28 Zara
The Call
By day four, I’ve written Cass’ name so many times in my notebook that I’m starting to hate the way the letters look.
Cass.
Cass Wilder.
Cass, you’re being an idiot.
Cass, I love you, but you’re being an idiot.
That one feels the most accurate, but it also feels like if I say the love part first, he’ll hear that and not the idiot part, and I really need him to hear both.
Mostly the idiot part. Maybe sixty-forty.
Seventy-thirty if I’m being honest, but that feels mean, and I’m trying not to start this next conversation by verbally kicking him in the throat.
I’m sitting on Riley’s side of the room, on the floor with my back against her bed, my notebook in my lap and a pen tucked behind my ear because apparently I’m the kind of girl who prepares for confrontations like I’m studying for finals.
I know it’s stupid. I’m still doing it because if I walk up to Cass with no plan, my mouth is going to run free, and that usually ends with me saying something insane and wondering why God keeps giving me access to language.
Riley is at her desk pretending to do homework, but she keeps glancing at me every few minutes like she’s checking to make sure I haven’t dissolved into carpet fuzz.
“I can feel you watching me,” I mutter without looking up.
“I’m not watching you.”
“You’re watching me emotionally.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you do it.” I scratch out another sentence because it sounds like something a guidance counselor would say. “I’m trying to write down what I want to say, and all of it sounds… not right.”
Riley turns in her chair, one leg tucked under her. “Read me one.”
“No.”
“Then I can’t help.”
“I didn’t ask you to help.”
“You’re on my floor sighing like a theater kid who didn’t get the lead. That counts as asking.”
I look up at her. “I didn’t need help.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I don’t mean that, which is annoying because I don’t.
I miss Cass so much I’m mad about it. I miss his face.
I miss his stupid serious eyebrows. I miss the way he answers my texts, comments on my memes, and replies to my reels with ones he’s found.
I miss the way he walks into a room and somehow makes everything feel less awful, which is probably not something I should ever admit out loud because I don’t want him to use that to prove his point.
That is the part I keep getting stuck on.
I don’t want to need him in a way that makes him look at me and think he has to leave because I need him too much.
I don’t want him to be able to say, see, Sunshine, this is why, and have even one tiny piece of me wonder if maybe he has a point.
Because he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t. Cass helps me.
He matters to me. But he is not the only thing keeping me alive.
I write, You are not my life support, then stare at it for a while.
That’s true but also sounds terrible.
I scratch it out. Riley’s chair creaks as she leans back. “You know you don’t have to have a speech, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You really don’t.”
“I do if I want him to listen.” I tap the pen against the notebook, then stop because the sound is already getting on my nerves.
“Cass is going to do that thing where he looks at me like he already made up his mind and he’s just waiting for me to tire myself out.
If I don’t have actual points, I’m going to start yelling, and then he’ll get that look. ”
“What look?”
“The sad, stupid, I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good look.”
“Oh. That look.”
“Exactly.” I point the pen at her because stabbing my notebook again feels unfair to the notebook. “I hate that look. That look should be illegal.”
Riley smiles a little, but it fades fast. She’s worried, and I hate that too. I hate how many people are worried. It makes me feel fragile, and I am not fragile. I come in damaged packaging, slightly dented, possibly leaking from one corner. But I’m not fragile.
My phone lights up beside my knee, and my whole body reacts before I can stop it. For one stupid second, I think it’s Cass. But it’s not. Instead I see Dad flash across the screen. My stomach drops so fast I almost feel sick.
I don’t talk to my father unless I have to.
Sometimes he texts me about boring legal or insurance things, and sometimes I answer like a grown up, pretending it doesn’t hurt to respond.
Most of the time, I ignore him until the guilt gets annoying, then send something short enough that he can’t start a real conversation.
But he never calls. Not unless something is wrong.
The phone keeps vibrating beside me. Riley sees the screen but thankfully doesn’t ask, which is good because if she says, “Is that your dad?” I might climb out the window just to avoid answering.
But then the call stops. I stare at the phone, my pulse suddenly way too loud. Then it starts again.
Dad.
“Jesus,” I whisper, grabbing it before I can change my mind. I press accept and bring it to my ear, but I don’t say anything first. Petty, maybe. But he called me. He can be brave.
