Tushar Srivastav
patreon
Chapter 11: Zoey's Story
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 16:30:00 +0000 UTCThe first memory Zoey could name wasn't one you'd find in a scrapbook.
She was four. Curled in a blanket with space rockets on it, sitting on her dad's lap in a room full of flickering blue and red light. Outside, sirens howled. Inside, her dad's arms wrapped around her like armour.
He smelled like sweat and peppermint gum.
"Don't be scared," he whispered, voice dry and heavy. "I've got you, kiddo."
She wasn't scared then. Not really. Not until she saw the two police officers standing in the hallway did she realise what had happened. One of them looked away when she stared. The other looked like she wanted to say something but didn't.
After that night, the world tilted. Not all at once—slowly, the way ice cracks across a lake.
Her dad, Officer Daniel Whitaker, wasn't like the other dads. He didn't bring cupcakes to school or wear funny hats at Halloween. He worked long hours and sometimes forgot things—like picking her up or which kind of cereal she liked. But he tried. And he loved her fiercely, in the sort of quiet way that made it real.
He made pancakes on Saturdays, even if they were lumpy. He once drove all night to replace a lost stuffed dinosaur she thought she'd never see again. He taped every one of her drawings on the fridge as if it were the Louvre.
But then came the bad nights.
She wasn't sure when they started. It was like trying to remember the first raindrop in a storm.
He would sit too long on the couch, staring at the wall. His hands would shake when he held his coffee. Sometimes, he wouldn't come home at all, and she'd fall asleep with her shoes on, thinking she'd missed something important.
There were police again one night. This time, they were outside their apartment. Her dad was in the back of the cruiser, eyes blank, jaw set. Someone said, "Accidental overdose." Another said, "Prescription."
Zoey heard all of it. Children often overhear more than adults think they do.
After that, he tried harder. They went to therapy. He smiled more. He picked Zoey up on time, made her favourite mac and cheese, and promised—really promised—it was going to be better now.
And it was for a little while.
Then came September.
She had heard whispers at the precinct when she visited that he was too deep into a case. That it was breaking him.
He was chasing a powerful drug ring. One that had fingers in every borough and political backing strong enough to make people disappear. He didn't disappear—but he did stumble. He took something one night when he couldn't sleep. A mistake. One dose too many while tailing a suspect in East Hollywood.
But he didn't die alone.
The rookie cop who found him said he was still conscious, barely. When they tried to keep him awake, he muttered two words—slurred but clear:
"Tell Zoey…"
He never finished the sentence. But somehow, it was enough.
The day he died, Zoey was colouring at the aftercare centre. The sky was clear, the paper warm under her hand. Ms. Kendra knelt beside her and said, too softly, "Sweetheart, there's been an accident."
Zoey didn't cry, Not then, Not when she was handed a folded flag. Not when people hugged her too long. Not even when they put his picture on an easel in the middle of a church that smelled like old wood and sadness.
She held it in because there was nowhere safe to let it out.
No one told her what would happen next. Not really. Just phrases like "temporary placement" and "we're working on it." She started counting how many times grown-ups said, "You're so brave", without asking if she wanted to be.
But the part that hurt more than anything wasn't just losing her father. It was the silence from her mother.
Her mother wasn't absent because she didn't care—far from it.
Zoey remembered the smell of jasmine perfume and the coolness of her mother's hand stroking her hair. She remembered late-night lullabies hummed in languages Zoey didn't understand. Her mom worked for a government agency—something secret, meaningful, and always far away. It was the kind of job where you didn't get to say where you were or when you'd be back: deployments, classified missions, radio silence.
Sometimes, months would pass.
Then there would be a postcard with no return address. Or a birthday letter mailed weeks too late but filled with little drawings of stars and stick figures holding hands. Always signed: Love you to the edge of the galaxy. Stay bright. —Mom.
Zoey believed that love was real. But it didn't make the absences any easier.
When her dad died, there was no postcard. No message. Just silence.
No one even knew how to reach her mother.
That came weeks later.
It was from her mother.
It had no return address—just a postmark from Prague. A tiny ink smudge where maybe something had been wiped away. But her mother's handwriting was still neat, like always. Sharp loops, careful spacing. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and lavender.
She kept it in a red tin under her pillow. She still reads it sometimes.
Hey, my bright girl,
I'm still out here saving the world, one problem at a time. You'd roll your eyes if I told you how boring most of it is. Think piles of paper and maybe one rooftop helicopter ride a month if I'm lucky.
I miss you every second. I miss your art, your laugh, and your questions to which I never have good answers.
Dad tells me you've been making space castles and repainting dragons. I love that. Never stop.
The world gets weird sometimes, but I hope you always know—
You're my galaxy. Stay bright.
