The Mother's Promise(33)

“Thanks, but I’m good here,” Zoe said.

The two women exchanged another look. “I’m sorry, Zoe, but we really don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone. If you don’t have anyone to stay with, you’ll need to go to emergency foster care.”

“Emergency…” Zoe’s heart began to thunder. “But I’m … fine here. Really.”

“Zoe.” Chelsea smiled. “Judy is really lovely. You’ll like her.”

Zoe blinked back tears. “Does my mom know about this?”

“As soon as she wakes up we’ll tell her.”

“She won’t like it.” Zoe felt whiney and petulant, like a child.

“Zoe,” Sonja said. “Your mother is very ill. If she knows you’re safe and happy, she can focus on getting better. Honestly, this is best for everyone.”

Zoe tried to focus her thoughts but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything. Kenny the cat appeared at her ankle and she bent to scoop him up. “What about my cat?”

“We can kennel him for a few days,” Chelsea said. “I know a great one not far away. I’ve used it for Lucy, my own cat.”

Zoe hugged Kenny tight. She didn’t care about Lucy.

“I’ll take you over to Judy’s,” Chelsea said. “Why don’t you go pack a bag? Everything will be fine Zoe, don’t you worry.”

Zoe closed her eyes. In a moment she would wake up and find that this whole thing—her mom’s cancer, Emily, foster care—had all been a bad dream. She wanted her mom. She wanted her mom so bad.

*

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.”