Chương 10
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He glanced toward my car.
“Kids okay?”
“They’re confused.”
“Yeah.”
“They’re hurt.”
His eyes dropped.
“I know.”
I folded my arms.
“What do you have?”
He reached into the back seat.
I tensed before realizing how ridiculous that was.
Dad noticed.
His face changed.
“Claire.”
“Just show me.”
He pulled out a blue accordion folder.
I recognized it immediately.
Mom kept household papers in folders exactly like that, labeled in her compact block handwriting.
This one said TAXES 2022.
Except Dad had crossed out TAXES and written CLAIRE beneath it.
“What is that?”
“Copies.”
“Of what?”
He handed me the folder.
It was heavier than it looked.
I opened it.
Bank statements.
Credit card statements.
Printed emails.
Receipts.
Handwritten notes.
My name appeared again and again.
Dad rubbed the back of his neck.
“I started going through things last night.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked me to tell the truth.”
I looked at him.
He did not meet my eyes.
“And?”
“And I realized I didn’t know what the truth was.”
That was the first thing he had said in days that made me believe him.
I opened the first statement.
It was from my old credit union account.
There were withdrawals going back almost six years.
Not two.
Six.
My stomach tightened.
“How did you get these?”
“Paper statements.”
“I was on electronic delivery.”
“Your mother switched it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have to know something.”
“She had them mailed to the house.”
“Your house.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said you wanted her to keep records.”
I looked at him.
“Did that sound normal to you?”
He gave a small, miserable shrug.
“At the time.”
“How much?”
He looked toward the folder.
“I stopped adding when I got above nineteen thousand.”
The parking lot tilted.
Not literally.
That would have been easier.
I leaned against the side of his car.
“Nineteen?”
“That’s just the credit union account.”
I stared at him.
“What else?”
He swallowed.
“Some of the credit card charges.”
“I know about those.”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“More than the doctor and pharmacy.”
I flipped deeper into the folder.
There were statements from one of my cards.
Charges I did not recognize.
A home improvement store.
An appliance retailer.
A veterinarian.
A motel.
Several electronic payment transfers.
Names were partially obscured on the printouts.
“How did she have access to this card?”
“She photographed it once.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad.”
“I don’t.”
He looked at me then.
“I’m not trying to protect her right now.”
The right now hurt.
“What about before?”
He looked away.
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It felt different.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
The answer was so bare that I had nothing to do with it.
I turned another page.
A handwritten list appeared.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
L.
R.
D.
E.
M.
Some entries had check marks.
Some had notes like rent, meds, furnace, school.
Others simply said needed.
Mom’s handwriting.
I felt suddenly cold.
“What is this?”
“I think it’s what she gave people.”
“With my money?”
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who are the initials?”
“Lydia.”
“Rob.”
“Denise.”
He nodded.
“Eric.”
“Yes.”
“M?”
Dad hesitated.
“Your mother.”
I stared at the page.
“She listed herself?”
“She tracks everything.”
“That is not tracking.”
My voice shook.
“That is a distribution list.”
“I know.”
“Did everyone know?”
“No.”
“How many knew?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop.”
He flinched.
“Stop saying you don’t know.”
“I’m telling you what I actually know.”
“Then tell me that.”
Dad leaned against the car opposite me.
“Rob knew she was helping him.”
“Obviously.”
“Denise knew she sometimes moved money between people.”
“Meaning?”
“If you gave money for one thing, she might use some somewhere else and replace it later.”
“Did she replace it?”
“Sometimes.”
“From where?”
He looked at me.
That was the answer.
From me.
Again.
A car pulled into the lot and parked near the return slot.
Its headlights swept across us.
Dad lowered his voice.
“I think she started doing it after your grandmother died.”
“Grandma Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She got scared.”
“Of what?”
“Running out.”
I almost laughed.
“Running out of my money?”
“Money in general.”
“She and you had retirement income.”
“We do.”
“You own the house.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have a mortgage.”
“No.”
“So what was she scared of?”
Dad stared at the asphalt.
“Being dependent.”
The irony was so sharp it almost felt deliberate.
“She stole from me because she was afraid of being dependent?”
“She would never call it stealing.”
“I know what she would call it.”
I remembered Mom’s phrases.
Helping each other.
Keeping things in the family.
Doing what needed to be done.
Not making money more important than people.
Every sentence had always made refusal sound immoral.
Dad rubbed his palms together.
“She thinks money should move toward whoever needs it most.”
“Unless the person needing it is me.”
He said nothing.
I held up the folder.
“Did she ever ask whether I needed this?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
His face tightened.
“No.”
I turned away.
Through the windshield of my car, I could see Marlo watching us.
Theo had fogged a circle onto the side window and was drawing something with his finger.
Dad followed my gaze.
“I’m sorry about Easter.”
I looked back at him.
“Why did you agree?”
“I didn’t agree.”
“You sat there.”
“I didn’t agree.”
“You were part of a conversation before we arrived.”
He nodded slowly.
“I was there.”
“What did Mom say?”
He pressed his lips together.
“She said Theo was becoming disruptive.”
“He is six.”
“I know.”
“What does disruptive mean?”
“He gets loud.”
“So does Rob.”
Dad almost smiled.
It vanished immediately.
“She said he monopolizes attention.”
“He asks questions.”
“I know.”
“She said Marlo encourages him.”
“She loves him.”
“I know.”
“And twenty-three adults needed protection from a six-year-old?”
Dad’s face reddened.
“No.”
“Then what was it really?”
He looked toward the library.
May you like
The lights inside had started dimming.
A staff member was stacking chairs near the front windows.
