The Mother's Promise

by Sally Hepworth

  Dulcie was thin.

  “Sorry, Dulcie,” Zoe said turning toward her own door.

  “What if I’d been trying to sleep?” Dulcie cried. “You would have woken me up!”

  Zoe apologized again, even though it was eight thirty on a Saturday night, and scrambled for her keys with useless, uncooperative hands. She just wanted to get out of this hallway into her apartment. Away from Dulcie and away from people. Finally she found her key and slid it into the door.

  “Young people these days,” Dulcie muttered.

  Inside, the lights were off, and it took Zoe a second or two to locate her mother on the couch, watching TV. A comforter was slung over her hips and a pizza box sat on the floor beside her.

  She looked up, instantly panicked. “Mouse?”

  Zoe had managed to hold back the tears all the way home, but at the sight of her mother she broke into a full-blown ugly cry.

  “What happened? Oh, no. Come here.”

  Her mom opened the comforter and Zoe crawled in. She laid her head on her mom’s chest, drenching her.

  “I tried, Mom,” she said when her sobs had slowed enough for her to talk. “I went to the mall. I even talked to Em. But then the boys came up and I … I started to panic. I ran away in front of everyone. I ran!”

  Zoe could see her mother’s face in the window reflection. She shook her head, resolute. “At least you tried. You should be proud of yourself.”

  Zoe knew she’d say something like this, and yet today it made her angry. “Proud of myself? I’m a freak, Mom. A fucking freak.”

  Once again she liquefied into tears.

  “I know it seems hard to believe now,” her mom said, “but this is not the end of the world.”

  Zoe felt her face mangle in pain. “I lost my best friend. My only friend. For a high school student, that’s the end of the world.”

  “You don’t know you’ve lost her, hon. I’m sure Em will understand.”

  Her mom’s voice was still calm, still soothing. But when Zoe snuck a look at her mom’s face in the reflection she saw a mangled mirror image of her own.

  14

  Alice knocked on Paul’s door fifteen or twenty times before finally letting herself in with her key. She’d driven an hour to get here; she wasn’t leaving without seeing him. Something heavy was behind the door and she had to put her whole shoulder into it to edge it open. A wet rolled-up towel, as it turned out. She didn’t want to know why that was there. The last time Alice had let herself in to her brother’s apartment, he’d been in bed with a woman. Sleeping, thankfully. Passed out, actually. That time it had taken several hard slaps before Paul came to, but today he was awake, plodding wearily into the living room.

  “Alice!”

  He grinned. It was something, she supposed, that he was pleased to see her even if it did raise the odds that he was still drunk.

  “I knocked,” she said.

  He nodded, sheepish. “I heard.”

  She looked around. She hadn’t remembered the place looking this bad. It had never looked good—a decrepit apartment with a shared kitchen and bathroom. The carpet, which had once been cream, was now gray and littered with beanbag fill. The curtains had just three hooks still attached; the rest had been affixed with electrical tape so they were permanently closed save for one corner where a triangle of light beamed in. The glass coffee table was covered in ashtrays and coffee mugs and half-empty bottles of wine and Jack Daniel’s and Coke. There was a faint smell of vomit and whiskey.

  Paul glanced at her empty hands and failed to conceal his disappointment. Usually Alice brought food. She knew better than to bring cash. He had enough to survive. Alice collected his disability payments and had set up an account for him, releasing funds in small amounts every few days so he couldn’t kill himself on a booze-filled bender. Still he did, invariably, spend the majority on booze, so he was always happy when she arrived with groceries.

  Well, not today.

  “So,” he said. “What brings you by?”

  She sighed. “Take a seat, would you?”

  Alice swept a crisp packet and a coffee mug off the chair and sat herself. Paul did the same, a serious expression registering on his face.

  “Is it Zoe?” he asked.

  “No, thank God. It’s me.” She decided there was no point in sugarcoating it, especially for Paul. “I have cancer.”

