Harry scruffed the little girl’s hair. “Actually, Maggie, Zoe is here to see me. We have homework.”
“No!” The little girl’s face morphed into pure fury. “You have to wats da so!” She launched herself at him, catching his upper arm.
“Dad?” Harry yelled, with Maggie hanging off his biceps. “Need some help here.”
Zoe followed Harry through an archway into a living room that belonged in a design magazine. The floors were black, polished concrete, and art hung on every wall. On the white, streamlined couch was a man who looked exactly like Harry—except older. His right leg, in a cast, was stretched out in front of him, and the television was on. When he saw Zoe he became instantly animated.
“Well, hello there!” he said, his eyes darting to Harry. He tried to stand but then gestured at his leg and gave up. “I’m Leigh, Harry’s dad. I’m not usually here during the day, but as you can see I’m recovering from knee surgery.”
Zoe smiled at the floor, blushing. “Hi.”
“Dad, this is Zoe,” Harry said. “We’ve got homework. Please tell Maggie we don’t have time to watch the show.”
“No!” she screamed.
“I’ll watch the show, Mags,” Harry’s dad said.
Maggie continued to scream, but Leigh wasn’t listening, he was looking at Zoe. He seemed unexpectedly delighted to see her, which made no sense to Zoe. Surely Harry had people over all the time?
“So do you kids want to work in here or—”
“We’ll go to my room,” Harry said quickly, and before Zoe had time to protest, he was guiding her toward the staircase. Harry’s room? She’d never been in a guy’s room her entire life!
They walked to the top of the stairs in silence. So far Zoe had managed to avoid saying a word to Harry, but now the silence was deafening. Her palms became slick. Say something!
“So did you have your … appointment?” she blurted out. “After school?”
Harry blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah.”
Zoe had hoped it would kick off some more conversation—he’d tell her that he’d been to the dentist and needed a retainer, or to the PT for an injury—but that appeared to be the end of that. Silence descended again. They walked past an enormous window and Zoe fantasized about diving out of it. At the same time, another part of her, a braver, more hormone-driven part, wanted to go into Harry’s room.
“In here,” Harry said when they reached a door at the end of the hallway.
Harry’s room was as big as Zoe’s apartment. Despite its size, it was plain and boyish and a little bit messy, with a desk and chair, and an unmade king-size bed against one wall.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Harry said, easing himself onto the bed. Then he paused. “Sorry, did you want a drink or something?”
“No,” Zoe murmured, though her throat was bone-dry. She sat on Harry’s desk chair. “I’m good.”
“Okay then,” he said. He reached for his laptop on his bedside table and arranged it in his lap. “Where do we start?”
Zoe felt oddly distracted. Harry looked different like this, in his room. More relaxed or something. Maybe it was the T-shirt he was wearing? He looked really … hot. Really really hot.
“Zoe?”
“Oh, um…” She tried to gather her thoughts, but her brain was not complying. Harry and his newfound cuteness had thrown her off. The ridiculous thing was, she knew where to start. Last night, she had watched Emma Watson’s UN speech about feminism. It was simple, uncomplicated—like most powerful speeches. It followed a standard sort of structure that by now Zoe was familiar with. Open with some anecdotes, delve into some history, perhaps a few statistics. Move on to the present and end, of course, with hopes for the future. It wasn’t rocket science, at least the writing of it wasn’t. So why couldn’t she bring herself to speak?
She looked at Harry and then quickly away again. Had he always been this cute?
She felt him watching her. “Man, you are shy, aren’t you? The closet is over there if you want to put your head in?”
“No,” she said, her cheeks pooling with color.
Harry raised his eyebrows. Really? Clearly she wasn’t fooling anyone. He frowned, thinking hard. It only made him look cuter.
“What if you closed your eyes? Would that help? Maggie gets freaked out at birthday parties that have kids’ entertainers, but if she closes her eyes she really enjoys it.”
Zoe thought she might actually die, right there in Harry’s room. Harry would have to track down her mom, in the hospital, to give her the body.
