The Silver Kiss Read online

  Her stance relaxed as she felt his compliance. “Thank you for walking me home. It shook me up, seeing that. I expect we’ll read about it tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Zoë,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Zoë,” he repeated softly, like distant bees.

  “What’s yours?”

  He looked at her and, trapped in her eyes again, felt impelled, but his name caught in his throat. He had not told it in so long that it felt too intimate to reveal it, like giving away a portion of his true self. Yet her eyes were intimate also, stealing into him, opening locked doors.

  He breathed his name. “Simon.”

  “Good night, Simon,” she said gently, and turned.

  He reached for her urgently, “Wait.”

  She halted and glanced back, worry flickering in her features.

  He calmed himself. “If I come to see you here, will you invite me in?”

  She gazed at him a moment, assessing him. “Yes, I think so.”

  He could smile now, and perhaps that was why she still hesitated. She was very close. He leaned closer, mouth parted to inhale the scent of her. Was it dark veins that called to him, or her soft lips? He didn’t know. It made him dizzy. She almost swayed to meet him, her eyes drowning him, but she blushed and turned to the door again.

  “Good night.”

  “Until next time,” he whispered as she closed the door.

  Walking back to the shops, he saw the boy with his mother. They had stopped so that she could adjust the scarf around his neck. I’d like to tighten it, Simon thought, and slipped into the shadows.

  “Christopher,” the mother said, “you’ve been to the store several times now. I don’t see how you could get lost. When I saw all those policemen, I was really worried. Please don’t wander off like that.”

  They began to walk again, and Simon followed. The child looked around as if he felt something. Simon let more distance come between them.

  “We’ll have to bundle you up better tomorrow, when we go to school. That was a nasty burn. Your poor skin. It’s so delicate.”

  The boy didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her, but looked all around him as if seeking something.

  “That was a long nap you took today,” the woman continued. “Mrs. Cohen said she could hardly wake you. What a sleepyhead you are. You should sleep at night, like a good boy. Maybe some hot milk will help tonight.”

  The child grimaced. The first sign that he had heard. They turned the corner.

  “I’ve bought some yummy liver for dinner. You like that, don’t you?”

  Simon let them go. The boy was well occupied now. He would check again later.

  Simon wandered the streets. He looked in at the all-night Laundromat, but it was deserted. Eventually he went to the 7-Eleven. He sat on a wall outside and watched the people come and go.

  Teenagers screamed up in worn but well-loved cars, to grab a six-pack and a package of Marlboros. A husband hurried in for next morning’s milk and left with a Playboy carefully secreted under his overcoat. Young men discussed The Game, in the light of windows plastered with signs touting ninety-nine-cent hot dogs, then slid off into the night in new machines. A drunk argued over the change from his five-dollar bill, mistaken lout. A girl pleaded with someone at the pay phone outside and stamped her feet either with cold or frustration, he couldn’t tell.

  He made up stories about them—what he might say to them if he deigned to talk, where they might go. The multicolored, overpriced stock became the scenery on his stage, and he was the only audience.

  Sometimes he drifted in and out of now, reminded of previous stories he had seen or been a part of. On one such time, drifting into focus again, he saw the back of a girl with long dark hair at the counter. Zoë, he thought hopefully. But she turned, and it wasn’t her.

  When she left, he followed her anyway, out into the night. Nowhere else to go.

  7

  Zoë

  Zoë was awakened by the phone ringing. It went on and on. When her father didn’t answer, she got up groggily and made her way to her parents’ bedroom. The door was open and the bed unmade. She picked up the phone. It was her father, and she was momentarily confused. Then she remembered with the rush of full awakening. He had been called away, late last night, to the hospital.

  “Hi, Zo,” he said. “You did get back to sleep, then?”

  “Yes.” She flushed guiltily at having to answer that way.

  “Mom’s not too good, I’m afraid. I’m going to stay here, but don’t you come down, okay? There’s nothing you can do right now. Listen, I’ll call you after school, or this evening, and let you know how she is.”