  Paul blinked, presumably in shock, but it only served to make him look like more of a stoner. She braced herself for him to say something like “Fuck, man.” She ached, in that moment, to have a brother who actually had his shit together. A brother she could have this conversation with over sushi during his lunch break, a brother who would grab his suit jacket, call his secretary and tell her to cancel his meetings for the rest of the day so he could spend the afternoon driving around to specialists he knew, to get a second opinion. At the very least, a brother who could say, “Well don’t worry a bit about the financial side, I’ve got you covered. And Zoe will have a home with us forever. She’ll never want for anything.”

  Instead, Alice had Paul.

  “Shit, Al,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s … that’s shit.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed.

  “What kind of cancer?”

  “Ovarian.”

  “Same as Mom.”

  “Yep.”

  “Fuck.”

  He was so out of his depth. It was like Alice was having a conversation with a teenager rather than a forty-three-year-old man.

  “So … how bad is it?” he asked.

  “I have an operation scheduled tomorrow,” she said. “They’re going to take out my ovaries and fallopian tubes.”

  He waited a few seconds, at least, before reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table. “Do you mind if I…?”

  “Actually I do.” Alice took the bottle. “If you could just wait until I leave, I’d appreciate it.”

  He nodded, as though he’d expected it. “Well … what can I do?”

  It wasn’t so much the question as the way he said it. Emphasis on the “I.” What can I do? As if she had asked him how to single-handedly solve the world’s hunger problem. It pissed her off. “What can you do?”

  “I mean…,” he stammered, “I don’t have any money, and I … you wouldn’t want to leave Zoe with me, surely?”

  Alice couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. That this was her only support person. Alice held her hands to her mouth and nose, trying to hold in the crazy. “Do you know what I want you to do? I want you to grow the fuck up.”

  Paul winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “What do you want me to be?”

  She laughed—a light airy sound, tinged with rage. “I want you to be a man.”

  He stared at his hands.

  “I realize you don’t have any money,” Alice said, when she’d calmed slightly. “And no, I wouldn’t want to leave Zoe with you. But here’s the situation. We don’t have any parents. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have any family … except you. And in the next little while I’m going to need some help.”

  “What kind of help?” he asked warily.

  “As I said, I’m going into the hospital tomorrow. It would be great if I had someone to stay in the apartment with Zoe while I’m gone. After I get out, I might need someone to drive me to and from appointments, in a sober state. I might need someone to be my family.”

  Alice didn’t know at what point she’d started crying. It hadn’t reflected in her voice. Paul sat back in his ripped vinyl chair, bone-white, and on the verge of tears himself. Then he started crying too.

  “Paul—”

  He reached for the bottle in her hand and this time she let him take it. And just like that, Alice realized there wasn’t a chance in the world that he was going to be able to be the person she needed. That she was, pure and simple, in this thing alone.

  15

  Alice arrived at the hospi
tal at 7 A.M.—half an hour before her scheduled arrival time. She’d awoken early with a strange sense of calm. Yes, she was short on family support, but she’d been short on that for years and she’d always done okay. And today was the day they were going to take the cancer out of her! It was all going to be all right.

  A social worker named Sonja had joined her in the waiting room a few minutes earlier. Alice had, of course, insisted that she didn’t require a social worker, but apparently she didn’t have a choice. Sonja was one of those curiously ageless people who could have been forty as easily as sixty. She was attractive without being beautiful, tall and impeccably dressed, right down to a string of pearls, but she was a nervous type, rattling off a list of services that Alice was entitled to while patting her repeatedly with a cold hand.

  “There are, of course, certain financial grants that we can apply for, depending on your income level,” she was saying. “Charitable organizations et cetera.”

  Alice hadn’t been listening, but at this, her ears pricked up. They hadn’t discussed finances in her appointment with the doctor, or if they had, she hadn’t been listening. She had health insurance, but it never covered everything.

  “I understand you have a daughter,” Sonja said, once her spiel was complete.

  “Yes, Zoe.”

