“Are you sure Zoe’s all right?” David asked, climbing into bed beside Kate. He had a book in his right hand and his reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Actually I’m not,” Kate said. Zoe had spent the entire evening in her room and hadn’t even answered the door when Kate knocked to tell her dinner was ready. When Kate had let herself in, she’d found the door to the bathroom door closed, so she’d left her plate on the bed.
“Poor kid,” David said. “What will happen to her if … her mother doesn’t make it?”
“I have no idea. Usually there are oodles of family members around. I guess if no other family members come out of the woodwork, and if she’s under eighteen, she’ll go to a foster family.”
“And if she’s over eighteen?”
“Then she’s on her own.”
“Jesus.” David closed his eyes. “Can you imagine Jake or Scarlett on their own?”
Kate put a hand on his. “It would never happen to them. There are too many people who would want them. You and me, Hilary and Danny, uncles, aunts, cousins…” As she said it, Zoe’s fate seemed especially unfair. How did Scarlett and Jake have so many people and she had none? “Maybe I should check on her again?” she said.
David touched her shoulder. “Wait.”
She paused.
“Can we talk a minute?” he said. “I feel like things aren’t right between us.”
Kate hesitated for a moment before returning her legs to the bed.
“Can I just say I’m sorry?” he said, removing his reading glasses. “I know how hard all of this has been on you. I want to help you, but I feel like we’re just … out of touch with each other. I want to give you everything you want, Kate. It kills me that I can’t give you this.”
She drew herself over to him, taking his hands. She had a feeling that this was the opening she’d been waiting for. “You can, David. If we don’t give up, we can still have it. I know it hasn’t been easy, but don’t you always say ‘nothing worth having is easy to get’?”
He let out a long, slow breath. All at once Kate got the feeling this wasn’t the direction he wanted the conversation to go.
David rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, his eyes settling in the middle distance. “Think of it this way. What if you wanted to run a marathon even though every time you ran it caused you enormous pain? What if each time you set out on a run you ended up hospitalized and immobile for weeks? Would you expect me to support you then?”
“No,” Kate said. “But the situations are different.”
“How?”
“Because you’ve already run two marathons!” she cried. “And, since I’m the one who is willing to put in the training, you owe it to me to at least let me try for one.”
David stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair.”
He sighed. “I don’t want to argue, Kate.”
Kate looked at him. His face was full of compassion, full of determination to work this out. But there was something else in his face too. Resolve. He’d made his decision.
“Neither do I,” she said, even though it was the opposite of the truth.
*
Kate knocked gently on Zoe’s door. “Zoe? Are you awake?”
There was no movement inside. She was probably asleep. The kid had had a rough day. Kate turned back toward her room, then hesitated. She was responsible for the girl, at least for tonight. She should probably at least sight her before going to bed. She knocked again, a bit louder. “Zoe?”
Still nothing. Kate felt a flap of panic.
“Zoe?” This time she yelled it, flinging open the door. The room was empty, the bed made. The lasagna Kate had left her was on the desk, untouched. In a millisecond she went from concerned to hysterical. What if something had happened to her? What if … she’d done something to herself? Most of all … What had she been thinking, inviting her here?
“Zoe?” she cried. The bathroom door was closed, a thin line of light beaming out from the crack at the bottom. Just as it had been two hours earlier when she’d dropped off the lasagna. Kate lurched toward the bathroom door, but a moment before she got there, it opened.
“Hi.”
Zoe stood there. Her hair was wet and she wore a pair of dark sweatpants, a T-shirt, and socks.
“Oh,” Kate said. “Hi. I was just … checking you were okay.”
“Sorry. I was having a bath.” She looked at the floor, but Kate could see that her face was red and tearstained. Kate herself had had many a long cry in the bath.
“You’re not hungry?” Kate said, gesturing to the lasagna.
“No.” She blushed. Poor sweet thing was shy just having a conversation.
“I can make you something else?”
“It’s okay,” Zoe said. “Thanks though.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” Kate said. “Even if you just want to talk.”
“I will.”
Kate started to turn, but Zoe reached out and touched her arm. “Thank you … for … you know, letting me stay at your house.”
“Oh.” Now it was Kate’s turn to feel shy. “Well, we’re happy to have you.”
Zoe hesitated. “Is my mom going to die?”
In her job, Kate was a believer in absolute truth. But this situation was different. It wasn’t her truth to tell. She opened her mouth, unsure of the words that were going to come out.
“I thought so,” Zoe said before Kate could answer, and she walked back into the bathroom and closed the door.
31
Zoe stood at the unfamiliar gate with her finger poised. She knew she should just press the buzzer. If she turned back now, there was every possibility that she’d be caught. A car could drive up or someone could come out to check the mail, and find her hovering there. Explaining that would be worse than just ringing the damn bell.
That morning, for the second day in a row, Zoe had woken in a strange house. She’d barely slept a wink the night before. Right before she’d nodded off she’d received a text message from her mom saying she needed to stay in the hospital for a few more days. This worried Zoe, not only because it meant she couldn’t go home, but also, what did it mean for her mom? Were things worse than she was letting on? This morning she’d remained holed up in her room until the last possible minute before she had to leave for school, eager to avoid any sort of family breakfast routine. Kate had knocked, but she seemed to accept that Zoe was not hungry and didn’t force her to come down.