Chapter 1: Anywhere but here
Chapter 1: Anywhere but here
Zoe
“So you’re leaving again?” My mother asks with a tightening of her lips. I nod my head as I continue to pack my bag and ignore her aura of disapproval. “You know that this was only temporary until I found another job, mom. School starts again soon, and I want to make sure that I’m settled before I start classes. Sahara is letting me and Bree rent an apartment while I work at her bar. So I’ll be fine.”
At first, it looks like she’s not going to respond, but then she relaxes her stance and asks with a controlled voice. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Zoe? Sahara is not the nicest person in the world.” I snort at her comment—understatement of the year. Sahara is the biggest bitch in the world and the master of the house’s wife. And let’s not forget that I’m the master of the house’s illegitimate daughter. Not that he acknowledges me in any way.
I’m snapped back from my thoughts when my mother says, “You know you can come and work here if you want. John would be more than happy to give you a job as a maid.” Her words ignite a kernel of rage inside of me. “How monogamous of that dick to offer me a job. Of course, I’ll give up my opportunity to go back to college and my dream of becoming a songwriter and producer to be a maid.” I slap my head exaggeratedly. “Why didn’t I think of that?” My mother’s face flushes and becomes rigid with anger. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, young lady. It’s a good offer. Who’s to say that you’d make money making silly songs anyway?”
I shake my head at my mother’s delusional naiveté. “Really, mom? Are we going to keep pretending?” She sniffs, uncrossing her arms in agitation, lifting her chin up with a scowl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Zoe. I’ve been able to raise you with this job. It’s good honest work.” I snort in disgust. “Really, mom? How honest were you when you screwed the boss? Do I go out there, serve him dinner, and pretend that I don’t have his eyes? Or will he sign my checks as my father? Will I be my half-siblings’ servant? Oh, I know, maybe I can hang out with my half-sister Belinda while I serve her cocktails. Maybe I’ll do that when she and the others come back from whatever school daddy paid for. At least Sahara has the nerve to be a bitch to my face.” I utter with all the contempt I can muster. It amazes me that my mother can be so submissive and deluded. I just don't understand how she can't wish for me to do better in life, how she can turn a blind eye to how John and his children treat me.
My mother’s face pales at my words. But she recovers quickly and crosses her arms over her chest with a stubborn sputter. She recovers quickly, though, and brushes off my comment as if it wasn't in any way valid. “Let’s not start this again.” I shake my head at her dismissive tone. “Yeah, let’s not start this again, mom. I don’t care what you say. I’m going back to school, and I’m going to become somebody with or without your support!”
My mother looks like she’s going to say more but thinks better of it and walks away. Once she's out of the room, I slump down on the bed and rest my hands on my knees. “I can’t believe I ever came back here,” I mutter in disbelief.
I swear that my mother wasn’t always this bitter. My mother used to be a beautiful, spirited woman once. I remember when I was a little girl how her long honey brown hair would gleam in the morning light along with the glow of her sun-kissed skin. She’s tall with a voluptuous body. People tell me that I look a lot like she did when she was younger— except for some things that I inherited from the sperm donor. That’s what I like to call him. I just can’t stomach the thought of calling him my father.
I have my mother’s honey-colored hair and body. But my aqua-colored eyes and lush Jolie lips are my fathers’. I’m about five feet nine inches tall, with a nicely sized chest, small waist, and a huge Kardashian ass that is the vein of my existence. I have a small birthmark on my right cheek that I hate, but everyone says it makes me look exotic. I have to roll my eyes at that one. My golden-brown colored hair is long and wavy, reaching past my shoulders. Most of the time, I tie it into a loose bun and call it a day. My mother has dark brown eyes and thin lips. However, people say that we have the same cat-like slant to our eyes. I’d like to think that we’re not that similar. But it scares me to think that we are.
I used to look up to my mom for being strong enough to raise me on her own. I even defended her when people criticized her. That is, until the day I learned the truth. That’s the day that I realized that my mother was not the person I thought she was. I think I’ve hated her since.
That day came years ago when I was a little girl, and I discovered that I was the lord of the house’s daughter. I’ll never forget the day.