“Okay, I’m not saying you’re like a three-year-old,” he said quickly. “I just saw a parallel. The point is, we need to do something. I can’t do the debate without you—you’re smarter than me! But we can’t get to the smart, if we don’t get rid of the shy.”
He gave her wink, and Zoe fell in love with him just a tiny bit. Or at least enough to try closing her eyes.
“I guess I can … try it,” she said. She closed her eyes.
“Cool,” Harry said. “So where shall we start?”
For a moment all Zoe could think about was Harry’s wink. But after a moment, she began to recall the Emma Watson speech.
“We need to open by introducing our argument,” she said, “then offer some anecdotes, some history, and some statistics if we have any. Then we talk about the present and end with the future.”
Zoe heard Harry’s fingers on the keyboard—fast, urgent keystrokes.
“I think our argument should be centered around the fact that we are a country of equality,” she said. “If students are called by their first names, why should teachers be different?”
“Good point,” Harry said, typing faster.
“The second speaker is going to talk about how calling teachers by their first name promotes trust between teacher and student, which in turn, leads to students asking more questions and getting better outcomes. They will quote some direct studies to support this. And the third speaker will…”
The blackness against her eyes was like a cool compress to her self-doubt, and Zoe found herself able to think surprisingly well. Usually when she spoke in front of someone her entire consciousness was focused on herself, and more debilitatingly, what others were thinking about her. This time she was thinking about the debate. And funnily enough, she was thinking of things other than the debate. Like Harry. Although he was several paces away, she was hyperaware of his presence in the room. The tap of his fingers on the keyboard. His smell—deodorant and chewing gum. When he shifted on the bed, or reached for something, she could practically feel it. He paused occasionally to make the odd—usually good—point, but other than that, Zoe did most of the talking. After about forty-five minutes she heard the metallic thunk of the laptop closing.
She opened her eyes.
Harry was on the edge of his bed, his body a mirror to hers. Their knees faced each other, inches apart. Zoe wanted to look away, she knew she should, but somehow she couldn’t. She felt something. A pulse. And she had the distinct feeling that Harry felt it too, because they both immediately dropped their gaze and began to fidget. And any reprieve she’d had from her anxiety vanished, just like that.
“Good job,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I think we’re done.”
Zoe’s cheeks, judging by the heat in them, were fiery red. She was looking at a hangnail, so she didn’t notice Harry reach out. He touched her flaming cheek. “Red,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah,” she said in the same tone.
“So I guess you’re seriously shy?”
She shrugged. “I guess I am.”
“So why volunteer for the debate?”
Zoe hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t know, it was more that she didn’t think Harry—or anyone—could possibly understand.
“Have you ever wanted to do something so badly but your body won’t let you?” she said.
Harry was silent for a long time. “Actually I have.” He gazed off, t
hinking deeply. “Sometimes you think if you want something bad enough, your body will have to go along with it.”
“Exactly,” she said. “But so far, for me … it’s not working so well. My body has a mind of its own. The blushing. The sweating. The shyness. You know.”
Harry stared at her for so long Zoe thought she might explode with mortification. “Well,” he said. “I think it’s cool that you’re trying.”
Zoe dropped her gaze, suddenly overwhelmed. “Oh wow,” she said, looking at her watch, “is that the time? I’ve, um, really got to get going.”
She stood, tripping over a shoe on the floor but catching herself before she fell flat on her face.
“Zoe—”
“Sorry, I’ll see you at school,” she said and bolted. But as she descended the stairs, amid all her feelings of horror and humiliation, she realized she actually felt pretty good.
32
Theo waved his hands theatrically in front of Sonja’s face. “Sonja? Anybody home?”
“I was listening,” Sonja said snippily. But she wasn’t. She’d always thought team meetings were pointless. She felt for the clients of her colleagues, of course, but she didn’t see how it was a good use of her time to be updated on ill people she had nothing to do with.