  He thinks I’m useless, she thought, because I froze when Mom was sick. “Will she be all right?”

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine.”

  Liar, she thought. “Are you coming home later?”

  “Maybe not. I’ll let you know.”

  “Dad, if she’s feeling better tomorrow—”

  “I don’t think I can talk about that right now. One thing at a time. Okay?”

  There was always an excuse to keep her away. “Okay,”

  Zoë muttered. Left out again. She clenched the phone tight.

  “There’s a good girl. Take care.”

  “Bye,” she said, and the phone clicked off. She slammed the receiver down.

  In the quiet she heard her clock-radio’s alarm going off in her room. It was too late to go back to bed now; she had to get ready for school. She went to shut off the awful music.

  Zoë was looking under the couch for her shoes when the phone rang again. She snatched it up. Had her father changed his mind? But it was Pat Reynolds, the owner of the gallery her mother showed at.

  “We’re having an opening tomorrow night,” she said.

  “I thought you might like to come. I mean, I know Harry’s busy. I thought you might like to get out.”

  “I don’t know, Pat,” Zoë said. “I’d feel out of place without Mom.”

  “There’ll be people you know there.”

  But they’d all be her parents’ friends. They would greet her with overly jolly hellos and then not know what to say next. She hated those awkward silences. She’d be miserable. “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure, Zoë, call me. Take care.” They both knew she wouldn’t come.

  She left early, to avoid more phone calls, although maybe that was a mistake. Usually the walk to school meant a welcome chance to think, but today she didn’t want to think. It would be all right if Lorraine were there. Lorraine could make her feel better. But Lorraine had driver’s ed at eight o’clock, and had left an hour ago. It was the only course she showed up for consistently.

  The rhythm of Zoë’s steps reminded her of another walk. Who was that boy, Simon? Was he a runaway, or what? He wasn’t from around there, because he seemed to have a slight accent of some sort. He was so matter-of-fact about his parents being dead. Was he lying, she wondered, or was it so long ago it was like an old wound—only aching sometimes? Could you get used to it? If so, maybe he had something to teach her about survival. She couldn’t figure him out. One minute he was nervous, and the next he seemed so confident. It was funny, she had thought she was leading him, but now that she looked back on it, she realized he had never hesitated once, as if he knew the way. Silly, she thought. He couldn’t have.

  Zoë kept her eyes on the moss-bordered flagstones of the sidewalk as she walked, glancing up to avoid the occasional pedestrian, or to cross an intersection. Step on a crack; break your mother’s back, she thought, remembering childhood magic. Then, irrationally, she was stepping into the middle of each paving stone, avoiding the grooves between them, trying to coordinate her steps at an even pace to miss the cracks. She had to hop now and then to correct her momentum. She went faster and faster, challenging the ground. Then she came to a street corner and had to stop for traffic.

  Could I really make a magic spell?
she thought. If I see a silver car pass before the light changes, my mother won’t die. The light changed immediately, and she bit back a cry of dismay. I’m a child, she thought. A stupid child. No wonder they hardly ever let me see her for long.

  There were only a few people outside school. It was still a long time until the bell. Zoë sat on the semicircle of stone wall that faced the flagpole to wait, but as she thought over the day’s classes, she realized she had left her calculus textbook at home. She had thought everything she needed was in her locker, but now she remembered she had last seen it on top of the refrigerator. Perhaps she had time to go back and get it. No. If she left now, she wouldn’t come back to school today.

  That idea caught her fancy at once. Why should she go, anyhow? She couldn’t possibly concentrate. How much could she get done? Lorraine does it all the time, she thought, and she doesn’t get caught. And what if I did? I’ve got an excuse. A bitter snort escaped her lips. Yes, who would blame me? she decided. She got up at once and left the school grounds.

  Where did people go when they skipped school? Did the police really pick you up for truancy? She had cut a few classes before, but never the whole day. She walked back the way she had come but passed her home and went to the park.

