Chương 2
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
The lie came out automatically.
He glanced at the mirror.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“That usually means no.”
“I have some.”
“In your account?”
I did not answer.
He took the next turn instead of heading toward the pharmacy.
“Where are we going?”
“To eat.”
“I told you I need formula.”
“And I told you we’re getting it.”
“This isn’t the way.”
“I’m aware.”
The restaurant he chose was a diner near the old courthouse, one of those places with cracked red booths and coffee strong enough to remove paint.
Grandpa had taken me there after my college graduation.
He had also taken me there the morning after I told him I was pregnant.
That day, he had ordered eggs and asked only one question.
What do you want to do?
Everyone else had asked what I was going to do about the baby, as if Noah had been a scheduling problem.
Grandpa had asked about me.
I had forgotten how dangerous that kind of kindness could feel.
Inside, a waitress brought hot water without being asked when she saw Noah’s bottle.
Grandpa ordered meatloaf.
I ordered toast.
He changed my order to a turkey sandwich and fries.
“You don’t get to do that,” I said.
“Correct.”
The waitress looked between us.
Grandpa handed her the menu.
“She can yell at me after she eats.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“You used to.”
“I was twelve.”
“You were excellent at it.”
The corner of my mouth moved before I could stop it.
For almost a minute, we were normal.
A tired woman with a baby and an old man complaining that the diner had ruined coleslaw by putting raisins in it.
Then Grandpa reached into his coat and placed his phone on the table.
“Show me your bank account.”
My appetite disappeared.
“No.”
He nodded once.
That surprised me more than pressure would have.
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to ask why?”
“I know why.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
Heat climbed my neck.
He opened a sugar packet, poured half into his coffee, then folded the empty paper into smaller and smaller squares.
“I also know embarrassment is useful to people who want you quiet.”
I looked toward the front windows.
Traffic slid past in dull winter light.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“Does it?”
“Mom handles some things for me because I was overwhelmed after Noah was born.”
“How many things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Banking?”
“Some.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Your phone bill?”
“Yes.”
“Car?”
I looked at him.
He stopped folding the sugar packet.
“Madison.”
“Grandpa, please.”
“How many things?”
I could hear Lauren’s voice in my head telling me I was confused.
Mom’s voice telling me I needed rest.
Dad’s voice telling me paperwork was not worth fighting about.
The waitress returned with coffee and set down a small bowl of crackers.
Noah slept beside me in his carrier.
I picked up one cracker and broke it in half without eating it.
“My debit card is in Mom’s purse.”
Grandpa said nothing.
“She said it was easier because I kept ordering things online.”
“What things?”
“Baby stuff.”
“With your money?”
“Yes.”
“How much is in the account?”
“I had around eleven thousand when I moved back home.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
His face hardened.
I rushed to fill the space before it could become anger.
“Some of it went to bills.”
“Which bills?”
“I live there.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“They buy groceries.”
“Madison.”
“And Noah needed things.”
“With your own money.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
I thought of the envelopes Mom opened before handing them to me.
The tax form I had asked about twice.
The small life insurance policy from my grandmother that Grandpa had mentioned after the funeral.
The key to the lockbox that disappeared from my desk.
My stomach tightened.
“I don’t know.”
He sat back slowly.
The waitress brought our plates.
Grandpa thanked her.
He waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“When was the last time you saw a full bank statement?”
I tried to remember.
The effort itself frightened me.
“Before Noah was born.”
“That was four months ago.”
“I know.”
“Do you have access through the app?”
“I used to.”
“Used to?”
“My password stopped working.”
“And you didn’t reset it?”
“Mom said she changed it because somebody tried to get into the account.”
Grandpa closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his anger had gone somewhere colder.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
I took a bite of the sandwich because arguing suddenly felt childish.
He picked up his fork but did not touch the meatloaf.
“I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to answer without protecting anyone.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m not protecting anyone.”
“You are.”
I looked away.
He let that sit between us.
Then he said, “Do you have your Social Security card?”
“No.”
“Birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Car title?”
“No.”
“Insurance papers?”
“No.”
“Where are they?”
“Mom keeps them.”
“Why?”
“She says I lose things.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
He nodded.
“Do you lose every legal document you own?”
I put the sandwich down.
“No.”
“Does Lauren keep her documents with your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
He held my gaze.
I lasted maybe two seconds.
“No,” I said again, quieter.
Grandpa pushed his plate away.
“All right.”
The words were calm.
Too calm.
“What are you going to do?”
“First, we’re buying formula and diapers.”
“And then?”
“We’re going to my house.”
I stared at him.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“My things are at home.”
“We can get them.”
“Mom will freak out.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is when you have to live with her.”
Grandpa leaned forward.
“You don’t have to live with her.”
The sentence should have felt like freedom.
Instead, panic moved through me so fast I almost stood up.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“I can’t just leave.”
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“Why?”
“Because Noah’s crib is there, and his clothes, and my stuff, and I have appointments, and Dad already thinks I don’t help enough, and Mom will say I’m using you against them.”