“Update on Alice Stanhope?” Theo prompted after a few seconds.
“Oh. Right. Well, she’ll be released from the hospital tomorrow. She’s refused Meals on Wheels, but her daughter will be back with her, so she won’t be completely alone. I’ll take her home and make sure she has everything she needs.”
The truth was, Sonja was feeling guilty. She still wasn’t sure what she could have done differently with regard to putting Zoe in foster care, but she had put her concerns to rest about Alice. Clearly Alice was a good mother. She certainly hadn’t been responsible for the bruise on Zoe’s face. The only thing Alice was guilty of was, perhaps, being a struggling single mother without much support.
“Will she be having further treatment?”
“Chemo, starting in a couple of weeks. I’ll be in touch with her about transport. And I’ll attend appointments with her as a support person.”
“All right,” Theo said, looking at the notepad in front of him. “That’s it for updates. Now, the Donaldsons are having trouble understanding the costs for Tom’s surgery. Can someone give them a call?” He glanced up. “Sonja?”
“I can do it,” Dagmar said. Dagmar was fresh out of college and a little too keen for Sonja’s liking. Always watching what everyone else was doing, and talking about “best practices.” Sonja was tempted to let her call the Donaldsons, but it wouldn’t look good in front of all these people, and Sonja understood all about keeping up appearances.
“It’s okay,” Sonja said, reaching for the file. “I’ll do it.”
The meeting ended with Theo delivering his mandatory speech about how they did a tough job and they all needed to support each other. Then, one by one, people filed out of the room.
Sonja remained where she was, flicking through the Donaldsons’ file, though her mind was elsewhere. Everything ached. Her legs, her arms, her breasts. Her mind. She’d spent the whole night berating herself. What was wrong with her? Some women would probably love the unpredictability of sex with George. It was spontaneous. Exciting. Creative. Perhaps if she weren’t such a frigid old bore, she would have thought so too.
The truth was, for years, she’d been waiting for George to leave her. Waiting for him to find a younger, fitter model. Someone who could match his libido. In a way it would be a relief, even if the shame would destroy her. The girls she went to school with—the ones who’d whispered about the new Range Rover she’d driven to the last reunion—would delight in the news of her abandonment. Goes to show, they’d say, nudging each other. Money can’t buy a good marriage. (Neither can poverty! Sonja would point out, if they were ever brave enough to say it to her face.) Sonja had a brief longing for her sister, Agnes. Once, she would have been able to discuss this whole thing with her. But she’d shut Agnes out for too long. She had a feeling that ship had sailed.
Besides, for the most part George was a gentleman. That was what she loved the most—the gallantry. The times when he’d hold out her coat for her to slip her arms into. The times that he called her “darling.” The nights spent on the couch watching House of Cards or Breaking Bad. Recently, after they’d watched the film Midnight in Paris, he’d looked at her with something resembling fondness and said, “Remember when we went to Paris? Why don’t we do that again? Just hop on a plane?” They never did hop on a plane, but she took it as evidence that things could have been worse.
“Everything okay?”
Sonja hated herself for jumping when Dagmar appeared in the doorway.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Do you need the room?”
“No.” Dagmar rolled over a wheelie chair and sat in it. “Actually I just wondered if you were okay. You seemed a bit distracted in the meeting.”
Sonja frowned. “Did I?”
“What happened to your wrist?”
Sonja glanced at her wrist. It was sore, perhaps bruised from last night. She’d worn her wrist brace to cover it up. “Oh, you know … tennis.”
“You’re limping a bit today too,” Dagmar said.
Sonja wanted to tell Dagmar to mind her own business. Instead she said, “Arthritis in my hip. You’ll understand when you’re old.” She smiled.
“I’m probably overstepping,” Dagmar guessed correctly. “But Theo was just saying we need to look out for each other. And I’ve been wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
Dagmar shrugged, raising her eyebrows with an expression that said You tell me.
Sonja continued to look baffled, partly because it was the game, and partly because she was baffled. How old was Dagmar anyway? Twenty-one? Was she actually having this conversation with her?
