Escape Velocity by Robin Stevenson Page B

stick in my throat. I can’t even stand to think about the possibility. I find a knife and scrape a layer of peanut butter across the toast, which is so dry and hard it breaks into three pieces. “Like you told me that I have a grandmother?” I say.
    â€œThat’s a little different.”
    â€œIs it? It doesn’t seem that different to me.”
    â€œIt doesn’t affect you,” she says.
    â€œAnd how exactly does Dad’s surgery affect you?” I drop the knife in the sink. “Anyway, you’re wrong. It does so affect me. I mean, I don’t even know my own grandmother’s name.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, Lou. Don’t be so melodramatic.”
    She puts the lid back on the peanut-butter jar and returns it to the cupboard. “Heather. Her name is Heather. There, now are you satisfied?”
    I shrug. “Whatever.”
    â€œPlease don’t use that awful expression.” Her forehead creases in distaste. “ Whatever . It’s so adolescent.”
    I shrug again. Whatever .
    â€œBelieve me,” Zoe says, “my mother is not someone you want in your life.”
    â€œWhy?” I meet her eyes for a second. “What’s she like?”
    She shakes her head and says nothing.
    I sigh. Closed door. “Fine. Look, if Dad has open-heart surgery again, I’ll tell you, okay? I honestly didn’t think you’d be interested.”
    She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opens them, her face is expressionless. “Tidy up after yourself when you’re finished eating. I can’t stand a messy kitchen.”

    Once Zoe has gone to bed, I pull the file out from beneath my mattress and lay it on my bed. I want to race through it, to see what is there, but I force myself to go slowly and examine everything, being careful to keep it all in the right order. A small faded color photograph: two children, both blond, a boy and a girl. Another picture, this one black-and-white: a young woman with long fair hair, holding a baby. There is a Christmas tree in the background. At first I think it is Zoe, with me, but this baby isn’t a newborn. I study the picture and turn it over. Neatly inked on the back is the date: Christmas 1975.
    So the baby could be Zoe. With her mother, Heather. I study the woman’s face. She is smiling, pretty, young. Maybe twenty or so, not much more than that. She doesn’t look much like the clapping woman at the reading, but I can see that it’s her.
    I wonder what went wrong.
    Another picture, this one a school class photo. A sign at the front of the group says Fessenden Elementary School, Grade Three, 1983 . I scan the rows of children and pick out a small blond girl in the front row who could be Zoe. She’s smiling, but her smile looks tense and forced. I try not to read too much into that. Half the kids in the picture have the same unnatural grimace. Maybe they were all saying “Cheese.”
    Under the class photo is a letter. I pick it up and try to read it, but the ink is faded. I skip to the end to see who it is from: Garland. My father. I didn’t recognize his writing; I guess it used to be a lot neater. My hands are shaking a little as I move the letter under the bright bedside light and start piecing together the sentences.
    Dear Zoe,
    I know you said you didn’t want to hear from me but… something something…should know that the baby is doing well. I named her Lou, and she is a beautiful girl. She is only…I think it says five months…can sit up all on her own. Lots of smiles. I miss you like crazy and still hope you will change your mind. I guess you will be graduating in a few weeks. Congratulations. What are your plans? At least let me know your new address when you move off campus. I’m sending a photo of Lou so you can see for yourself how sweet she is.
    Love,
Garland
    There’s no baby picture of me. Maybe she didn’t even keep