  It was too early for the young mothers and their preschoolers, but there were people anyway. Two scruffy teenage boys yanked on the swing chains and tossed the seats back and forth. Bandannas sprouted from the calves of their old blue jeans like weird, bedraggled plumage. Three swings were already wrapped all the way around the top pole. Vandalism comes to Oakwood, she thought with disgust. She hoped those rats hadn’t been chewing away at the gazebo as well.

  No use staying here. She didn’t feel like answering a round of “Hey, baby” ‘s from some jerks in cutoff denim and leather. One of them looked like he’d been in a fight. Great, she thought. Another place I can’t go. Just what I want, a bunch of heavy-metal maniacs invading my park.

  But that was unfair. Simon wore leather, and he seemed all right. She remembered him standing in front of her, his nervous fingers unable to stay still, uncomfortable as she had been so many times. Then she had felt an empathy that had drawn her to him; now she saw what he’d been toying with. She drew her hand from her pocket and looked down. It was a star—like the one that lay in her palm, the one she had found on her back steps.

  Anger and fear shook her. Nothing was sacred. Nothing at all. She couldn’t even go home. She felt violated. She had almost made him a friend. I want Mom, she thought.

  The bus showed up, as if on command, as soon as she reached the bus stop. She couldn’t turn back now. The rush-hour crowd had already thinned out, and there were plenty of seats.

  At the hospital she swept by the reception desk without checking in. It’s my right, she told herself. She’s my mother. I belong here. She tried to look like she had business to attend to.

  The elevator took forever to arrive, and when she got in, the car moved so slowly, she thought she’d scream. I suppose they don’t want to give anyone a heart attack, she thought as she scuffed nervously at the brass plaque on the floor that said OTIS. When the elevator finally stopped, her heart gave a lurch—what if Mom was sick like last time? But she got off anyway.

  She turned the corner by the nurses’ station and kept on walking. Out of the corner of her eye Zoë saw the nurse there leap to her feet, but she wasn’t going to stop for an interrogation now. She wasn’t going to be put off. She had to talk to her mother. She knew the nurse was catching up by the rustle of petticoat against crisp uniform, so she ran the last few yards and flung the door open.

  Her father looked up, startled, still clutching his wife’s hand to his chest. The nurse arrived behind her. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s my daughter,” Harry Sutcliff answered, almost as if he were reminding himself.

  Our daughter, Zoë thought. She’s not dead yet.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said, “but she looked so strange. It’s okay?”

  He nodded, so she left, leaving the door ajar.

  “Zoë, what’s wrong?” her father asked. He seemed to be grasping futilely for reasons for her to be there. Had the house exploded? Had there been an earthquake?

  He was distracted by a raspy voice from the bed. “Why aren’t you in school?” There was a quirky smile on her mother’s face, half amusement, half something more bitter.

  Her words gave him something to hold on to. “Why aren’t you in school?” he repeated at Zoë, unaware of the inane echo.

  “It’s okay, Harry, really,” her mother said in that whispery rasp. “What’s a day here and there?” Tubes rattled softly as she tried to gesture gay abandon.

  Zoë saw her father struggling not to argue. He had always been strict about stuff like that. “But how many days?” He stared at Zoë accusingly. “I haven’t got room to worry about where you are every day, you know that, Zoë.”

  “First time, Dad. Honest.”

  “Well, you startled us.” It was said begrudgingly. She didn’t lie, he knew that. “You should think of your mother.”

  “Harry,” his wife gently chided.

  “I do think of you, Mom,” Zoë said. “All the time. I miss you, but the more I miss you, the less I’m allowed to see you.”

  She circled the bed to the opposite side from her father and took her mother’s other hand. She had never seen a human being that color before, ashen blue. There seemed to be more tubes than ever, and her mother was lost amid the tangle. Oh, God. How can I tell her about that boy? she thought.

