Chương 8
“The originals are mostly digital now.”
“Then print them.”
“I did.”
I opened the folder.
Neat pages.
Too neat.
Each account had a cover sheet in Margaret’s handwriting with totals circled.
Deposits.
Expenses.
Renovations.
Taxes.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Nothing below twenty-five hundred seemed individually listed.
“Where are the transaction pages?”
“These are the relevant totals.”
“Who decided what was relevant?”
Her mouth tightened.
“I did.”
“I need the full statements.”
“For four years?”
“Yes.”
“That is hundreds of pages.”
“I can carry paper.”
She leaned back.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“I’m applying for nearly four hundred thousand dollars.”
That number still worked like a sedative.
Margaret exhaled.
“I can download more.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
I opened the red folder.
The truck registration was in Margaret’s name.
A loan statement showed a balance just under thirty-eight thousand dollars.
Another document listed the house as collateral for a home equity line.
Sixty-three thousand outstanding.
“What was this used for?”
“I told you.”
“Renovations and expenses.”
“Break it down.”
“Kitchen, roof, plumbing, landscaping.”
“The roof was replaced three years ago with money I sent.”
“Partially replaced.”
“You told me it cost eighteen thousand.”
“It did.”
“And you told me I paid for it.”
“You did.”
“Then why is it in the line-of-credit summary?”
Margaret looked at the page.
A mistake.
Not mine.
Hers.
She leaned forward and pointed.
“That may be reimbursement.”
“For what?”
“To restore cash reserves.”
“What cash reserves?”
“The household account.”
“Why did the household account need restoring?”
“Because expenses continued.”
I looked at her.
She met my eyes.
Calm again.
Prepared.
My father used to say Margaret could make an accusation sound like bookkeeping.
I moved to the blue folder.
There were property-tax receipts and insurance invoices.
A contractor bill.
Then another.
Both from the same company.
Harrison Home Solutions.
One invoice for twenty-eight thousand dollars.
Another for nineteen.
“What did Harrison do?”
“Most of the interior.”
“Who owns it?”
“A contractor.”
“What contractor?”
“His name is Harrison.”
“That helps.”
Margaret gave me an irritated look.
“You’re welcome to call.”
“I might.”
For the first time, genuine worry moved across her face.
Only a flash.
Enough.
I wrote the company name on my phone.
“You don’t need to turn this into an audit.”
“It already is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“The government wants proof.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I had pushed too hard.
I closed the folder.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I’m not accusing you.”
She looked away.
The dining room clock ticked behind me.
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting accused?”
That landed.
Her face changed.
Not guilt exactly.
Offense.
The old kind.
The kind she stored for years.
“After everything I did while you were gone.”
I said nothing.
“I kept this family running.”
Still nothing.
“I dealt with repairs, taxes, insurance, Paige losing work, Gwen’s problems, your father’s old debts.”
“Dad’s been dead six years.”
“Debts don’t die when people do.”
“Which debts?”
She blinked.
There it was again.
Another thing said too quickly.
“What debts?”
“Old medical balances.”
“Show me.”
“I don’t have them here.”
“Where?”
“I paid them.”
“With what?”
She stood.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You come back in uniform and suddenly everyone has to answer to you.”
“That has nothing to do with the uniform.”
“It has everything to do with it.”
Her voice rose.
“You left.”
The word hit the room hard.
I stared at her.
She pressed both palms against the table.
“You left me with all of this.”
“You told me to reenlist.”
“I told you to do what was best for your career.”
“You said the family would be fine.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“The truth.”
She laughed once.
A dry, angry sound.
“The truth?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted the truth from home?”
“Yes.”
“No, Daniel.”
She shook her head.
“You wanted reassurance.”
I opened my mouth and stopped.
She saw that.
Pressed.
“You called when you could call.”
“I called every week.”
“When you could.”
“Almost every week.”
“And every call had a clock on it.”
“That wasn’t my choice.”
“I know.”
Her eyes watered, which made me more uncomfortable than shouting would have.
“You asked if everything was okay, and then you needed the answer to be yes because you were about to go back to whatever nightmare you were living in.”
I looked down at the folders.
Part of that was true.
Not enough to excuse anything.
Enough to hurt.
Margaret pulled out the chair and sat.
“I made decisions.”
“Such as?”
“Decisions you were not here to make.”
“Using my money.”
“Family money.”
The same correction Gwen had made downstairs.
It sounded different coming from Margaret.
“Family money doesn’t mean secret money.”
“No.”
“Does it mean refusing Gwen three hundred dollars for a specialist?”
Her face went still.
I had not meant to ask that yet.
The question was out.
Margaret looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
“She told you.”
“Yes.”
“Of course she did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she waited until you walked through the door and then gave you her version.”
“What version do you have?”
Margaret folded her hands.
“Gwen was not denied medical care.”
“She says she was.”
“She was told to use the clinic covered by her plan.”
“She says she needed a specialist.”
“She wanted a private specialist.”
“That’s not what she said.”
Margaret’s expression hardened.
“You were gone.”
“So explain it.”
“She had already seen two doctors.”
“For the lump?”
“For other complaints.”
“What complaints?”
“You need to ask your wife.”
“I did.”
“Then ask her how many appointments she missed.”
I stopped.
Margaret leaned back.
“You didn’t know that.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t go.”
“That doesn’t explain refusing money.”
“She had access to transportation.”
“She didn’t have cash.”
“She had a debit card.”
“Which stopped working.”
“After she used it irresponsibly.”
I stared at her.
“Linda.”
Margaret said the name before I did.
“She sent money to her mother.”
May you like
“I know.”
“Do you know how much?”
