be right, and take advantage of it? He seemed surprised for a second, but then his smile deepened, and a dreamy look was on his face. “Please stay.” He said in tones soft as a lullaby. His eyes were huge, dark, and gentle. She hesitated for a moment. He seemed so understanding. Surely she could talk to him. Then her anger surfaced again. The manipulative jerk, she thought.
“I don’t know what you’re after, but you can look for it somewhere else.” She said. She turned and walked firmly away.
“It strikes me,” he said now with a voice with an edge to it, “that girls sitting alone on benches at night are the ones looking for something.”
She was so furious, she could’ve screamed. She almost turned but no, she thought, that’s what he wants. She walked on. Her anger carried her home before she knew it. Strangely it had made her hungry. She ate better than she had in weeks.
She hesitated for a moment between mouthfuls. Was he weird? Would he have hurt her? No. He looked like an angel in a renaissance painting. Could beauty hurt?
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