The first thing Zoe noticed about Judy’s place was that it didn’t have a fence. It was a single-story place—not fancy by Atherton’s standards, but it had freshly cut grass and a well-tended garden. Zoe didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Whenever she pictured foster homes she always pictured overgrown lawns and teenagers with tattoos, smoking cigarettes. This place showed no evidence of any kids at all.
Zoe and Chelsea had stopped off to take the cat to the kennel, and then visited a coffee shop “for a chat,” which clearly meant “get the dirt on your mom.” And the stupid thing was, Zoe knew this was the part when she was supposed to paint her mom as a veritable Mother Teresa meets Martha Stewart. She knew that. Problem was, when you can’t look someone in the eye, you don’t seem like a very reliable source. She ended up muttering things like “great mom,” “good cook” to her lap, which no doubt made Chelsea think her mom was a psycho serial killer.
Chelsea knocked on the door and there was immediate movement inside. Zoe fought panic, even as her arms and legs began to tingle. Was this the kind of place she’d have to live if her mom died?
“Hello!”
The woman who answered the door was older than Zoe expected—perhaps seventy. She was small and stout, in jeans and a blouse with gray hair cut into the universal cloud of fluff that old ladies seemed to favor. She smiled at Zoe with genuine warmth. “Welcome. You must be Zoe.”
“Yes,” Chelsea said when Zoe didn’t respond.
“I’m Judy. Won’t you come in?”
They followed her into a small sitting room, and Zoe sat next to Chelsea on a couch with fat floral cushions. A plate of cookies (oddly shaped enough to indicate they were homemade) sat in a dish on the table.
“Would you like a cookie, Zoe?” Judy asked.
Zoe shook her head.
“How about some tea?”
“No, thanks.”
Judy was being perfectly nice, and Zoe didn’t want to be rude, but there was no way she could eat or drink. It was taking all her energy just to keep it together.
“I hear your mom isn’t very well, Zoe. I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully she’ll be better soon and you’ll be back at home, taking care of her.”
There was something like understanding in Judy’s eyes. Zoe managed a small smile.
Chelsea left, after chatting with Judy for a few more minutes; then Judy offered to show Zoe to her room. Zoe stood and followed Judy to a small pink room with two single beds. They had matching floral quilts with pink pillowcases. There were a couple of pictures in frames, a pair of lamps, a poster of One Direction, and a pink iPod—Judy’s attempt at getting young and hip, clearly. Zoe wondered if she swapped it for a blue iPod if a boy was coming to stay. One entire wall was covered in photographs of children and teenagers.
“You can take either bed,” Judy said.
I want my bed, Zoe thought, tossing her bag onto the closest mattress. It was only when Judy nodded that Zoe realized she’d spoken out loud.
“Yes, there is something about your own bed, isn’t there?” Judy said thoughtfully. “And there’s definitely something about your own family. But I tell the kids who come here to think of my place not as an alternative home but an extra home. One of my boys who comes here regularly calls it ‘coming to Granny’s.’” Judy smiled. “I think it has a nice ring to it.”
Zoe looked over at the pictures on the wall. “Are those the kids you’ve looked after?”
“Yes. Some of them are grown-up now, and doing really well. Some have children of their own.”
“Why do you do it?”
Judy frowned, but in a good way, like she thought it was a very good question. “I suppose I want to do my part. There are so many people out there who are hurting. If everyone in the world did his or her part, then no one would have to be alone. We could all just be there for each other.”
For some reason this made Zoe well up with tears. Judy patted her shoulder. Zoe was worried she might try to hug her, but instead she headed for the door. Judy, Zoe realized, seemed to have a knack for knowing what she needed. “I’m going to get dinner started. You just holler if you need me, okay?”
When she was gone, Zoe sat on the bed, feeling the eyes of the children who had been here before her. Some of them were doing really well now, Judy had said. Some of them had children of their own. Zoe knew she should find this comforting, but instead she wondered about the other ones. The ones who weren’t doing so well. The ones for whom “coming to Granny’s” wasn’t enough. And she wondered, if something did happen to her mom, which one she would be.
23
As soon as Sonja opened the front door, she knew George was home. There was no evidence to this effect—she’d parked in the driveway, so she couldn’t tell if his car was in the garage or not—but Sonja just knew. After years of marriage she was so attuned to his presence that she could tell before even opening the door. Sure enough, he was at the kitchen counter on his laptop. There were fresh flowers in the vase by the window. The house was clean and polished; the rich hardwood floors gleamed up at her.
It was a far cry from the single-fronted home she’d grown up in. Sonja’s parents were working-class—a receptionist at a car dealership and a plumber—but Sonja had graduated to something bigger. A higher bracket. When she’d brought George home to meet her parents (separately, by then—they split up when she was nine) none of her family could conceal their surprise. “Good luck holding on to him,” her dad had muttered too loudly. Her sister, Agnes, seemed surprised too, but at least she kept quiet about it. At their wedding, Sonja could admit she felt a little smug. Bunch of nonbelievers, she remembered thinking, looking back at them from the altar. She knew they attributed her lack of visits to her “being too good for” them and she was happy to go along with that. It was easier than the truth. That she was embarrassed. That, perhaps, she never had any reason to be smug.
“Hello,” she said, dropping her grocery bags onto one end of the kitchen counter. She must have been on autopilot at the grocery store, because she didn’t even remember what was in them.
“How was your day?” George asked, his eyes still on the screen.
“Well … I had to place a client’s teenage daughter in foster care. That’s never fun.” She started unloading the groceries onto the counter. Eggs, marmalade, a cabbage. What on earth was she going to make with this?
“Why did you do that?” George asked.
“The girl was staying at home all alone while her mom was in the hospital,” she said. “Which might have been all right. But then her neighbor told me she never answers the door, doesn’t talk very much, and that she and her mom are very insular, they don’t go out much. She also had a bruise on her cheek and a fairly unlikely explanation for why it was there. And then she had a panic attack while I was with her.”