“Zoe, go and set the plates on the table. The guests will be here in a few hours, and it needs to be perfect.” I clap my hands enthusiastically and reach for the plates. Today is John’s daughter, Belinda’s birthday. She’s sixteen. Not to mention that today is my birthday too. We’re both the same age. But unlike Belinda, I’m not getting a large opulent party.
Oh, I’m sure that after the party my mom and a few of the servants will have a cake for me, and give me presents. But it won’t be anything like Belinda’s elegant sweet sixteen birthday ball.
Once I’m done setting up the tables, I sneak upstairs and hide behind Belinda’s large closet to watch her and her friends get ready. Belinda’s room is what I imagine a princess’ room looks like. It has a large white wooden four-poster bed with a royal blue Fleur de Lis pattern on the headrest. Her bedspread is royal blue and purple, with a lot of pillows laying snuggly over it. The walls are painted a light butter yellow. There are several white wardrobes and dressers, along with a royal purple fainting couch near the window. She has a large balcony that opens up to the backyard patio. And a large closet bigger than my mom’s room packed with everything a girl could want.
The girls are all wearing fancy gowns and shoes. Belinda’s dress looks like a fairy tale dress. It’s long and blue with a sweetheart neckline and two slits on each side of her skirt. She looks so grown up with her blonde hair twisted into a sophisticated bun at the top of her head. Her makeup is shimmery with peach and red tones, and her turquoise eyes stand out under her creamy skin. My eyes are like hers. But my skin is tan, and my hair is a mousy brown color.
The girls, ignorant of my presence, continue to talk back and forth about boys and shoes. It makes me wish I could do the same thing. Belinda and I are the same age, but we don’t go to the same school. Belinda attends a rich preppy school, and I go to a public school on the other side of town. And even though we’ve seen each other around the house, Belinda has never spoken a word to me. If anything, she is disdainful whenever we encounter each other around the house. Sometimes she’ll call me servant girl or the maid’s daughter. Her other siblings treat me the same way. I try to stay away from her as much as I can, but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me.
Regardless of that, I find her life to be fascinating. I can't help but envy her designer clothes, gorgeous boyfriends, and luxurious life. I’m not even allowed to invite friends over for any reason. Most of the kids at school stay away from me anyway. Some of them call me “homeless girl” or say mean things about my second-hand clothes. I try not to let them get to me, though. I know that someday I’ll make something of myself. I started writing music at a very young age and found that it was a great channel for all of my suppressed feelings. Whenever I felt sad, lonely, or any other emotion— I’d write about it. It earned me a spot in the school musical. I also have a really nice voice.
I look down at my torn jeans and ratty sweatshirt —wishing that I was like one of the girls in the room. I wish I had beautiful gowns and handsome boyfriends who would worship me. Just then, there’s a knock on the door. Belinda and the girls make silencing sounds and sit up. The doorknob turns, and Belinda’s dad walks inside. Mr. Dawson is a stern-looking man with coiffed dark hair and aquamarine eyes. He has a tall, wiry build and a stiff gait. He’s wearing a very expensive Armani suit with a gold tie and a crisp white dress shirt underneath. “Daddy!” Belinda cries in delight. Her friends smile in welcome and hustle out of the room to give them some privacy.
Mr. Dawson gives Belinda a warm smile wrapping his daughter into a tight embrace. “Darling, you look incredibly beautiful.” Belinda pulls back with an ecstatic grin. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so excited. I can’t wait for everyone to see me in my beautiful dress.” Mr. Dawson chuckles indulgently. “Well... there is one thing missing.” Belinda scowls and looks around the room. “What? No! Everything has to be perfect!” She screams in a shrill voice. She is so spoiled. I remember one time she threw a plate of food at one of the servants because they placed the vegetables on the wrong side of the plate. She cried for hours. Mr. Dawson fired the servant the next day. The staff was shocked and on guard for days after that.