“Sonja. You’re constantly peppered with small injuries, you’re jumpy and defensive, you’re always distracted…”
“No, I’m not,” she said. Was she? “You think I’m being abused?”
“Are you?”
“No!” Sonja laughed.
It was funny. Dagmar thought she was being abused. But Dagmar just gave her a surprisingly all-knowing look. “You know that if you need someone to talk to, it would stay between us. I can tell you about your options.”
It was too ridiculous. They were the exact words Sonja used with clients who’d been hospitalized with injuries consistent with domestic violence. Sonja herself might have given Dagmar the verbiage when she started with them. Next she’d go into the “Abuse isn’t always clear-cut” part.
“Abuse isn’t always clear-cut, you know,” Dagmar continued. “And there are lots of different kinds. Verbal abuse. Sexual abuse. Physical violence. Any way that someone controls you is abuse.”
Sonja shook her head. But her mind caught on the words “sexual abuse.” She’d recited the spiel so many times but she’d never really thought about it. Sexual abuse. What was that, exactly? Then again, what difference did it make? She wasn’t one of those women who was admitted to the hospital with broken bones and black eyes (well, the broken wrist, but that had been an accident). She was simply submitting to her husband’s advances. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t refuse. She could, any time she wanted.
It wasn’t abuse.
Unfortunately she’d paused for too long. Dagmar looked victorious. “You’re better off alone, Sonja. It might not feel like it now. He might have threatened you, told you he’d hurt you if you tried to leave, but if you want to, you can get away.”
Sonja wanted to tell her that George hadn’t threatened her. That the truth was, she didn’t want to get away. She liked having a warm body beside her while she slept. She enjoyed the money—or at least, not having to worry about it. And his intelligence! When he delivered a keynote, people hung off his every word, and afterward people stood around, just trying to get close to him. That was the ki
nd of presence he had. She liked being married to someone like that.
“If you’re not ready to leave, there are still things you can do,” Dagmar continued. “Reach out to friends and family so you know you’re supported. Most victims of abuse wind up isolated—through their own or their partner’s efforts. It’s important that you remain connected to loved ones so you have options if you do decide to leave.”
It was preposterous. Sonja wasn’t going to leave George. Still, she thought about her family. When was the last time she called her sister, Agnes? More than a year ago, at least.
“And when things start to get ugly—make sure you speak up. Tell him you don’t like what he’s doing and if he continues, you will leave. Even if you won’t leave him, you can leave the room or the house, if appropriate.”
“I appreciate your concern, Dagmar. But George is not abusive. Honestly, you’ve got your wires crossed.”
Dagmar’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “At least document it, then. The wrist. The hip. Take photographs and e-mail them to someone you trust. Or to yourself. With dates and an outline of what happened. Then you’ll have it. In case you ever need it.”
Sonja opened her mouth to tell Dagmar, again, that she was wrong about what she was suggesting. But when they locked eyes something passed between them and then she didn’t feel the need to say anything at all.
33
Kate was feeling resentful even before David walked in that evening. She couldn’t help it. As she stirred the dinner she tried to talk herself out of it. It’s Jake’s birthday, she told herself. Let’s just have a nice evening. She pictured her anger sitting in her belly, a bitter seed, and then imagined removing it with her hands and flinging it out to sea, like she’d been taught to do in a meditation class once. But even after flinging it, it continued to burn just as hot in the pit of her stomach.
The irony was, this was how new mothers seemed to feel. When her cousin Stella had her baby, Kate recalled her saying that she couldn’t even look at her husband without wanting to punch him—something about his presence in the room just set her off. It was natural, Stella had explained, for new mothers to feel like this. It was the body’s way of preventing another birth before it was ready. Kate suspected it had more to do with hormones and the sleep deprivation, but oh how Kate yearned for those hormones and that sleep deprivation. Being angry with her husband for giving her a child was far preferable to being angry with him for not giving her one.
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