  “And where is Zoe now?”

  Alice might have been imagining it, but it felt like Sonja’s eyes had become vaguely beady.

  “She’s at home. Hopefully getting ready for school.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “She is.” Alice made a mental note not to joke with Sonja. “She is getting ready for school.”

  “Is she at home unsupervised often?”

  The only other people in the waiting room were a middle-aged couple. The man—paunchy and balding—had his hand on the woman’s thigh. They glanced around the room, pretending they weren’t listening.

  “She’s fifteen, so it’s hardly neglect,” Alice snapped.

  “I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “—but, as it happens, no, she’s not home unsupervised often. Major abdominal surgery is something of a rarity in our household.”

  Sonja opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, a nurse crouched in front of Alice.

  “Alice Stanhope?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “My name is Kerry and I’ll be looking after you prior to your operation.”

  Alice frowned. “But … where’s Kate?”

  “She’s not on today, hon.”

  “Well, where is she?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid,” she said, shrugging. “Can I take your bag? Come this way.”

  Kerry had thick auburn ringlets and a wide gap between her front teeth. She seemed perfectly nice. And yet Alice felt irrationally put out. She felt comfortable with Kate. There was just something about her—Alice couldn’t put her finger on it—that made her feel cared for. Being greeted by another nurse, Alice felt like she was starting all over again.

  “All … right,” she muttered.

  Alice found her feet and trundled off after Kerry. Sonja, unfortunately, followed. When they got to her room, Sonja sat in the corner scribbling into a notebook while Kerry dispatched a gown and confirmed that Alice had followed her pre-op instructions. While she was finalizing her paperwork, Dr. Brookes came in.

  He was nicer than Alice remembered—introduced himself as Chris. Maybe he’d been nice last time and she just hadn’t noticed? Or maybe her mind was playing tricks on her now, needing to believe that someone in the operating room cared about her. His hair, Alice observed, was still wet from the shower, which made her picture him in the shower—not an entirely unwelcome thought—and then think about his morning routine thus far. Had he flicked through the newspaper while eating a bowl of cornflakes? Made love to his wife? Fed the dog? Had he done all the regular things one did before heading off to work in the morning, unmoved by the fact that he’d be scooping organs out of his patient in just a few hours?

  Dr. Brookes introduced Alice to another doctor, an anesthesiologist who trotted out some jokes that Alice somehow knew he used on every patient. As such, they failed to make her laugh. He explained to her what drugs he was going to use, his post-op pain-management regime. He did all the things he could to make her feel at ease. Then they waved good-bye to Sonja (who hastily put down her notes and wished her luck) and the three of them—Kerry, Dr. Brookes, and the anesthesiologist—rolled her down the hallway to the operating room, where at least another four people were setting up for surgery. For the first time since arriving, Alice felt in grave danger of falling apart.

  She lay there for a while, watching as people buzzed about her, wheeling carts, carrying trays. The anesthesiologist put a needle in her hand and attached a tube. Alice thought back to the balding man in the waiting room, patting his wife’s thigh. No one was waiting for her. When more people arrived in the operating room, Alice marveled. How many people did it take to scoop out some organs? She must have said it out loud, because Dr. Brookes laughed and said, “Yes, I’m sure it does seem like a lot of people are in here. But everyone has an important role, I assure you.”

  A few minutes later, the anesthesiologist told her to count backward from twenty. Soon, he said, she would feel sleepy. Alice thought of the waiting room again, of the fact that there was no one waiting for her.

  “Alice? Can you count?”

  “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…,” she started.

  Once upon a time she would have had a roomful of people waiting for her. Her mother, her father. Maybe even her brother. Not anymore. How sad would it be if she died on this table and no one was waiting? What would happen to Zoe? Who would give her the news?

  “Alice?”

  “Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen…,” she continued.