Before she can work herself into a bitch fit, Mr. Dawson settles a hand over her shoulder and gives her an indulgent smile. “It’s okay, pumpkin. What I meant was that you were missing this.” He says, taking out a beautiful rectangular box from his pocket. I recognize the sky blue and pink box. It’s from Tiffany and Company. Not that I’ve ever gotten anything from there. I just know what it is because Belinda’s stepmother Sahara is always raving about the boxes she gets from there. Belinda shrieks ecstatically and tears through the box. I lean further into the doorway, straining for a closer look. They’re golden earrings with pink diamonds in the shape of teardrops. They're the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I twirl my fingers over the cheap hoop earrings that I bought from Forever 21. That is the only jewelry I’ve ever had. But I love them because they were one of the first things I owned that didn’t previously belong to someone else.
Belinda rushes to the mirror and places them on. They look gorgeous, swinging from the delicate shell of her ears. Not even the chandelier hanging in the center of the room, with its crystal tears, are a match for their shine. Belinda moves her head back and forth to see how they look, then twirls around to face her father. Her six-inch Prada shoes clink as she makes her way back to his arms. “Oh, daddy, I love them.” Mr. Dawson gestures towards the door with an indulgent smile. “There’s more where that came from, pumpkin. Why don’t we go downstairs and celebrate with our guests?” Without another word, Belinda claps her hands excitedly and hustles out of the room, leaving her father to follow behind. I’m about to step out of the closet when my mother steps into the room.
“May I speak to you?” She asks Mr. Dawson. At first, it looks like Mr. Dawson is going to dismiss her request, but the obstinate look on his face makes him hesitate. I can't help but notice by the wary look he gives the door that he has no desire to talk to my mom. However, he reluctantly moves towards the door, closes it, and turns back to my mother with a questioning frown. I don’t know what to do, so I remain hidden behind the closet door. However, I'm glued to the spot. “What do you need, Alexa?” He asks gruffly. My mother shuffles her feet for a moment. “Listen, John; today is also Zoe’s birthday.” He nods his head uncaringly. “Is it?” My mother tightens her mouth and gives him a disbelieving look. “You know it is.” She says with accusation in her voice. Mr. Dawson lets out an exasperated breath and waves her to go on. “What is your point, Alexa?” My mother shakes her head. “Don’t you care, John? She’s your daughter too.”
Her word makes my body go cold. My heart speeds up, and my sight begins to waver. It’s not possible. There's no way that Mr. Dawson is my father. Not when he's so loving to his children and treats me like a nuisance. He wouldn't do that to me if I were his real daughter. Would he? Unaware of my presence, my mother continues. “I’ve never asked you for anything, John, but she’s sixteen today, and I thought that... perhaps you would give her a present. You don’t have to say who it’s from if you don’t want to. Just…just this once.” My mother whispers pleadingly.
I can barely hear what they are saying at this point. My ears are roaring like a storm in my ears. Nausea roils in my stomach, clogging my throat. I can’t believe this. Tightening my hands over the edge of the closet, I close my eyes, hoping that this is a nightmare. However, the pain simply intensifies.
Mr. Dawson steps back from my mother with a snicker. “Are you kidding me, Alexa? I will never lay claim to that... that…girl. No one asked you to have her. You should have aborted her the moment you found out about the pregnancy. I’m not giving her a thing. Now get out of my sight and never mention this again. I don’t want my wife to see you here.” His words strike me like a knife. Anger replaces disbelief. My own father wishes I was never born.
My mother’s eyes gleam with tears. “Why, John? Why would you say something like that? Have you ever looked at her? She has your eyes. She’s a sweet, beautiful girl. Why can’t you love her the same as you love your other children?”
But John is done with the conversation. I flinch in shock when he grips my mother by her shoulders threateningly. “I said, do not speak of that girl again! Do you hear me?”
I see red at this point. I don’t even notice until it's too late that I've stepped out of the closet to confront him. “Let go of my mother, you bastard!” My mother’s eyes -widen with horror. Mr. Dawson's body stiffens, quickly releasing my mother like she's on fire. “Zoe, baby. What did you hear?” My mother asks, walking towards me sadness, filling her eyes. She's horrified by the thought of what I've heard. It's obvious that she wasn't expecting this kind of response from the man she bore a child with, which makes no sense when you piece together the facts. I mean, this man has never made any attempt to form an attachment with me in any way.
