Saving Zoë

Twenty-four

The second we get in the car, Marc shakes his head and says, “What the hell were you doing in there? Are those people your friends?”

“You know they’re not my friends,” I say, folding my arms across my chest and staring out the window. I mean, I don’t like the tone of his voice. And I don’t like the way he’s acting. Like I’m some little baby that needs to be protected. Okay, yeah, maybe I didn’t love being in there, and maybe I’m glad he’s whisking me away now. But still, even if he hadn’t shown, I totally would’ve made it out of there. Eventually.

“What were you even doing there in the first place?” he asks, his eyes shielded from me as he stares at the road.

“Teresa invited me.” I shrug, deciding to leave it at that. I mean, the fact that I went there for him is clearly none of his business.

“Well, that’s just great.” He glances over at me and shakes his head again. “Do you and Teresa even know who those guys are? Do you even know what you’re getting yourselves into?”

“Well, you seem to be all filled in, so why don’t you tell me?” I say, turning toward him.

But he just stares straight ahead, clenching his jaw as he drives. And when he stops at a light, he goes, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to sound like your dad or anything. It’s just those guys are really bad news and you shouldn’t be hanging around them. You shouldn’t be anywhere near them.”

“You were hanging around them.”

“That’s different,” he mumbles, speeding again now that the light’s turned green.

“Yeah? How? Exactly how is it different?”

He looks at me for a moment, then he shakes his head and stares back at the road. “It just is, okay?”

“Why?” I say, unwilling to let it go.

“Echo, Christ, just trust me on this one.” He rolls his eyes and checks his side mirror.

I turn in my seat, my eyes traveling over him until coming to rest on his jacket. “I want to see what’s in your pocket,” I say.

“What?” He looks at me, his eyes wide.

“Show me what’s in your pocket. And then I’ll decide if I’ll trust you.”

He takes a deep breath and looks away, but his expression is worried.

“Before you left the room with Jason your pocket was flat and empty. And now it’s not. Now it’s all bulky like you’ve got something in it. And I want to know what it is.”

“No.”

I stare at him, my breath caught in my throat since I wasn’t expecting to hear that. I mean, I admit at first I was partly just fooling around, but now that I know he’s hiding something, I’m determined to know what it is. “Show me,” I say, reaching toward him.

But he takes his hand off the wheel and holds me back against my seat, all the while refusing to look at me.

I stare at him in shock, wondering what he could possibly be hiding. “Then just take me home,” I finally say, my voice sounding high pitched and fragile.

“Echo, please.” He sighs.

“Now. Take me home right now!” I glare at him, my stomach jumping all around, doing the panic dance.

He looks at me and shakes his head, then he pulls an illegal U-turn and heads toward my home.

But by the time he gets to the end of my street I’ve changed my mind. I mean, maybe he is only trying to help me, and protect me, and save me in the way he couldn’t with Zoë. And acting like this, so ridiculous and immature, only proves how much I need that. Besides, I think it’s pretty obvious that there’s no need for me to fear him. He’s never done anything to hurt me, and he never hurt my sister, and whatever he’s got in his pocket is clearly none of my business. “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching toward him, hoping he won’t push me away like before.

“Forget it,” he says, smoothing his long fingers back and forth over the steering wheel while staring straight ahead.

“I guess I was just mad because—”

“No need to explain,” he says, still not looking at me.

“I just, I don’t like it when you treat me like that. Like I’m some stupid little girl. I mean, I’m all grown up now and you won’t even see it.” I peek at him, taking in the line of his nose, the strength of his chin, the sweep of his lashes, before looking away.

He takes a deep breath and turns. “Believe me, Echo, I’ve noticed,” he says, his voice sounding thick and resigned.

And without even thinking, I grab his sleeve, pull him close, and kiss him. Softly at first, then harder, more urgent, trying to seal this moment in time, determined to leave an impression.

And after awhile, when he pulls away, he looks into my eyes, cradles my face between the palms of his hands, and says, “Promise me.”

I nod, holding my breath, waiting. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Jason.”

After dinner, and well after my parents have gone to sleep, I climb out of bed, creep down the hall, and sneak into Zoë’s room.

I haven’t been in here for over a year. Not since the day the cops showed up with empty hands and hopeless faces. But everything looks exactly the same as it did back then — her blue duvet is still haphazard, having been tossed aside in her usual, early morning rush, and there’s a lone white sock still lying on the floor, right next to the rug, where she’d dropped it over a year before.

My mom’s the only one who comes in here now, the only one who brushes away cobwebs and handpicks lint from the yellowing sheets. I guess because she couldn’t save her daughter in the most important way, she’s decided to save her like this. With this freeze-dried room, undisturbed, suspended in time. The perfect contrast to our lives now, which are so completely and irreversibly changed.

I go over to Zoë’s dresser and lift her brush, my fingers gliding along the tangle of long dark hairs wrapped tightly around the bristles. Then I reach for her perfume, its cap long ago lost, and bring it to my nose, surprised to find still the faintest hint of scent.

This is where I’d waited while the cops sat downstairs. On the floor, in the middle of her room, right in the center of her creme-colored flokati rug. My eyes shut tight, my body rocking back and forth as my mind sped in reverse, remembering our lives before, refusing to believe how they were about to become.

But when my parents came home, and I heard my mother’s long, painful cry, I picked myself up and headed downstairs, knowing it was time to stop pretending.

I move toward Zoë’s bed, sit gently on her mattress, and run my hand along her soft, worn sheets. Then I spread my body across the top of her crumpled duvet, molding her soft abandoned pillow against my cheek as I close my eyes, yearning to tell her how much I miss her, wanting to explain about Marc and me. How living her life and sharing her experiences makes me feel closer, like she never really left.

I lay like this for a while, my eyes shut tight, calling her to me.

But when she doesn’t come, I turn off the light and creep back to my room. Knowing I’ve stolen enough for one day.