Page 224 of Fury

Of course, Zoë had Down Syndrome. The slanted eyes, the thick features. But she was a far stretch from what they used to call “retarded” when I was in school. I remember the disabled kids in special classrooms and on their own small school buses. Zoë wasn’t like them from what little I remembered. She communicated clearly. She was a live wire.

Zoë snuck another look at me, pointing at my face. “Those scars are scary. Do they hurt?”

“No, no, they don’t hurt,” I replied. “They did once, but that was a long time ago. I don’t remember it anymore.”

Zoë let out a sigh. “Oh, that’s good. I’m glad. I have scars like that on my heart.”

“On your heart?” I asked.

“I had heart surgery when I was a baby, and I don’t remember it either. Did you have surgery on your face?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I said.

“They didn’t do a good job,” Zoë said.

“No, they didn’t,” I murmured.

“How’s Mark?” Lenore asked, her voice slightly loud, almost off key.

Zoë’s face beamed. “Mark is the best boyfriend in the whole world.”

“You’re so lucky,” said Lenore. “Zoë has a birthday in a couple weeks, right, Zo?”

“Twenty-one!” A huge smile streaked across Zoë’s face. “Mommy and Daddy got me an early present since I’ve been doing such a good job at school and here at the store. Look, it’s a new cell phone. I play lots of games on it and play my music, take selfies. Mark and I Skype all the time. He sends me funny emojis. Here. Look.”

Zoë showed Lenore her text messages with her boyfriend.

“Aw, Mark’s so sweet,” said Lenore.

They both peered at the cell phone screen as Zoë tapped at it.

“Which emoji is your favorite, Zoë?” I asked.

Both their heads turned up at me, and my breath caught, a chill ran up the back of my neck, like an icy whisper, a whisper telling me something important. And I couldn’t avoid it, ignore it. I couldn’t look away. It pierced my gut and twisted up my body, crushing my lungs, pounding in my chest.

In the sudden stream of sunlight hitting the two of them from the skylight above us, Lenore and Zoë’s eyes shined at me. The same distinct eye color. That rich, unique blue green of Lenore’s. Zoë had her eyes even if they were shaped differently, slanted differently.

Numbers, numbers ran through my head.

Zoë let out a soft laugh. “My favorite is the emoji face blowing kisses. That’s my f-favorite. The k-k-kiss.”

Zoë turning twenty-one. Subtraction, addition.

I’d gotten Lenore out twenty-five years ago. Lenore and I were together in Chicago for four years, then I got sent to prison, and Lenore had disappeared.

She’d disappeared.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.

The coordinates Lenore had tattooed under the compasses all over her body marking every event of her life and of mine. And yet the mystery one remained for this garden center. For this house.

The one tattoo over her heart. The big flaming N for North. Her North.

For Zoë.

Blue-green eyed Zoë. Zoë with hair the color of mine from when I was her age. That dark brown, not black, not chestnut brown. Dark coffee.

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