Chương 3
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then what she says doesn’t change what is true.”
“That’s easy for you.”
“Yes.”
His answer stopped me.
He rubbed one hand over his mouth.
“It is easier for me.”
For the first time that afternoon, his voice softened.
“I have money, a house, a lawyer, and enough age that nobody can scare me by threatening to be disappointed.”
I looked down.
“You don’t have those protections.”
“No.”
“So I’m not going to pretend this is simple.”
The waitress passed our table carrying a pot of coffee.
Somebody near the kitchen dropped silverware and swore.
Noah made a sleepy squeak.
Grandpa reached across the table and tapped one finger beside my plate.
“But complicated is not the same as impossible.”
I swallowed.
“What if they didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Then looking at the records will prove that.”
“And if they did?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Then tonight is going to be unpleasant.”
A cold feeling settled under my ribs.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I am not going to your parents’ house to have a family discussion.”
He picked up his phone.
“I’m going to find out what belongs to you, what was taken from you, and who decided you were too tired to notice.”
The first thing Grandpa did after paying the check was drive me to the pharmacy and make me choose the large can of formula instead of the small one I could afford without thinking too hard.
I stood in the baby aisle with Noah asleep against my chest while Grandpa loaded diapers, wipes, infant Tylenol, and three jars of the rash cream I had been cutting open to scrape out the last of.
“You don’t need three,” I said.
“You needed one before today.”
“That doesn’t mean we need a bunker supply.”
He looked at the shelf.
“This is not a bunker supply.”
“It is if you’ve been rationing wipes.”
His hand stopped.
I wished immediately that I had not said it.
He placed another package in the cart.
“Grandpa.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know.”
“You’re acting like I am.”
“No.”
He finally looked at me.
“I’m acting like someone should have noticed.”
That was worse.
Pity made me defensive, but guilt from somebody else made me want to disappear.
I took the wipes out of the cart.
He put them back.
Neither of us spoke until we reached the register.
Outside, the sky had gone dark enough that every car in the parking lot had its headlights on.
Grandpa loaded the bags while I changed Noah in the back seat.
The baby kicked one bare foot into the cold air and stared up at me with the solemn concentration of someone evaluating my competence.
“You and me both,” I whispered.
When Grandpa got back behind the wheel, his phone was already in his hand.
He called someone named Eric and said he needed a favor.
I stopped listening until I heard my own name.
“No, she’s with me now.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“No, I don’t want anybody contacted yet.”
I leaned forward between the seats.
“Who is Eric?”
Grandpa ended the call.
“My attorney.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“He’s not calling anyone.”
“I don’t want a lawyer.”
“You may not need one.”
“You just called one.”
“I also call him when my neighbor’s tree falls on my fence.”
“That is not comforting.”
He started the car.
“I asked him what steps are reasonable if an adult’s financial documents have been controlled by someone else.”
I stared at him.
“That makes it sound criminal.”
“It makes it sound accurate.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
He drove out of the parking lot.
For several blocks, I watched storefronts blur past my window.
A nail salon.
A tax service.
A pizza place with a handwritten sign advertising delivery drivers.
Normal people inside normal buildings doing normal things.
I had the strange sensation that I had stepped sideways out of my own life while everybody else stayed put.
Grandpa’s house sat on a quiet street fifteen minutes from my parents’ place.
I had spent most Sunday afternoons there as a kid, usually hiding from whatever argument Lauren had started at home.
Nothing about the outside had changed except the maple tree in front was taller and the porch light had been replaced.
Inside, the house smelled faintly like coffee and cedar.
Grandpa had never learned that normal people turned lights on before they reached the room, so he walked through the dark entryway and flicked lamps on one by one.
I followed with Noah.
“You can use the room at the end of the hall.”
“That was Grandma’s sewing room.”
“Not anymore.”
I stopped.
Grandma had been dead three years.
I still expected to hear the machine humming when I passed that door.
Grandpa opened it.
A crib stood against the wall.
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
“I bought it when you said Noah might visit.”
“You bought a crib for visits?”
“I dislike assembling things twice.”
The room had a dresser, a rocking chair, and a small lamp shaped like a fox.
No decoration.
No sentimental performance.
Just a safe place for a baby.
My throat tightened so quickly I had to turn away.
Grandpa pretended not to notice.
He carried the pharmacy bags into the room and put them on the dresser.
“You can stay tonight.”
“Only tonight.”
“That’s fine.”
“I mean it.”
“That’s still fine.”
He had learned patience raising Mom.
I had never appreciated how terrifying it could be.
Noah woke hungry.
I made a bottle in the kitchen while Grandpa stood at the counter reading instructions on the formula can as if preparing for an exam.
“You don’t have to supervise me.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve read that label for two minutes.”
“I’m learning.”
“What exactly?”
He squinted.
“That babies are expensive.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
He glanced up.
“There she is.”
May you like
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
