Escape Velocity (12 page)

“Of course. But he'll call you first anyway,” she says. “Lou? How's it going? With Zoe?”

“It's going.” I pick at a hangnail beside my thumb, peeling back a thick triangle of skin. It starts to bleed, and I push it against my jeans. “Dana Leigh? Did you know her mother lives in Victoria too?”

“Seriously? So you have a grandmother. That's lovely. Especially since you never knew either of your dad's parents.”

“Mmm. Well, I haven't exactly met her. I think she and my mom are not on speaking terms. And Zoe won't tell me anything about her.”

“Uh-huh.” I can almost hear Dana Leigh rolling her eyes. “Your mother certainly has a knack for cutting people off.”

“I know. But I thought maybe, well, maybe there's a reason for that.”

“Don't go there, honey,” Dana Leigh says. “Don't go looking for trouble. Life's hard enough without stirring up hornets' nests.”

“Just because Zoe won't talk about it doesn't mean it's a hornets' nest,” I say.

She doesn't answer.

“She's my
grandmother
,” I point out. “Don't I have a right to meet her?”

“Is that what you want? A grandmother?”

I picture the clapping woman. She's not going to bake me cookies or knit me sweaters. “Not exactly. But Zoe has never told me anything about why she left me and Dad. And now there's obviously some big mystery about her own mother. So I wondered.”

“Look, Lou. Your mom was what—twenty?—when you were born? Maybe that doesn't seem so young to you, but believe me, it is.” She sighs. “People make bad decisions sometimes. Obviously she regrets it, or she wouldn't have got in touch with you.”

“It took her twelve years.” I stare at the smooth white ceiling, letting my eyes unfocus, and remember the whiteness outside the airplane window and the sense of disorientation that went with it.

“Let the past be the past,” Dana Leigh says. “Crap. Customers. Listen, I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“Hang in there, honey.” Dana Leigh's voice is so kind, it brings a lump to my throat, and after I hang up, the apartment seems emptier and quieter than ever. I take a deep breath. Dad will be okay, Dad will be okay, Dad will be okay. I open the desk drawer to replace the pen and something catches my eye.

A key. A small, silver, filing-cabinet-sized key.

Thirteen

I
slip the key into the file-cabinet lock and it opens easily. I glance over my shoulder at the front door. If Zoe comes home, she'll be furious. I tell myself that it's her fault I'm doing this. If she would tell me the truth, I wouldn't be forced to hunt for answers.

I open the top drawer, my heart pounding. A row of file folders, alternating blue and gray, all neatly labeled. Alphabetical. I scan through quickly:
Awards, Correspondence, Course Outlines, Escape Velocity, Expenses, Grant Applications, Income, Leaving Heaven, Promotion, Rejection Letters, Reviews, Short Fiction, Taxes, Workshops
…All work related, nothing personal. I close the drawer quickly and open the bottom drawer.

Just as tidy, just as organized. I flip through, trying to be quick because she could be home any minute, but not wanting to miss anything.
Clippings, Documents, Letters
… I stop, about to pull out the Letters file, but then I notice the next file: Lou. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I shiver. I raise my hand to lift out the file, and just as my fingers touch it, I hear my mother's key in the lock.

I slam the drawer shut, twist the key out, and drop it back in her desk mere seconds before she steps into the apartment.

She sees me standing at her desk and frowns. “What are you up to?”

“Looking for a pen,” I say, picking one up and closing the drawer. I hope the key is in the right spot and that she won't notice that anything has been disturbed. “I was doing some homework and mine ran out.”

She relaxes. “Homework already?”

“I know. I can't believe it either. Pages and pages of stuff to read, a paper to write…” Relief is making me babble.

“Well.” She looks at me.

I stop babbling, and there is a long awkward silence. I can practically hear my heart beating and the image of that pale blue file folder with my name on it lingers so vividly in my mind that I'm almost surprised she can't see it too.

“How was school?” she asks at last.

“Fine,” I say.

“Good.”

Another silence. Finally Zoe sighs. “Well, I suppose I should let you do your homework. I wasn't planning to cook tonight. Do you mind helping yourself to something?”

“I can cook. If you want.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not really hungry.”

The filing cabinet is pulling at me like a powerful magnet. It takes all my strength to keep my eyes from sliding sideways toward it. “So, are you staying home this evening?”

She nods. “I have a grant proposal to finish. I've been procrastinating, but the deadline is coming up.”

My heart sinks. No way I'll be getting a look at that blue file tonight then.

And then the phone rings and I forget the file. “That could be Dad,” I say.

Zoe looks at me oddly, and I realize that I never told her he was having surgery today. She picks up the phone. “Hello?”

I hold my breath.

“I'm her mother,” Zoe says. “Can I help you?”

Dad. The surgery. My hands are cold.

Zoe's eyebrows draw together in a frown. “His
bypass
surgery?” A long pause. “Uh-huh. Okay.”

She is staring at me, and I can tell she's furious that I didn't tell her he was having surgery, but I don't care. “Is he okay?” I whisper.

She turns her back on me and speaks into the phone. “Right. Yes. Do you know when he'll be able to go home?”

I let my breath out in a long shaky sigh. The operation must have gone well if she's asking that.

