Page 95 of Snowballed

“She’s doing well. They think her collapse may be due to exhaustion or low blood sugar rather than anything more serious.”

“That’s good news.” He stands and moves towards me, but I back away.

“I’m going to make some cocoa.” I flee into the kitchen, but Noah follows me. He sits down at the table, and I’m hyperaware of him watching me.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Not great,” I admit.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Why are you being so nice? We’re not even going out anymore,” I say.

“I still care about you, Zoe.”

What does that even mean? He cares about me like a friend, right? Because however much I want to be back with him, it can never be. Derek showed me tonight how unworthy I am. And Noah needs to know that.

“It’s my fault that my mother’s in the hospital,” I say. “And not only because of tonight, but because I’ve been fighting her about selling the farm.”

Noah rises and stands beside me. He tries to put his arm around me, but I shrug him off.

“That’s not true,” he says. “You want to keep the farm because it reminds you of your dad. It’s not about fighting your mom.”

I put the milk and pan on the counter and wrap my arms around myself. I steel myself to tell the whole truth.

“It is. I’ve never told anyone this, but—” I take a deep breath. That abyss is back and I’m afraid of falling into it. But I can’t keep my secrets anymore. “When my dad had his stroke, he couldn’t walk. And his thinking was… kind of cloudy. But parts of him were still the same. He hated his care facility. He wanted to come back to the farm… to come home.”

Because who wouldn’t want to come home? To sit among the familiar old rooms and experience the sounds and smells of the farm. It’s what I would want too, anyone would. Just telling Noah this is like ripping open the biggest wound in my life, but I keep going. Because I’m strong; my dad always said so.

“My mother said no. She said the farmhouse wasn’t suitable for a wheelchair because of the stairs and the upstairs bathroom. That my father needed full-time care and he was better off there.”

Noah doesn’t say a word. His handsome face is emotionless, and that’s good because if he shows pity or disgust, I will not be able to finish my confession.

“I wanted to look after him, but she said I couldn’t quit college. I begged but all she said was ‘Zoe, I’m too tired. I need a break sometimes.’”

I shake my head. I’m still angry when I remember her dismissals. “And whenever I visited him, I knew! I knew he wanted to come home. He only lived three more months, and they could have been happy, instead of living in a sterile institution surrounded by strangers… with no view of the land he loved.”

Now, I can’t cry even when I think about that vague look in my father’s eyes. How he searched for something that he could never find.

“He did so much for me. And I couldn’t do this one thing for him.” My voice breaks as guilt surges up in me. I should have fought harder. I should have found a way to bring him home. I can’t forgive myself for failing him.

Noah pulls a bottle of water from his pack and hands it to me. I uncap it and gulp water down. Then, I continue, “The truth is that I’ve resented my mother ever since. I’ve fought her on everything. So if she’s in the hospital, it’s my fault as surely as if I injured her myself.”

I look over at Noah and his face is still unreadable.

“What do you think of me now?” I demand.

“I think you’ve had a really tough day and you’re emotionally overwrought.”

He’s not answering my question, but he must be disgusted. I’ve shown him who I am—someone motivated by anger and resentment. “How can you not hate me? I hate myself.”

“Zoe. Why are you so hard on yourself?” he asks. “Even if everything you’ve told me is true, nothing has come from selfishness. You loved your dad, and you wanted to help him.”

“But look what I’ve done. My mother is exhausted from fighting with me. My dad would be horrified.” How can I even pretend I’m honoring him when he always put my mother first? He treasured my mother and cared for her.

“Stop making this about you,” he says, words I’m hearing for the second time tonight. “You’re exhausted and hungry. Things will look better in the morning. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of the morning chores.”

I am exhausted, physically and mentally. I’ve been balancing too many balls, and now that they’ve all crashed, I can’t even respond to his kindness.

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