Escape Velocity (15 page)

Zoe is out, so I curl up on the living-room couch and call my cell number. Dad answers. “Hello?”

“It's me.”

“Lou. I was going to call you, but I thought you'd be at school…”

I rub the knee of my jeans where the denim is worn soft and thin. Tiny threads are starting to fray. “I left early. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Don't start skipping classes, Lou. Education is important. I dropped out after grade ten, and look at me.”

“You did all right.”

He snorts. “You can do better. You got your mother's brains.”

I don't agree. I don't think I got anything at all from my mother. “So you had the surgery?”

“I did,” he says.

“How are you feeling?”

“Medicated,” he says, laughing.

“Right.” I don't think it's funny, and I guess he can hear that in my voice, because he stops laughing abruptly.

“Don't worry. I'm good as new. Well, maybe not quite yet. But I will be.”

“Okay.” I wrap my arms around my knees and hug them close. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” he says. “How's things going with you and Zoe? Better?”

“Yeah,” I say, because I know that's what he wants to hear. “It's fine.”

I decide to take advantage of Zoe being out to sneak the file back into the cabinet. I flip through it one last time, trying to commit every word and image to memory. I can't figure out how the photograph of the family fits in. If the oldest girl is Zoe, then who are the adults and who are the younger children? I guess they could be cousins, aunts, uncles…what other family might I have that I don't even know about? And what right does Zoe have to keep them secret from me?

Finally, I close the file and carry it out to the living room. I slip it back into the cabinet, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps in the hall outside, my heart thumping and palms sweating. I wonder what Zoe would do if she caught me. She'd be furious, I know that. But there is a small part of me that is disappointed as I return the key to the drawer. If she caught me, at least there would be no more secrets between us.

At four thirty, Zoe still isn't home, so I decide to make dinner. I put on a pot of rice, chop up broccoli and peppers and mushrooms, and stir-fry them with some soy sauce and sesame oil. Zoe's shining steel fridge and stove and gleaming countertops remind me of the cooking shows Dad and I used to watch on
TV
.

Zoe walks in as I'm tossing the vegetables into the wok.

“Well,” she says. “Aren't
you
domestic?”

It's clearly not a compliment. “I thought you might like some dinner when you got home.” Her words from last summer echo in my head:
ingratiating, trying to impress
. “Anyway, I was hungry,” I say. “So I figured I might as well.” I gesture at the wok with the wooden spoon.

“I'm going out for dinner,” she says. “I'll be late. I've got a reading at the library tonight.”

“Can I come?”

She shakes her head. “I'm going there straight from the restaurant. And I'm going out for drinks afterward. With Simon.”

“I could take a bus.”

“I don't know, Lou.”

“Why not? What's the big deal?” I stir the vegetables.

The broccoli is starting to wilt, but the red pepper is still crunchy; I guess I should have sliced it thinner. “I already know where the library is.”

“That's not the point.”

I turn off the burner. “What is the point then?”

She shakes her head. “Why do you always have to argue?”

“Why do you always have to push me away?” Tears sting my eyes and threaten to spill over. I do not want my mother to see me cry. Deliberately, but without letting myself think about what I am doing, I let my right hand bump the edge of the wok. “Ow!” I grab my hand. A raised white line appears almost immediately, tracing a curve across the pad of flesh at the base of my thumb.

“Put it under cold water,” Zoe instructs, turning on the tap.

I hold my hand in the stream, and the pain disappears almost immediately. Neither of us says anything for a minute. Finally Zoe sighs. “Are you okay?”

I don't know if she is asking about my hand or responding to what I said. “I guess so.”

She leans on the counter. “It isn't easy becoming a mother to someone who's already halfway grown up. I know I'm not always very good at it.” She plays with her necklace, fingering the silver chain at her throat. “I don't mean to push you away.”

It was your choice not to see me until I was twelve.
I turn the water off and study my hand. “I don't think it's going to blister.”

Zoe doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then her cool fingers touch my wrist lightly. “It doesn't look too bad.”

I pull my hand away and wonder if she doesn't want me to come tonight because she's with Simon. Maybe having a teenage daughter tagging along would cramp her style. Maybe being a mom isn't part of the image.

And then another thought occurs to me: maybe Heather will show up again. Maybe that is why my mother wants to keep me away. In which case, I can lie as well as she can. “I guess I'll do some homework,” I say slowly. “Can I use your computer to check my email?”

She nods. “Of course. I'm sorry I've been so busy since you arrived. I don't want you to feel unwelcome.”

“It's okay. I mean, I know it wasn't your choice, having me here. So, you know, I don't expect you to… to rearrange your life around me.” As I speak, I realize that I have chosen the same words that she said to me the day I arrived, and I can see by the way she winces that she recognizes them too.

