The Mother's Promise(71)

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“I’m not great at these kinds of things, Kate,” he said finally. “But if you want to talk … I’m not a bad listener.”

This was true, she realized. Her father had always been a good listener. Now that she thought of it, he had lots of good qualities—it was just that his inability to communicate well hadn’t allowed her to see them. It occurred to Kate how easy it must be for someone who was uncomfortable with social interaction to become isolated in the world. She also realized how easy it was to overlook the value that person could bring.

“You know what?” she said. “A good listener is exactly what I need.”





52

Alice was lying on the couch, hoping a nap would come, when the door crashed open. By the time she opened her eyes, Zoe was standing over her, her finger pointed at her.

“Did you tell Kate she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore?”

Alice sat up. “Zoe—”

“Did you?” she cried. Alice couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Zoe so angry.

“Yes, I did.”

She saw it then, something she’d never seen on her daughter’s face before—a flash of pure white rage. “How could you? After everything Kate has done for us?”

“Give you a place to hide, you mean, when you were playing hooky from school?”

“How about: let me stay at her house so I didn’t have to go to foster care?” Zoe cried.

Alice felt a wave of indignation. But she forced herself to breathe. She was the adult here, she needed to remain rational and in control. “I was grateful to Kate for that, Zoe. But that doesn’t excuse what she did.”

“Help me, you mean? When I really needed it?”

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” Alice’s voice broke unexpectedly. “I’m your mother.”

With her mouth already open to respond, Zoe glanced at the cushion where Alice’s head had just been. Alice followed her gaze to a chunk of hair left behind on the cushion—blond at one end and a lightish brown at the other.

“Oh,” Alice said, her hand rising instinctively to her head. She knew now was the time to say something calming, to whisk the hair away with a smile so as to not traumatize Zoe. But she was momentarily frozen, unable to react. Her hair.

Zoe picked it up.

Years ago Alice had seen a stand-up comedian do a skit about hair. When attached to someone’s head, he’d said, hair was lovely. People smelled it, brushed it, ran their fingers through it. But once it left your head, he said, hair became something to be feared. A hair in your soup could have a restaurant shut down. People had cleaning companies brought in to remove dog hair from furniture.

It had brought the house down. So true, Alice had thought. A hair off your head was not a good thing. It was gross. Disgusting. Yet here was Zoe, on the couch beside her, holding a chunk of her hair like it was the most precious gem. It undid Alice.

“You were sick, Mom. I didn’t want to worry you with my problems.”

Alice closed her eyes. “Honey. I shouldn’t have got so upset with Kate. But when you confided in her, I … I was jealous.”

“You were?”

“I can see how much you like her. And I … understand why you like her.”

Zoe went quiet for a moment.

“I do like her,” she said. “She’s really nice and easy to talk to.”

“All right, all right.” Alice smiled.

“But I like you more,” Zoe said. It was downright juvenile how silly that comment was. And it was even more juvenile how much Alice enjoyed hearing it. “Kate doesn’t know the way I like to loop my Cheerios on a straw and suck them off.”

Alice smiled. “That is quite weird.”

“She doesn’t know how I can only watch TV on the floor while folding laundry.”

Alice saw the direction this was headed and she felt her eyes fill. “Yes, I never really understood that.”

“I can’t crawl into bed with Kate and sleep beside her because she’d probably think that was creepy.”

“True,” Alice agreed. That was definitely only something a fifteen-year-old girl could do with her mother. The tears began to slide, unchecked, down Alice’s cheeks, and Zoe’s. Zoe leaned over and laid her head against Alice’s chest.

“I still need you, Mom,” Zoe said.

“You have me, Mouse,” Alice said, and at least for now, the words felt true.





THREE


The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.

—MARK TWAIN





53

“I made a comment in class this week,” Zoe said. It felt childish, reporting back her success to Dr. Sanders, but Zoe couldn’t deny it felt good. It almost made the horrors of putting up her hand worth it. She’d done it in English, of all classes. They’d been having a class discussion about The Outsiders. When she’d raised her hand, Mrs. Patterson had done a double take.

“Do you … have some thoughts on this, Zoe?”

“Uh, well … I think S. E. Hinton did a good job of looking at life as an outsider,” she muttered. “Ponyboy felt like an outsider in his own town, he didn’t feel safe walking the streets in his own neighborhood because he was a greaser. He felt angry about that, and that it wasn’t fair. But he came to realize that, in a way, everyone is an outsider and he needed to change his outlook.”