“I’ve been thinking about that,” Kate said, “and I wondered: How can anyone know what you mean? I mean, when even you can’t articulate it?”
Zoe shrugged as though it were a silly question. “Because of my actions. If I like a class, I always turn up for it … even though I might accidentally insult the teacher when I hand in my homework. Or if I hate a class—aka gym—I’ll avoid it at all costs. If I want to be friends with someone, I might try to sit near them, even if I don’t have the guts to talk to them. If I know someone is sad, I might try talking to them—even though I’ll probably end up blurting something out that makes it worse.”
“Actions,” Kate said, as if it were wildly complex instead of simple and obvious.
Zoe smiled with a little shrug. “They speak loudly, I hear.”
Kate thought of the things her dad had said over the years that had disappointed her. And then, of the things he did. Raising her, when he could easily have handed her off to a relative. Showing up to dinner whenever she invited him, awkward as it was. Calling her after her miscarriage to say he was sorry. Zoe was right. Actions spoke loudly.
“I probably shouldn’t have come here without telling my mom,” Zoe said finally, proving Kate’s theory that keeping communication going was always a good idea.
Kate looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell her? Do you think she’d make you go to school?”
“No,” Zoe said.
“So why not tell her?”
“She doesn’t need to worry about me on top of everything else.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Kate said. “But I’m not sure hiding things from her is the answer.”
“What is the answer?”
“Honestly,” Kate said, “I have no idea.”
They smiled at each other. Kate felt a tiny bit better.
“I really do love this room,” Zoe said after a few moments.
Kate nodded, suddenly remembering what Zoe had said last time she was in there. “It’s a good place to be by yourself, right?”
Zoe blushed and it occurred to Kate that this might be her cue to leave. Zoe probably needed some peace and quiet, some time to process everything. At the same time, Kate found herself reluctant to leave. For the first time in months, she felt comfortable right where she was.
“I know I said that,” Zoe said slowly. “But what I meant was, it’s a good place to be by myself … with you.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “God, does that even make any sense?”
Kate smiled. “Actually,” she said, “it makes perfect sense.”
46
Sonja stood in the doorway to the living room, watching George on the couch. She was worried. Since she’d denied his advances last night, something had changed between them. This morning he’d come downstairs fully dressed and declined her offer of breakfast, saying he’d grab something on his way out. Tonight, after a quiet dinner, he’d taken himself off to the couch to watch the news without a word. As unsettling as the sex was, being ignored was worse.
“Do you want to go to bed?” she said now, touching his hair. With her eyes, she tried to make her intent clear. It wasn’t that she desired sex, as much as she couldn’t remain on tenterhooks forever.
“You go ahead,” he said, keeping an eye on the screen. “I’ll be up in a bit.”
As she climbed into her empty bed, Sonja felt a little baffled. She wanted to set the clock back to the night before and let George do what he wanted to her. Let him squeeze her breasts. It couldn’t hurt worse than being rejected. It couldn’t hurt worse than being alone.
Sonja must have fallen asleep, because when she startled awake, the room was near black and the clock blinked 3:45 A.M. She could feel George beside her, perhaps just coming to bed.
“George?” she said. “Is that you?”
She rolled over and blinked up at him, smelling whiskey. In the dim light she saw him smile. Then he wrapped his hands around her throat.
Sonja tried to rear back, but she was pressed against the mattress and there was nowhere to go. She could feel his thumbs pressing against her Adam’s apple. Panic set in. She began kicking her legs and arms. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
She held eye contact, making her eyes round and serious, trying to communicate that it had gone too far. But, although he was looking at her, he was unseeing. He didn’t look like George at all. He looked like a monster.
Finally, he let go.
Sonja quickly rolled away from him, gasping and retching. Air wheezed in and out of her lungs, making a horrible rasping noise. She turned to look at George and noticed that the smile had slid from his face. This wasn’t about sexual gratification, she realized. Not anymore. It was about power. And George had to be the one to have it.
47
A week after her first chemo session, Alice was struggling. She wasn’t sick to her stomach, but she felt woolly-headed, sweaty, like she had the flu, and she was bone-tired, as if she could sleep for days. For a week her evening routine had been the same. Each night she’d curl up with Zoe and a cup of tea, Alice watching the television, Zoe absorbed in her book.
“Can I get you some pills?” Zoe asked each night, code for You don’t look so good.
“Sure,” Alice would reply, code for I don’t feel so good.
Now Zoe was at school, which meant Alice was on her own. She hadn’t worked since before chemo—she’d had to hire another two part-timers while she was out of action. Yesterday one of them had dropped off a stack of get-well wishes from the clients, as well as a bunch of flowers from Mrs. Featherstone. Alice was touched. She had, of course, sent cards to her clients when they’d been in and out of the hospital. But she hadn’t understood how humbling it felt to be on the receiving end.
Alice pulled a blanket around her shoulders. Her brochure said she should call the hospital if something didn’t feel right, but according to the cancer-forum ladies, chills were a normal side effect of chemo. The cancer-forum ladies were people she interacted with online and who had screen names like Hope4me and LongLife and Survivor! (Alice’s screen name was CancerSucks.) The strangest thing about chemo, the forum ladies agreed, was the red pee. The nurses had explained to Alice that because the dye in the chemo was red, her pee would be red too, until it flushed out of her system. The good news, the forum ladies all said, was that you could tell when the chemo was through, because your pee returned to its normal color. Calling it “good news,” Alice thought, was a stretch, but she supposed they were all in short supply of good news.
There was a knock at the door just as Alice got comfy on the couch.
“Go away,” she whispered.
But whoever it was just knocked again. Groaning, Alice hauled herself upright and toward the door. When she swung it open, Paul was standing there. He was wearing the same hoodie and jeans he’d worn the last time she saw him.