Chương 8
She did ask about the horse.
Ryan moved it from the garage to his basement workshop, which was an ambitious name for a folding table, three power tools, and several bins of screws he refused to organize.
Emily sat on an overturned bucket while he worked.
“You’re sanding too much,” she said.
Ryan looked at her.
“How would you know?”
“Dad said you sand when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
She considered him.
“You’re sanding a lot.”
Ryan put the sandpaper down.
“Your father talked too much.”
“He said you don’t talk enough.”
“That also sounds like him.”
The repaired leg would always show a narrow seam.
Ryan could have painted over it.
He chose not to.
Not because scars needed to be visible.
Not because broken things became beautiful.
He left it because matching old cream paint was difficult and he was tired.
Sometimes that was enough.
Emily helped him choose new screws.
She wanted turquoise heads.
“They don’t make turquoise screws.”
“They should.”
“Write your congressman.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.”
On New Year’s Eve, a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside was a small box of brass screws, a container of wood filler, and a new bracket.
There was also a note.
Ryan recognized Derek’s handwriting.
These are the right length.
Nothing else.
Ryan showed Emily.
She read it twice.
“Are they?”
“Probably.”
“Can we use them?”
Ryan studied her.
“You want to?”
She shrugged.
“They’re screws.”
So they used them.
Three weeks passed.
Linda came for dinner twice.
The first time, she apologized to Emily.
Not elegantly.
She sat at the kitchen table with both hands around a mug and said, “I laughed when I was uncomfortable, and that was wrong.”
Emily ate macaroni.
Linda waited.
Emily said, “Okay.”
Linda looked at Ryan.
He did not help.
She turned back to Emily.
“I’m sorry.”
Emily put another forkful in her mouth.
“Okay.”
That was all she got.
Ryan thought it was enough.
The second dinner went better.
Linda brought cookies from a bakery because she had finally accepted that Ryan’s kitchen did not need homemade Christmas leftovers in mid-January.
Halfway through dessert, Emily asked, “Is Uncle Derek still mad?”
Linda’s hand stopped.
“At you?”
Emily nodded.
“No.”
“At Dad?”
Linda looked toward Ryan.
Again, he did not help.
“I think he was,” Linda said.
“Dad’s dead.”
“I know.”
“So that’s dumb.”
Linda let out a short laugh.
“Yes.”
Emily considered.
“Can you still be mad at dead people?”
Linda looked at her cookie.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt them?”
“No.”
“Then who does it hurt?”
Linda had no quick answer.
Ryan loved her a little for not inventing one.
Eventually she said, “Sometimes everybody else.”
Emily nodded.
Then she asked if there were more cookies.
Life moved.
School resumed.
Ryan returned to work full-time instead of pretending he could answer emails from the kitchen while supervising winter break. Grace continued managing Linda’s calendar. Linda stopped mentioning family lunches.
Derek disappeared.
At first Ryan assumed this proved everything Noah had said.
Then, because people were irritatingly complicated, Derek began doing small things.
He did not call Emily.
He did not show up.
He did not send gifts.
He sent Ryan one text asking whether the bracket held.
Ryan answered yes.
A week later Derek asked which pediatric dentist Emily used because Linda had apparently lost the information.
Ryan replied with the name.
Another week passed.
Then Derek wrote:
I started seeing someone.
Ryan stared at the message for nearly a minute.
He typed, Good.
Derek responded:
Therapist. Not woman.
Ryan laughed.
Then immediately felt guilty about laughing.
He typed, Still good.
Derek sent back:
Debatable.
That was the whole conversation.
In February, Linda asked Ryan to come by her house without Emily.
Grace was there.
So was Derek.
Ryan almost left.
“You said just you,” he told Linda.
“I meant without Emily.”
“That’s dishonest.”
“Yes.”
The admission made him stop.
Linda had learned something.
Maybe.
Derek sat at the dining table with a folder in front of him.
He looked healthier. Not transformed. His hair needed cutting. He had gained a little weight. His hands shook faintly when he poured water.
Ryan noticed he was drinking water.
Grace pushed a chair out with her foot.
“Sit.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of standing through Carter-Walsh crises.”
Ryan sat.
Derek slid the folder toward him.
Inside were documents Ryan did not recognize.
Most were copies of old bills.
Medical payments.
Bank transfers.
Credit-card statements.
Ryan looked up.
“What is this?”
“Money Noah owed me.”
Linda’s face tightened.
Ryan closed the folder.
“No.”
Derek frowned.
“No what?”
“I’m not doing an inheritance fight.”
“It isn’t.”
“It looks exactly like one.”
“Keep reading.”
Ryan did.
There were transfers from Derek to Noah during the last two years of his illness. Some small. Some not.
Eight hundred dollars.
Twelve hundred.
Three thousand.
A payment to a pharmacy.
A payment to a mechanic.
Rent.
Utilities.
Then one transfer from Noah back to Derek six weeks before his death.
The note line read:
For Emily.
Ryan looked at Derek.
“What is that?”
Derek rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“Noah found out how much I’d spent.”
“So?”
“He wanted to pay me back.”
“With what?”
“Life insurance advance. Savings. I don’t know. I told him no.”
“Then what’s this?”
“He sent money anyway.”
Ryan checked the amount.
Ten thousand dollars.
“He told me to put it in an account for Emily.”
Ryan stared.
“Did you?”
Derek looked away.
“No.”
Linda whispered, “Derek.”
He raised a hand.
“I didn’t spend it.”
Ryan’s voice sharpened.
“Where is it?”
“In my savings.”
“For a year?”
“Eleven months.”
“You kept ten thousand dollars meant for her?”
“Yes.”
Grace closed her eyes.
Derek looked miserable.
“I kept thinking I’d open something. Then I’d have to explain where it came from. Then Noah died. Then Ryan got guardianship. Then it felt like if I handed it over, I was admitting Noah had been right about me.”
May you like
Ryan stared at him.
“That may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