However, I'm too hurt by my mother's deceit to see how badly she feels about what has occurred. All I know is that my mother has been lying to me and that my father is a hateful human being. Taking a step back, I push away from my mother's reach, not letting her touch me. I'm disgusted with both of them. I turn to Mr. Dawson and give him the most hateful glare that I can muster before I turn back to my mother. “Tell me it’s not true, mom.” I plead. But my mother looks down at her feet, shamefaced. I look at the man who is standing there like an emotionless statue and narrow my eyes. I won't let this bastard see my pain. I refuse to let anyone hurt me like this again. “You know what? That’s okay. I don’t need a father. Especially one that is a disgusting coward like you.” I utter with a disdainful sneer. Mr. Dawson’s face falls, finally showing some emotion. I believe I see regret. But it might be wishful thinking on my part because it's quickly overshadowed by indifference. “Good, then we understand each other.” He says with a cold voice before he walks away.
My mother and I both stand there, frozen with despair. My mother opens her mouth and closes it quickly. Almost like she doesn't know what to do. Once I get ahold of my emotions, I gaze at my mother’s tearful face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I utter with a croak. My mother sniffles and wipes at her falling tears. “I…I wanted to…” She retorts tearfully. “But I didn’t know-how. I thought…no, I knew he didn’t want to be a part of our lives, so I let it go. I’m sorry.” Disgust envelopes me. “I don’t understand, mom. Why do you still work for this monster? He doesn’t care about us.” She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her chest protectively. “You don’t understand, Zoe. I love him.”
I scowl incredulously. “Are you kidding me right now? You may love him, but he doesn’t love you. You’re his maid mom─ a servant. And knowing that you’ve been living in a closet-sized room with his daughter while he’s been living it up with his family only brings my point home. You heard him. He doesn’t care about us!” But my mother is not listening. She stubbornly tilts her chin and walks to the door. “You don’t know anything, Zoe. And you will never understand.”
I slap my jean-covered thigh, frustrated with my mother's warped reasoning. How dare she stand there and act as if I'm the one in the wrong here. “Well, this is not what I want, mom. I hate him! And I can’t believe you’re whoring yourself to this heartless bastard. As soon as I get the chance, I am leaving this place and never looking back.”
My head snaps back at the impact of my mother’s hand connecting with my face.” Don’t you dare say something like that?!” She retorts in outrage.
Ignoring her ire, I raise a hand up to my burning cheek and gaze at my mother in astonishment. It's like she's a whole different person than I thought she was. My eyes have been opened, and not in a good way. My mother's eyes shine with the weight of her regret. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I…I understand if you hate me. But there is more to this than you know. There’s no way I can make you understand how I feel. You’ve never been in love. You’ll know then.” I snicker incredulously at her comment. “Then I guess I’ll never understand because I’m never going to fall in love. Not if it means that I’ll be treated by a man the way John treats you.”
My mother and I were never the same after that. It’s as if an irreparable bridge has been placed between us. From that moment on, I never trusted her again. I have never been so glad to leave this place.
Living with Bree actually works out for both of us because she’s having financial problems too. Sahara offered to rent me one of the apartments in her building a few weeks ago, and I jumped at the chance to do it. It beats being near John and my mother.
I’m actually quite surprised that Sahara rented the apartment to us. She also offered me a job at one of her bars. She’s never been my biggest fan because of what my mom and John did. You see, Sahara knew about me too. John had an affair with my mother before he met Sahara. John has been married several times since. Sahara is his current wife. They’ve been married for about five years. My mom was his side piece until she became pregnant, so I don't blame her for hating me and being wary of John’s wandering eye. But if it gets me out from under my mom’s thumb, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.
I guess we all have our own cross to bear. Taking my bags through the side entrance of the house, I meet the taxi driver outside. The man gives me an impatient scowl and gestures hurriedly at my bags. You’d think he’d been waiting for me for a long time, instead of mere minutes. I pass my bags to him with a frown and look back at the large Mediterranean style mansion with derision. I had never been so relieved to be out of this place. It's like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
The taxi driver takes my bag before he asks in a deadpanned voice. “Where do you want to go, miss?” Taking a deep breath, I slip inside the car and give him the address. The driver looks at the address with a slight nod and slips inside his seat. “Buckle up, miss.” He says good-naturedly.