—Mom
Zoey had read that postcard a hundred times.
Sometimes, she'd trace the words with her pinkie. Sometimes, she'd fall asleep holding it, pretending her mom was whispering it aloud.
She didn't know where her mother was now. If she even knew that dad was gone. Sometimes, Zoey imagined her standing in some cold corridor under fluorescent lights, a phone call away but never able to dial.
Then, one day, two officers brought her to a door.
It was a modest house. White steps. Quiet. Clean. The man who opened it had a warm face and tired eyes. She knew him—Ayaan's dad.
"Mr. Malhotra," the officer said gently. "This is Zoey Whitaker. Her father, Officer Whitaker, was—he was killed in the line of duty. There's no immediate family. She needs a place, just for now."
Just for now.
That was the part Zoey focused on. She looked up at him, waiting for the hesitation. Everyone hesitated.
But Rishi didn't. He stepped aside and said, "She can stay as long as she needs."
She didn't say thank you. She didn't know how. She just walked in, set her backpack down, and sat on the couch like she didn't belong anywhere.
That night, he made her grilled cheese. She didn't eat it.
The next morning, Ayaan gave her half a banana and said, "Your socks are cooler than mine."
That was the first time she smiled in weeks.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't home. But it didn't feel like a foster home either.
They let her draw wherever she wanted. She used the dining table, the kitchen counter, and even the porch. She drew dragons, stars, and forests that didn't exist. She stayed quiet most days. Ayaan filled in the space.
He spoke both quickly and slowly at the same time. He always had ideas. Big, strange ideas. He didn't act like a seven-year-old. He didn't act like a grown-up, either. He acted like someone who had stories living in his bones.
She liked that.
He showed her a book one afternoon—Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. She wrinkled her nose at the title. "So it's British?" she asked.
He grinned. "Very."
When he said he wanted to pitch it to Hollywood, she laughed. Actually laughed. "You're crazy."
"Probably," he said. "But will you help me draw the world?"
She did.
Not because she believed it would work. But because the way he described it made her want to see it too. He spoke about Hogwarts as if it were a real place. About ghosts who walked through walls. It is about a baby dragon named Norbert. About creatures in the woods who read the stars.
She drew them all. Her best work in months.
And for the first time since her father died—and since her mother vanished into silence—she felt... necessary. As if she wasn't just a sad story that people pitied. She was part of something being built. Something strange and magical and hopeful.
When they walked into the Warner Bros. lot for the pitch meeting, she felt smaller than she ever had. Not because of fear—but because the world suddenly seemed so big again.
She didn't speak much in the meeting. But she watched. She watched Ayaan light up, describing trolls, centaurs, and staircases that moved on their own. She watched Mr. Silver lean in slowly, like he'd been caught in a spell.
And when they walked out into the sunlight, Ayaan looked different. It's like he finally believed he belonged somewhere.
So did she.
Zoey still missed her dad. Every night. And her mom, too—the way her handwriting curved like waves, the way she said "bright girl" like it meant more than brilliant.
Some days, she wondered if her mom would ever come back. If she even knew.
But until then, there was this house. Rishi, who left the porch light on for her. Ayaan shared bananas and stories like they were sacred things.
She didn't know if it was forever.
But she wasn't afraid anymore.
That, she thought, might be what love feels like after all.
She still had questions.
Where was her mom?
Would she ever come back?
Was it okay to love someone else who wasn't her dad?
But she also had her red tin, her drawings, and a house where someone left the porch light on.
That had to count for something.
And maybe, just maybe, love didn't always have to mean forever. Sometimes, it just meant: You can stay.
And that was enough.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed and the house had settled into its gentle hum—Rishi's soft footsteps upstairs, Ayaan mumbling lines from Harry Potter in his sleep—Zoey sat cross-legged on the rug in her room.
The red tin was in front of her.
She opened it carefully. Inside: the postcard, her father's watch, a purple button from his old uniform coat, and one tiny crumpled drawing she barely remembered making—a stick figure holding hands with two taller ones under a starry sky.
She added one more thing: a sketch she had finished that morning and tucked under her pillow.
It was of a girl and a phoenix.
The girl was small, but she stood tall, her hand outstretched toward the firebird as it flew by. Her hair blew back like it was caught in a storm. The phoenix's wings stretched wide, burning bright, as if it had just risen from ashes.
Zoey folded the sketch once, twice. Then tucked it into the tin beside the postcard.
She whispered like she had so many nights:
"Stay bright."
Then she closed the lid, slid the box beneath her bed, and climbed under the covers.
For the first time in a long while, she slept without her shoes on.
And didn't dream of running.
End of Chapter 11
PREVIOUS INDEX NEXT