“I see. Very well. Thank you for calling.” Zoe hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Your father had bypass surgery this morning.”

“Yes.”

“I take it you already knew all about that? You didn't think that perhaps you should have mentioned it to me?”

Her words are clipped with anger, but I ignore her question. “Is he all right?”

“He's fine. Sleeping, at the moment, the doctor said.”

“Did they say when he can go home?”

She shakes her head. “They don't know yet. But Lou—”

“I'm going to my room,” I say. “I have homework.”

We stare at each other for a moment and then I turn away, walk to Zoe's spare room and close the door behind me.

I lie down on the bed and cry and cry, my face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.

Fourteen

W
hen I wake up, it's dark and I'm starving. I get up, open the door and listen for Zoe. I can't hear anything. I hope she has gone out after all. Not just so I can snoop—though I have every intention of doing so—but because being around her feels like such a strain.

“Mom?”

“I'm having a bath,” she calls out.

I head to the kitchen, pop a slice of bread in the toaster, and think about that blue file folder. There's an open bottle of wine on the counter, and I can hear soft piano music playing in the bathroom, so I'm guessing Zoe will be in there for a little while—but I'm nervous. Not about her catching me snooping but about what I might find. What if she's written something about how unlikable I am? I can't help remembering the last time I snooped and overheard that phone call. And it's pretty obvious that nothing has changed. She still doesn't want me around.

Moving quickly because I don't know how much time I have, I unlock the filing cabinet and slide out the file folder with my name on it. I lay it on her desk and open it. A photocopy of my birth certificate. And nothing else.

I guess I should have expected that.

I return the folder to the drawer and am about to close it when something else catches my eye. Right at the back of the drawer, out of alphabetical order and out of the blue/ gray color scheme, is a slim beige folder labeled
Personal
.

Jackpot.

I am too nervous to look at it right now. Zoe could walk out of the bathroom and into the living room at any minute. But if I put the file away, I don't know when I'll next have a chance to look. What if Zoe moves the key? She looked suspicious when she saw me at her desk earlier. I can't risk it. Not when I am so close to finding some answers.

I grab the file, close the drawer silently, lock it, replace the key and head to my bedroom, clutching the file to my chest. I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My breath comes out in a long
whoosh
.

I open the folder and quickly flip through the pages inside it. It's a crazy mish-mash of stuff. Handwritten letters that will take ages to decipher, some photographs, newspaper clippings…nothing obvious, but I feel sure there are some answers hidden in here. I hear the water start to drain from the bathtub, so I hide the file safely under my mattress.

I'll look at it tonight, after Zoe thinks I'm asleep.

I'm sitting on the couch reading a magazine by the time Zoe emerges in a fleecy white bathrobe, her hair wet and freshly combed. She smells like roses.

“Did you get something to eat?” she asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Just making some toast,” I say.

She follows me into the kitchen, and I take the now-cold toast out of the toaster. “You have peanut butter?”

She hands me a jar from the cupboard. “Lou. Why didn't you tell me that your father was having surgery today? I think I have a right to know what is going on.”

Because it was none of your business. Because you don't tell me anything
. I twist the lid of the jar open and look around for a knife. Where does she keep the cutlery? I open the wrong drawer and stare down at piles of neatly folded matching placemats and napkins. The anger inside me is a cold hard knot, slowly tightening. “You know, Dad and I don't even
own
placemats.” I glance up at her and for a minute, I think I hate her. “But you don't really know anything about us, do you?”

“Lou. That isn't fair.”

I stare at her. “Not
fair
? Are you serious?”

“Open-heart surgery is a little more significant than whether or not your father uses placemats.”

“I was just trying to make a point.”

“And what was your point exactly?”

“That you have never been particularly interested in us.” I wish I hadn't started this conversation.

“Fine. Be like that if you want to. But for future reference, if your father is having major surgery, I do expect to be told.”

I want to ask if she's worried she'll be stuck with me if Dad dies, but the words stick in my throat. I can't even stand to think about the possibility. I find a knife and scrape a layer of peanut butter across the toast, which is so dry and hard it breaks into three pieces. “Like you told me that I have a grandmother?” I say.

“That's a little different.”

“Is it? It doesn't seem that different to me.”

“It doesn't affect you,” she says.

“And how exactly does Dad's surgery affect you?” I drop the knife in the sink. “Anyway, you're wrong. It does so affect me. I mean, I don't even know my own grandmother's name.”

“For Christ's sake, Lou. Don't be so melodramatic.”

She puts the lid back on the peanut-butter jar and returns it to the cupboard. “Heather. Her name is Heather. There, now are you satisfied?”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

“Please don't use that awful expression.” Her forehead creases in distaste. “
Whatever
. It's so adolescent.”

I shrug again.
Whatever
.

“Believe me,” Zoe says, “my mother is not someone you want in your life.”

“Why?” I meet her eyes for a second. “What's she like?”

She shakes her head and says nothing.

I sigh. Closed door. “Fine. Look, if Dad has open-heart surgery again, I'll tell you, okay? I honestly didn't think you'd be interested.”

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opens them, her face is expressionless. “Tidy up after yourself when you're finished eating. I can't stand a messy kitchen.”