Chapter 4 Zoey
ZOEY
“It’s about time you got home.”
I freeze just inside the threshold of my apartment and stare at my mother. Taking a deep breath, I shut the door and flip the lock out of habit. Ignoring her presence for a moment, I set my purse on the small table along the wall, and it lands on the wood with a thud.
“You used your key,” I say unnecessarily, regretting the moment of weakness in which I gave her said key a few years ago.
“You gave it to me for emergencies,” she replies, her mouth twisted into a judgmental scowl as she stands in the middle of my living room with her arms crossed over her chest.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, the one that’s been like a rock all day.
The black dress I wore to Mr. Benz’s funeral clings to my body, heavy and uncomfortable, as if it absorbed the weight of my emotions and refuses to let go.
My feet ache, and my chest is hollow. I’m beyond tired and desperate to change into leggings and a sweatshirt, but first things first.
“What’s the emergency?” I ask, my tone as dead as my mentor.
“I got some news at my appointment today,” she snaps, dropping her arms to her sides. “The doc—”
“Ah, so you were able to find a ride.”
She waves her hand with a flick of the wrist. “I did,” she admits. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Right.” I nod and move to sit on the couch. “So, what’s this news that’s such an emergency?”
“My life is over.” Tears fill her eyes, but I ignore them. She’s always been able to cry on demand, and something tells me that this is no different than all the times before.
“How is your life over?” I ask, and I regret the question within seconds.
“The doctor said I’m going through menopause,” she says as if the doctor gave her a life sentence. “And instead of making yourself available to be there when I need you, you ignored your phone all day.”
“I was working and attending a funeral,” I remind her. “You knew I was going to be unreachable.”
She scoffs. “So your job comes before your mother.”
“My mentor’s funeral comes before a last-minute demand for a ride,” I say flatly.
“That man is dead. He wouldn’t have known the difference.”
My heart cracks at her callous words.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes. “Quit acting like he was family.”
“He was,” I insist, my tone sharp. “More than you ever were.”
Silence fills the room for several uncomfortable seconds.
“That’s an unforgivable thing to say to your mom,” she says hotly.
My hard-won control snaps, and I shoot to my feet to stand a few inches in front of her.
“You know what’s unforgivable?” I demand, fueled by years of resentment and anger.
“Showing up unannounced, and using a key I gave you for real emergencies. Ambushing me after one of the worst days of my life, only to bitch about having to deal with something every single woman in the history of forever deals with is unforgivable.”
She steps closer, invading my space the way she always has. “If you were a better daughter, I wouldn’t have to show up here.” She shakes her head. “I gave up my life for you, busted my ass at multiple jobs for you.”
I laugh, the sound hollow. “Don’t pretend you did anything for me.”
Her eyes narrow. “I put a roof over your head.”
“And spent most nights making me hide out in my room so you could get laid,” I counter. “You were an unreliable parent at best and a neglectful and hateful one at worst.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” I ask. “Because I remember taking myself to school events. I remember figuring out homework alone. I also remember being told I was weird, embarrassing, and too much to handle.”
Her voice drops. “You were difficult.”
I flinch at her words. “I was a kid.”
“All I needed today was a ride, Zoey. And for you to pick up your damn phone.”
“And all I needed growing up was you!” I shout. “I needed love and support and… a mom. One who showed up even when she didn’t understand me.”
Her face hardens. “You’re living in the past.”
I huff out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Because your presence makes it impossible to do otherwise.”
She opens and closes her mouth several times like a fish gasping for air.
With her eyes narrowed, she grabs her worn leather purse from the coffee table and stalks toward the door.
Pausing with her hand on the knob, she glances over her shoulder at me.
“You’re an ungrateful brat. For all of your education and talk about responsibility, you don’t understand the most basic of things. ”
“Oh, yeah? What don’t I understand?”
“Family.”
An image of Mr. Benz’s urn flashes through my mind. Memories replace the images, ones of a man who commanded respect because he gave it, and of the man who saw something in me and nurtured it without demanding something in return.
“I understand family,” I say to her back. “You’re just not a part of mine anymore. I refuse to destroy myself for someone who won’t give me the same consideration.”
Her spine stiffens. “If that’s what you want,” she quips. “But don’t come crying to me when you need something.”
“Never have and don’t plan on starting now.”
Again, she looks back at me, staring so hard as if she’s searching for the girl I used to be, the one who would give in and do whatever it took to gain her approval and love.
What she fails to realize is that little girl doesn’t exist anymore.
That girl began to die the day my grandma was buried, and she finally succumbed to her fate when Mr. Benz walked into her life.
Without another word, she flips the lock and leaves, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the few framed photos on my walls.
I stand there, grateful for the silence, and my heart races.
The ache in my chest that’s been present since I woke up this morning spreads until it becomes unbearable.
With my eyes closed, I take several deep breaths, doing my best to quiet the storm raging in my system.
I don’t know how long it takes, but the ache finally fades into something steadier, something more profound.
Resolve courses through my veins as I stride toward my room and change into something more comfortable. Then I grab my laptop from the desk in the corner of the room and crawl onto my bed.
Exhaustion washes over me, but I push through it and open the laptop.
I stare at the blank screen for a moment before opening a web browser.
Determination drives me forward, and I open a site dedicated to job searches.
The ‘location’ box of the search mocks me as I try to think of cities that are as far away from Chicago as I can get.
I want a city I’ve never been to. One that's far enough away from my mother so she can’t drop in, can’t demand things of me, can’t continue to suck out pieces of my soul with every word she utters.
Opening another tab, I type ‘Map of the US’ into the search bar and then hit enter. My eyes scan the results, but nothing jumps out like I was hoping, so I adjust my thinking. Instead of focusing on location, I simply focus on jobs that I’d actually want, actually enjoy.
Location won’t matter for shit if I can’t find a way to survive.