4: 4
4
Every last piece of paperwork was done.
My flight left at seven the next morning.
I sat on the living room floor, staring at the empty room.
My phone rang.
The screen said: Mom.
I hesitated for a second, then answered.
"Zoe Henson, you listen to me!"
Her voice was shrill, grating.
"Have you lost your mind? What is this about going overseas? You're not getting married now? Are you trying to send me to an early grave on purpose?"
I opened my mouth, and before I could get a word out—
a voice came through in the background.
It was Stella.
Half in tears.
"Auntie, don't yell at Zoe... it's all my fault... I'm the one who ruined things for her and Byron..."
My mother went gentle at once.
"It's not your fault, Stella. Your cousin just doesn't know any better..."
Then she rounded on me through the phone again.
"Do you want to drive Stella to her death? So Byron took a little money out of your account to buy her something. You two were getting married anyway, why draw lines over what's whose. And you actually went and had him arrested! And now you're settling personal scores at the hospital, you got the man fired, do you have any conscience at all?"
I listened to the shouting on the other end.
And it struck me as absurd.
My whole life, everything had gone to Stella.
She wanted my dress, and my mother said the older one should be generous.
In middle school, for the citywide honor-student selection, my mother forced me to go to my homeroom teacher and withdraw myself, handing that recommendation slot, the one that gave a boost on the high school placement exams, straight over to her.
Now she'd taken my fiancé.
Had even teamed up with that piece of trash to cheat me out of my money and set a trap for me at the hospital.
And in my mother's mouth, it all turned into me "settling personal scores," having "no conscience."
As if the two of them were the real mother and daughter.
"You listen to me."
I cut off her tirade.
"Since you think I have no conscience, then from now on let your good-conscience Stella be your daughter. Just pretend I died overseas. I'm never coming back."
"Zoe Henson, don't you dare! You—"
I hung up.
Blocked her.
I stood and checked the suitcase one last time.
Passport, visa, medical license, a few changes of clothes, one copy of Tropical Infectious Diseases.
That was all.
Five years of love, twenty-six years of family, all packed up and thrown into last night's dumpster.
Traveling light.