I continue to gaze out the window without another word. I don’t even notice when the driver starts the car and makes his way down the driveway. My eyes are too focused on the big house that has been the epicenter of my misery since I can remember.
The house, with its opulent golden brick driveway, slowly begins to fade off into the distance. I feel like Dorothy, heading down the yellow brick road. I have to laugh at the sound of my whimsical thoughts. Because that’s where it ends. The only similarity the house has to my favorite childhood book is the evil witch that lives there and her tin man husband who doesn’t have a heart.
I look down the winding driveway with its trimmed hedges and large palm trees, feeling the knot in my stomach unravel. The house is about two-hundred and forty thousand square feet. It has nine bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, a gourmet kitchen, two wine cellars, and a large library. There are also a few other living and dining rooms designed with different themes by the lady of the house. The home glows with gentle lights standing proudly outside of the winding driveway. Inside is just as opulent with triple crown molding, silver and gold leaf details, and limestone flooring. There are several pools, a spa, and a large patio in the back—all of which I’ve never been allowed to use.
As the taxi makes its way down the driveway, I can see a procession of luxurious cars parked in front and a valet station. Invited guests go in and out of their vehicles. Glamorous women and men in their finest attire step into the main entrance, ready to dance the night away.
I’ve never stepped foot inside the main entrance, either. No, I’ve never been allowed to enter through the main door. That would be too crass, considering that I am the daughter of the maid.
No, I only got to go into the servant’s quarters with all the help. The servant’s quarters are located in an obscure part of the house. The quarters are designed more for function. The rooms are small and dark with fading carpet and second-hand furniture. They are all located near the kitchen in case the master or mistress of the house needs something. All of the rooms are equipped with a telephone directly connected to the owner’s phones.
My mother has worked and lived with the Dawson’s since before I was born. Over the years, I’ve seen the staff walk in and out of their room to deliver trays laden with dishes to the Dawson family.
Regardless of my differences with my mother, I got along really well with all the staff. Several of them had waved me out as I walked out of the house. They were so happy when I received my acceptance letter and a partial scholarship to Cal State a few years ago. All of them, except my mother, that is.
I will never forget the day I came running excitedly down the dark hallway of the servant’s rooms after I received my acceptance letter to Cal State. The hallway was empty. The only sound you could hear were the sounds of my shoes shuffling over the faded red carpet. The single wall sconces mounted every few feet were the only things giving off light. I had always been a little creeped out by the servant’s hallway. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d and imagine all kinds of spooky things happening in it. It reminded me of a long hallway you’d see in a horror movie.
I rushed into my mother’s bedroom and slammed the door open. Our bedroom is the last one at the end of the hallway. It’s almost as if someone wanted to keep her as far away from the family as they could. Coming face-to-face with my mother, I extended the letter out to her. My mother can now finally see how much my hard work has paid off. “Zoe, honey, what’s going on?”
I wave the sheet in front of her. “Mom, I got in. I got into Cal State. I’m going to college.” My mother’s face didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, she looked at the paper with something akin to derision. “Oh… did you? It’s unfortunate that we don’t have the money to pay for it.” She said with a dismissive shrug. Not letting her attitude deter me, I continued to talk. “That’s okay, mom. I got a scholarship too. It’s a partial scholarship. But with the money I saved, I’ll be able to pay for school my first year.” Her mouth tightened at my words. I could almost hear her thoughts. She looked exhausted. Her peppered brown hair was in disarray, and her eyes looked hollow.
She never congratulated me for getting into college or for earning a scholarship. She didn’t even say goodbye to me the first time I left. She simply kept going with her life as if I didn’t exist. I was actually surprised that she let me stay with her when I called her a few weeks ago.
We’re just not the mother and daughter we were before the incident. I guess there was no way to repair all of the damage she and my father caused. I meant what I told my mom on my sixteenth birthday. I will never fall in love. There’s no way that I would give someone else the kind of power John holds over my mother. Love is just an emotion used to control people. I want to be free and have the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without answering to anyone. A few of the guys I’ve met have never really held that much interest for me. Most of the guys I’ve met have been arrogant, selfish, and self-serving, which has made it easy for me to rebuff any of their overtures. I’m happier being alone. I doubt I’ll ever find someone who will catch my attention long enough to make me fall in love with him.