“I didn't mean that I didn't want you here,” she says. “There's just a lot going on, with the new book coming out and everything. I'm used to living alone.” She shrugs. “It gets to be a habit, being alone. I'm probably not as flexible as I should be. I find that having certain routines, having my own space, seems to help me maintain a sense of balance. You know?”

I don't really, but I nod anyway. “Um, are you sure you don't want any of this?” I find a plate for myself and scoop rice and veggies onto it.

She shakes her head. “I'd better go change.”

I sit down with my food, no longer hungry, and try to figure out a way to go to the reading without my mother knowing.

Seventeen

W
hen Zoe reappears, she is cool and distant, her surface as smooth and unruffled as ever. It is as if our conversation never happened. “I'll probably be late,” she says. She's wearing a short black skirt with tall leather boots, and silver hoops swing from her ears. I can smell her perfume: musk, and maybe roses too. Zoe isn't the type to care about other people's allergies or sensitivities.

“Whatever,” I say, choosing the word deliberately. Why shouldn't I sound adolescent?

After Zoe leaves, I turn on her computer and find the library's event listings. My mother is scheduled to read at 7:30
PM
. Two hours from now. I need a plan.

I pick up the phone and dial Justine's cell number. She doesn't sound surprised to hear from me. “I have a problem,” I tell her. “Well, an opportunity maybe.” I explain about my mother's reading and my theory about why she doesn't want me there.

“So you want to go to look for Heather but you don't want your mom to see you?”

“Exactly.”

“Huh. Too bad Halloween is still a few weeks away.

You could go in costume.”

“Ha ha.” Actually I had thought about disguising myself somehow, but I couldn't think of a way to do it without looking ridiculous and drawing even more attention to myself.

“What if I met you there?” Justine says. “And you stayed outside somewhere? If you told me what Heather looked like and I saw her, maybe I could get her to come outside and talk to you.”

“That could work,” I say slowly. “You'd do that? I mean, you don't have to.”

“I don't mind. I'm sort of hooked into this whole story about your mom and her mom.”

“It's not a story, Justine.”

She makes a frustrated little sound, like she is taking back what she said. Negating it. I can picture her shaking her head as she speaks. “Mm, mm, mm. I know that. Sorry if that sounded bad.”

“Nah, it's okay, I know what you mean. I feel like that too. Like it's going to make me crazy if I can't figure this out. Fit all these pieces together, you know?”

“So we're going to do this then? Tonight?”

“Yeah. Junior detectives. Bring your binoculars.”

Justine laughs. “Seriously?”

“No, Nancy Drew,” I say. “Kidding.”

At seven o'clock, I get off the bus and walk quickly to the coffee shop near the library, where I have arranged to meet Justine. It's dark and a cold wind is funneling down the street, blowing plastic bags and dead leaves along the gutter. I keep looking around nervously, scared that my mother will drive by and see me. My hood is pulled up, and I keep my face down, eyes on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched inside my too-thin jacket.

I open the door to the coffee shop and a blast of warm air greets me. Justine is already there, sitting in a corner.

She lifts one hand and waggles her fingers at me. I try to grin, but my stomach is in knots. What if my mother comes in to grab a coffee before her reading?

“How'd you feel about just walking around?” I ask her.

She wrinkles her nose. “I'm just starting to thaw out.”

“If my mother sees me…”

“I'll say I called you and you came out to help me with some school stuff.”

“And it just happens to be near the library?”

“Please. It's a library, not crack house. So what—she suspects you of sneaking in extra study time?”

I laugh reluctantly. “I guess.”

“She doesn't know you're trying to find Heather, right?”

“God, no. She'd put me on the first flight back to Alberta.” My stomach twists, and to my surprise, I realize I don't want to go back. I mean, I want to see my dad and all that, but I don't want to leave Victoria yet. I need to figure this out, this stuff about me and my mother. More than that though: the thought of returning to Drumheller fills me with an awful despair. Stuck in that hot smoky house with Dad drugging himself into oblivion and those red hills full of ancient bones and that crushing blue sky…

“What is it?” Justine asks, her eyes narrowing as she watches my face.

I shake my head, not answering. I like Justine a lot, but I'm not good at explaining things. Out of practice maybe. It's funny that I have made a friend after only a few days in Victoria, when I had none at all after a year in Drumheller. Except Dana Leigh, I guess. I glance at my watch. “Twenty-five minutes until the reading starts. You should probably get there a few minutes early. Get a good seat, like near the back or at the end of a row, so you can get out if you see her.”