  Her mother’s eyes had not left her since she entered the room, but now they lowered, ashamed. “Sorry, Zoë,” she whispered.

  “Now look what you’ve done.” Her father’s brow was furrowed, as he fussed nervously with the bed sheets.

  Zoë’s mother gestured shakily for him to stop. “It’s okay, Harry. You worry too much. I’m glad she’s here. Really. Go and get me some juice. I want to talk to my daughter.”

  “You’ll be all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She smiled, but it was tight and dry.

  He left like a schoolboy on an errand, eager to please.

  Zoë sat down.

  “So tell me,” her mother said, “what’s going on in the outside world?” Her voice was weaker now that her husband had left, as if her strength were a show for his sake, to comfort him. Once again Zoë thought, I can’t worry her with tales of teenage prowlers. But will Dad listen?

  “What’s going on between you and your father?”

  Zoë was startled into raising her eyebrows. “Nothing.”

  No, that was dumb. On second thought, it was accurate.

  “Nothing?”

  “Really.” Zoë slumped into the chair, chewing on her lip, wondering how much she could say.

  “Out with it.”

  Zoë took a deep breath. “We never talk. He’s never there. When he’s home he’s too tired to talk. It’s like living with a robot. You’re both here. I’m there. I’m lonely. There’s no one to talk to.” God, she sounded selfish—there’s no one to talk to, whine, whine.

  Her mother glanced away, fiddling nervously with a tissue. “Don’t you ever talk about me?”

  “He says that everything will be all right, or we’ll talk about it later. Honestly, Mom”—it came out in a rush—“I don’t feel like everything will be all right.”

  Her mother looked like she was about to say something, but changed her mind. She was silent for a while, her eyes closed, until Zoë thought she had fallen asleep.

  “What about Lorraine?” she finally asked.

  “Huh?”

  “To talk to.”

  “Oh, Mom, you don’t know.” And it all tumbled out about Lorraine moving, of never seeing her, of missing her so much.

  A nurse came in and interrupted to inject something into the flow from the IV bag, while Zoë looked nervously in the other direction. She couldn’t speak until the nurse had left.

  He
r mother’s eyes closed again, but she squeezed Zoë’s hand once in a while to show she was listening. It felt so good. Once she said, “I’m so sorry, my love.” And once, strangely out of sequence, “I’ll speak to your father about it.” Then she was truly asleep.

  Zoë gazed at her, sorrow building in her throat. She looked tiny, and pale, and crumpled. Before this her mother’s dying had been a possibility. People with cancer died. It was something Zoë worried about, had imagined a million times, but it had still seemed distant somehow. There had always been a vague hope. Now, looking at her mother so transparent and small, she knew for the first time that it was inevitable.

  Her father came in and joined her in silent contemplation of the sleeping woman. She glanced at him. His eyes were tender. He held fruit juice in his hands as carefully as he would the water of life. Maybe I’m wrong, Zoë thought. Maybe she’s stronger when he’s around, because of the strength of his love.

  “I’ll walk you downstairs,” he said, putting an arm around her. They went in silence, but she was used to that.

  Down in the lobby he pointed to a pair of armchairs.

  “Let’s sit for a few minutes.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger; then he spoke. “I’m not going to preach to you about skipping school this time—goodness knows, things are rough for you right now—but I’m counting on you to carry on as usual, even if we aren’t there to be in charge. It’s one less thing to be worried about.”

  Great, she thought. What about my worries? Doesn’t he think I’m worried? Why doesn’t he see I need to be here?

  But he was still speaking. “And perhaps it’s best if you let us know you’re coming next time, okay?”

  Anger swelled in her. Why was he locking her out? “No, it’s not okay. It’s like you want to keep her all to yourself and don’t want to let me in at all. It’s like you wish I never existed, so you wouldn’t get your time with Mom interrupted. I wonder if you ever really wanted me at all.” She felt sick saying it. It was unfair, and she knew it, but sometimes she really felt that way. And now it was said.