For a second, all I hear is his breathing. Then he clears his throat like he already knows the conversation is going to be bad.
“Zara?”
My body goes stiff. “It’s Zae.”
Another pause. “Right. Zae.”
I close my eyes for half a second. He says it like he’s humoring me. Like my name is one of those things he has to respect because someone told him to, not because I asked him to.
“What do you want?”
Riley stands, but I shake my head once. I don’t want her hovering. I also don’t want her leaving.
I’m very easygoing and low maintenance right now, obviously.
“I know we don’t talk much,” he starts.
I laugh once under my breath. “Yeah, I know.”
“I deserve that.”
I don’t answer. If he wants me to make him feel better about being aware of the obvious, he can call someone else. Maybe a customer service line. They get paid to be nice.
He lets out a breath. “I’m calling because your mother’s facility is doing something over Thanksgiving break.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. That’s all. Just that. No big dramatic body reaction like in the movies. Just my hand locking around my phone and my stomach going weird, like my body heard the word mother and it triggered my muscles to brace for the damage.
“What kind of something?”
“They’re offering family therapy sessions for some of the residents. The ones their therapists think are ready. Family members can come in for a guided session. It would be with your mother and her therapist, and there would be staff around the whole time.”
I stare at my notebook. The page is a mess of Cass’ name, crossed-out sentences, and one line that says do not let him look sad and win.
I don’t know why that’s what I focus on, but it’s easier than picturing my mother in a room with soft chairs, waiting for me like I’m a homework assignment her therapist gave her.
“No,” I finally answer.
Dad is quiet as I wait for him to argue, because that’s what he does.
My father isn’t a yeller. He’s worse. He gets tired and disappointed.
He talks like you’re making things harder than they need to be, which is impressive considering I spent most of my childhood trying very hard to be the easiest person in the room.
“I’m not asking for an answer right now.” He tries to keep his voice soft, but I can hear the strain he's trying to hide.
“You just got one.”
“Zae.”
“No. Don’t Zae me like I’m being unreasonable.” I sit up straighter, the notebook sliding a little in my lap. “You called me out of nowhere to tell me the woman who hates me for saving her life wants a family therapy moment before Thanksgiving. I feel like no is a pretty normal first reaction.”
“She didn’t ask for a moment.”
My mouth goes dry.
I hate that the correction hurts. I hate that some dumb, tiny piece of me was waiting to hear that she asked for me. That she said my name. That she wanted me there. Even after everything, even after all the times I told myself I didn’t care anymore, I still care enough for that to hurt.
“Who asked, then?” I throw out, even though I already know.
“Her therapist suggested it.”
“Of course.”
“And your mother agreed.”
I nod slowly even though he can’t see me. “Wow. She agreed. Big day for everyone.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make everything ugly.”
That one twists me in a completely different way. Riley must see it on my face because she takes a step closer, then stops herself when I lift a hand.
I stand up because suddenly sitting feels impossible. “I’m sorry. Did I make the suicide attempt ugly? Was that me?”
“Zae, that is not what I said.”
“No, but it’s what you mean.” My voice is already getting too sharp, but I can’t seem to pull it back.
“You want me to be nice about it. You want me to talk about it like it’s something that happened around me instead of to me.
Like I wasn’t the one who found her. Like I wasn’t the one who called 911.
Like I wasn’t the one sitting there afterward while she looked me dead in the face and told me I ruined everything. ”
“She was sick,” he says, and I swear that sentence gets worse every time I hear it.
“I know she was sick.” My hand tightens around the phone.
“I knew she was sick when I was covered in her blood. I knew she was sick when the paramedics came. I knew she was sick when she woke up and got mad at me for not letting her die. When she called me annoying. When she said she hated me. When she blamed all her problems on me. I know she’s still sick because she tries to do it all over again anytime she’s out. ”
Riley covers her mouth, and I look away because I can’t handle her reaction and my father’s silence at the same time.
“She didn’t mean that,” Dad says quietly.
“Yes, she did.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was there.”
“So was I.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Were you? You didn’t show until we were in the hospital. I remember you standing there, looking at her like she was the only one in the room who needed saving.”
“That isn’t fair.”