Chương 4
Tom looked down at his hands.
“He didn’t know what it was yet.”
The envelope contained a small black notebook.
Dad’s name was written inside the cover in his square, heavy handwriting.
Most of the pages were maintenance notes, measurements, phone numbers, and reminders that meant nothing to me.
Replace porch bulb.
Call Ray.
Jenna birthday.
Oil change.
Then, near the back, I found my name.
Lil platform demo Friday.
Ask questions.
Don’t pretend to understand.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Tom looked relieved.
“He was nervous about that.”
“About my demo?”
“He told me you were showing him something you built.”
I turned the page.
There was another note.
Lillian says people stop using apps when they feel stupid.
Probably true.
I read it again.
A memory came back so sharply that for a second I could smell Dad’s aftershave.
He had sat at my folding table in Roxborough wearing his winter coat because the radiator had broken.
I had shown him an early version of the platform on my laptop.
He kept clicking the wrong menu.
At one point he frowned and said, “I don’t like this button.”
I had asked why.
He shrugged.
“Feels like it’s waiting for me to screw something up.”
I changed the button the next morning.
That redesign later became part of the accessibility framework investors liked most.
I had forgotten the conversation entirely.
“Did he talk about it much?” I asked.
“Enough that I knew you were making something.”
Tom accepted the cup I finally produced.
“He was proud of you.”
My eyes stayed on the notebook.
“He had a funny way of showing it.”
“Your father had a funny way of showing almost everything.”
That made both of us smile.
Tom drank the coffee and grimaced.
“Well.”
“Bad?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That sounded dishonest.”
“It was.”
After he left, I sat at the kitchen island with the notebook open in front of me.
For years I had folded Dad into the same family story I told about Mom and Jenna.
They didn’t understand me.
They didn’t ask.
They didn’t care.
It was cleaner that way.
The notebook complicated it.
I hated how much I needed that complication.
At five-fifteen, my phone rang.
Jenna.
I considered letting it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“What happened?”
“Why does something have to happen?”
“Because you never call me.”
“You don’t call me.”
“I am literally calling you.”
She exhaled.
Traffic noise hissed behind her.
“Are you busy?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She didn’t hang up.
I waited.
Finally she said, “My contractor says there’s water damage behind the upstairs bathroom wall.”
I looked at the crooked cabinet door.
“That sounds expensive.”
“Thank you, Bob Vila.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you call?”
Another long pause.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was so unlike Jenna that I stood up.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
I could hear a turn signal clicking.
Then she said, “The mortgage isn’t killing me.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Mom exaggerates.”
“Okay.”
“I can afford the house.”
“Okay.”
“I just had some expenses.”
“Jenna.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to explain your finances to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She went silent again.
I walked to the sink and watched evening settle against the windows.
“Did Mom tell you anything else?” Jenna asked.
“No.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I closed my eyes.
“She said you shouldn’t have bought the townhouse.”
Jenna made a sound that was almost a laugh.
“Of course she did.”
“I told her I wouldn’t repeat it.”
“And yet.”
“You asked.”
“Right.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Because apparently everybody talks about me when I’m not in the room.”
I nearly reminded her that she had spent years doing exactly that to me.
The sentence rose all the way to my mouth.
I swallowed it.
“What happened with the mortgage?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
A horn blared faintly through the phone.
Then she said, “I have to go.”
“Jenna.”
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
The next morning, Mom called before eight.
I was brushing my teeth.
“Have you spoken to your sister?”
Her tone made me spit toothpaste into the sink.
“Last night.”
“What did she say?”
“Why?”
Mom inhaled.
“Because she called me at six this morning and accused me of telling you things that were none of my business.”
“You did tell me.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It’s a pretty important point.”
“Lillian, please.”
I rinsed my mouth.
“What’s going on?”
Silence.
Then Mom said, “Jenna’s husband left.”
I gripped the edge of the sink.
“Evan?”
“Who else?”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
I stared at my reflection.
Two months.
Before the townhouse.
Before the housewarming.
Before Jenna stood in her kitchen raising a wineglass and laughing at me for renting.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Mom’s voice became smaller.
“She didn’t want you to know.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
Another silence.
Then Mom said the one thing I was not prepared to hear.
“Because the townhouse was supposed to prove she was doing better than you.”
I stood barefoot on the cold bathroom tile with the phone pressed against my ear.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
The exhaust fan hummed above me because I had forgotten to turn it off.
Finally I said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Mom let out a tired breath.
“It made sense to her.”
“No.”
I wiped a drop of toothpaste from the edge of the sink.
“She bought a house she could barely afford because she wanted to beat me at something I didn’t even know we were competing over?”
“Lillian.”
“That’s what you just said.”
“I’m telling you what she told me.”
“When did Evan leave?”
“Late December.”
I tried to fit that into what I remembered.
Christmas dinner.
Jenna had arrived alone and said Evan was working.
May you like
New Year’s brunch.
She said he had the flu.