  Alice had a sudden urge to rip the tube out of her arm and run away. What was she doing, lying on this table, leaving her daughter alone to fend for herself? What if the worst did happen? She had an almost overpowering yearning for Zoe. But she also felt drowsy. She couldn’t be bothered counting anymore, so she ignored the anesthesiologist when he called to her. She felt something brush her eyelashes.

  “Okay,” the anesthesiologist said. “She’s out.”

  No, she wanted to say, I’m not. I’m not out! You have to let me go and see my daughter.

  But then, a moment later, she was out.

  16

  Zoe had a secret. That, in itself, was pretty hard to believe. She wasn’t the kind of teenager who kept everything from her parents—of course she didn’t, she didn’t have anything to keep from her mom. Except this. She did it when she was alone in her bedroom when the house was empty and quiet. To unwind, but more important, to chase away the voices of self-loathing. To help her get up in the morning.

  She watched speeches.

  She had her favorites. Obama’s inauguration speech, Steve Jobs’s Stanford commencement address, pretty much any TED Talk. It didn’t really matter what the speech was about, so long as there were gasps when there were meant to be gasps, and claps when there were meant to be claps. So long as people were enthralled. So long as they were moved to tears or laughter or both. So long as they were on the edge of their seats.

  When Zoe found a speech she liked, she watched it on her laptop until she’d memorized every word and gesture, every pause and hand movement. Then she delivered them. The funny thing was, when she spoke to her wall, her voice held power. Her heart didn’t race. Her hands didn’t tremble. She felt the absence of her fear as strongly as if it were a presence. A balloon of air, a feeling of fullness, pushing out the blackness that she always felt. In her bedroom, the silence was people on tenterhooks for her next word, the looks were of admiration. And she wanted, for once, to be noticed.

  As far as vices went, it could have been worse. And yet, in a way, it was a form of self-harm. Like the kid in the wheelchair who dreamed of being an Olympic high jumper, th
e mute who dreamed of being an opera singer—she was dreaming about something that would never be possible for her. Which meant the best she could hope for was delivering speeches to a wall.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, Zoe’s walk to school was long. It was always long—almost forty minutes’ walk—but she preferred it to the world of potential horror that existed inside the bus. The side of the road in Atherton was never busy because most people drove. The people Zoe did pass—bringing their garbage out, or returning from walking the dog—were friendly enough, but despite talk of Atherton’s strong sense of community, no one chatted over the fences. They couldn’t; the fences were too high. It made Zoe wonder how many people were actually like her—wanting to be surrounded by people, but needing to shut them out.

  At six that morning Zoe had felt her mom’s lips brush her cheek before she’d headed off to the hospital. Zoe had kept her eyes closed, wanting to linger in that not-quite-awake bliss where the terror of the day hadn’t crashed in on her yet, but now she wondered when she had done that. Her mom was probably lying on an operating table somewhere right now and Zoe hadn’t even bothered to wake up and say good-bye? What did that say about her?

  Keyhole surgery, a Web site had said when she’d Googled the gallstones operation over breakfast. Very safe. Patients should be able to return to normal activities after a week. It seemed reassuring, Zoe thought, until she scrolled down to “Risks.” Infection of an incision. Internal bleeding. Bile leaking into the abdominal cavity. The liver being cut. Death.

  Death.

  As she thought about it, her mind brought up an image, a B-grade-film-type image, of her being called into Mrs. Hunt’s office that morning and told the news. “We’re very sorry, Zoe, but your mom, she didn’t make it.”

  And Zoe hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye.

  She could feel herself spiraling then, picturing it all in minute detail. The casket and eulogies, the outfit she’d wear to the funeral, herself crying on a pew that was empty apart from herself. She wouldn’t have to go to school for a few days, or even a few weeks. Emily would forgive her—because what friend held a grudge against someone whose mother had just died?—and she’d spend a few weeks holed up in her apartment, eating frozen meals that had been left on her doorstep by one of her mom’s clients. It played out almost like a fantasy, a horrible fantasy, and yet it soothed her somehow. Which went to show that she was a truly horrible person who didn’t deserve her mom, or anything else.