Chương 13
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“Do not turn into Nancy Drew because your mother died.”
I gave her a look.
“Too soon?”
“Wildly.”
“Sorry.”
She rubbed her eyes.
Then she leaned her shoulder against mine.
We sat there in the empty hospice room until a staff member gently told us they needed to prepare it for another patient.
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Another patient.
Another family.
Another woman sitting beside another bed pretending the clock was not moving.
Megan carried Mom’s overnight bag.
I carried the blue folder.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
We drove to our mother’s house in silence.
The key still stuck in the front lock unless you lifted the handle slightly.
Megan forgot and swore at it.
I laughed because Mom had refused to replace that lock for twelve years.
“She said it built character.”
“She said everything inconvenient built character.”
We stepped inside.
The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and dust.
A half-finished crossword sat on the coffee table.
Her reading glasses rested upside down on the arm of the couch.
Megan stopped in the hallway.
I knew what she was looking at.
Mom’s slippers.
They were still beside the radiator.
Megan put down the bag.
“I can’t.”
I reached for her hand.
She gripped mine hard.
Neither of us spoke.
After a while, we went to the kitchen.
There were four yogurts in the refrigerator, a jar of mustard, half a lemon wrapped in plastic, and three cans of ginger ale.
Mom had always overstocked food.
Illness had reduced the kitchen to evidence of appetite disappearing.
Megan opened a cabinet and found crackers.
We ate them standing at the counter.
At two in the afternoon, the funeral home called.
We chose Friday for the memorial.
Mom had already paid for a private room at a community center near Green Lake.
Of course she had.
She had also left instructions for barbecue from a restaurant she liked and specifically prohibited “sad little sandwiches.”
Megan read that line three times.
“She planned catering?”
“She planned everything.”
“She was impossible.”
“Yes.”
We both started crying again.
Grief kept arriving sideways.
Never when I expected it.
My phone stayed silent for nearly an hour.
Then Elijah texted.
I’m respecting what you asked.
I’m staying in California.
I stared at the message.
Another followed.
I am also cooperating fully with the review.
Then a third.
I need you to know I did not use your credentials.
I locked the screen.
Megan watched me.
“Him?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“To be believed.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
She poured herself water.
“That is becoming your answer for everything.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Fair.”
I sat at the kitchen table.
The blue folder was in front of me.
Inside were copies of Mom’s will, insurance information, prepaid funeral documents, utility passwords, and a handwritten list titled THINGS YOU GIRLS WILL FORGET.
The first item was CANCEL THE NEWSPAPER.
The second was WATER THE FERN UNTIL SOMEONE TAKES IT.
The third was DO NOT LET MEGAN THROW AWAY THE CAST-IRON PAN.
Megan leaned over my shoulder.
“Rude.”
“She knew you.”
“I hate that pan.”
“She knew that too.”
At the bottom of the folder was an envelope with my name.
I stopped.
Megan saw it.
“That’s yours.”
“I can read.”
“Open it.”
“I don’t want to.”
She sat across from me.
“Okay.”
I touched the envelope.
Mom’s handwriting leaned slightly to the right.
Alexandra.
Nothing else.
I opened it.
Inside was one sheet of yellow legal paper.
Honey,
If you are reading this, I am dead, which is irritating but not surprising.
Please do not spend six months organizing my drawers.
Throw things out.
Keep the blue bowl.
Your sister will pretend she doesn’t want anything and then steal my blankets.
Let her.
I laughed through tears.
The letter continued.
There is something I never said because I did not want to interfere in your marriage unless you asked.
Elijah came to see me alone last November.
I stopped breathing.
Megan leaned forward.
“What?”
I held up a hand.
I kept reading.
He asked me whether you had ever been happy before him.
It was a strange question.
I told him yes, of course you had.
He looked relieved and sad at the same time.
Then he asked whether I thought you would leave him if you knew everything about him.
I asked what “everything” meant.
He would not answer.
I told him that if he was doing something he could not tell his wife, the problem was probably not your reaction.
He laughed, but it was not a happy laugh.
I never told you because I thought he might tell you himself.
If he did not, then I am sorry.
I do not know what he meant.
Do not build a story from this that the facts cannot support.
You always did hate empty spaces.
Sometimes an empty space is only empty.
I lowered the letter.
Megan was staring at me.
“What did he say to her?”
I handed it across the table.
She read.
Her face changed slowly.
“That was November.”
“Yes.”
“Before you started suspecting Laura?”
“Before I knew her name.”
Megan read the line again.
“What did he mean by everything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it was Laura?”
“He had already been messaging her by then.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at the wall clock.
Its second hand clicked too loudly.
“But if he was asking Mom whether I would leave him, maybe he already knew he had crossed a line.”
“Or maybe it was something else.”
“Yes.”
Megan folded the letter carefully.
“Your mother literally told you not to invent the missing part.”
“I noticed.”
“She knew you too.”
I took the letter back.
My phone rang.
Not Margaret.
Not Elijah.
Laura.
I stared at the screen.
Megan saw the name.
“No.”
“I’m not answering.”
“Good.”
The call ended.
A voicemail notification appeared.
May you like
Then a text.
Please call me before Elijah destroys everything.
