The Mother's Promise(39)

“Zoe, I also mentioned to your mother that we have a therapist working at the school at the moment who has extensive experience with teenagers. I wondered if you might like to talk to him.”

“Oh, thanks but … I think I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to talk to him about your mother’s diagnosis if you don’t want to. You could talk to him about anything. Issues with friendships. Problems at home. Anything at all. He’s right next door, you could see him right now—”

“Thanks,” Zoe interrupted. “But I’m fine.”

“All right,” Mrs. Hunt said, standing. “But if you change your mind, just say the word.”

Zoe let herself out of Mrs. Hunt’s office. As she got a pass from the desk she stole a glance into the next office, where a man sat in a swivel chair, typing. He was pretty old, maybe sixty, with grayish black hair. Perhaps feeling her gaze, he glanced up as she walked past his door.

Zoe felt a strange pulse of energy.

“Here’s your hall pass, Zoe,” the secretary said.

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks.”

She shoved the pass into her pocket and let herself out of the office. But as she took off down the hallway she had the weirdest feeling that she was being watched.





27

Everyone was in a hurry that afternoon. Kids charged through the school gates, backpacks slung over one shoulder, walking briskly or running. Eager to get home. Zoe was just as eager. She was almost at the gate when Sonja appeared beside her.

“Zoe?”

Zoe’s breath vanished. “Uh … yeah?”

“I’m here to take you to the hospital.”

Zoe took a step away from Sonja, even as she reached for Zoe’s bag. “Can I help you with this?”

“It’s okay,” Zoe said, moving farther away. She wanted to ask what had happened to Judy, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. Thankfully Sonja imparted this information voluntarily.

“Your mom has made alternative arrangements for you,” she said, and Zoe felt a wave of gratitude. Her mom was going to take care of things. Everything was going to be all right.

“My car is over here.”

Sonja’s car was ridiculous. Zoe wasn’t exactly a gear-head, but you could tell, even from the smell, that it cost. Cream leather seats, shiny brown dash, and a perfume smell that gave Zoe an instant headache. On TV and in movies, social workers always seemed to drive beat-up cars and smoked and had purple hair and a long list of atrocities committed against them, which had driven them to the job in the first place. Sonja seemed to defy every one of the stereotypes.

“Well,” Sonja said once they’d been on the road a minute and it was obvious Zoe wasn’t going to speak. “How was last night?”

“Fine.”

“And you liked Judy?”

“Yes.”

Sonja tapped the steering wheel with pale pink fingernails. Her little finger, Zoe noticed, was chipped, the nail torn to the nail bed. It was an unexpected chink in her perfect armor.

“And how are you doing?” Sonja said. “You were quite upset yesterday.”

Zoe turned to look at Sonja and met her eye. She quickly looked away again, but not before she saw something else in Sonja’s eyes. She actually cared.

“I’m okay,” Zoe whispered.

The small talk was painful. Zoe pretended to look out the window as if she were fascinated by the streets she walked along every day. If Emily were here she’d be babbling about anything—hair products, the assignment she got today, the leather seats of the car. The fact that Zoe couldn’t find a single word to say was just lame. She was lame.

When they reached the hospital they walked in silence through the lobby and into the elevator. The awkwardness was painful, but Zoe was buoyed by the fact that she would soon see her mom. The prospect of relief from the last twenty-four hours was making her woozy. Her mom was going to fix everything.

“Which room is it?” Zoe said when they came out of the elevator.

Sonja gestured and Zoe began to run. But when she rounded the corner to her mom’s room, she stopped dead. There was a nurse in there, changing a bandage around her mother’s middle. The bandage was caked in dried blood. A lot of blood.

“Oh,” Zoe said.

Her mom rolled her face toward the doorway. “Mouse!”

She looked awful. Tired and puffy and not like herself. Her hair, usually bouncy blond and tousled, was limp and desperately needed a wash. Her skin was pale and entirely free of makeup. She looked like a different person.

Somehow, Zoe managed to smile. “Hey.”

“Come in,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Zoe heard herself say. She felt surprisingly awkward standing there, like she was talking to a stranger and not her mom. She stepped forward and gave her a brusque kiss.

“I had no idea they were going to put you into foster care,” her mom said. “If I had known I—”

“Why did you tell me it was gallstones?”

Zoe hadn’t known she was going to blurt it out until the moment she did. But the betrayal stung. Her mom had always been the one person who told her the truth, no matter how difficult.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I should have told you the truth.”