Chương 4
“The last thing I said to my mother before she had her stroke was that she put too much mayonnaise in potato salad.”
Despite myself, I blinked.
“What?”
“She told me I was ungrateful.”
“She was right.”
“Absolutely.”
A breath of laughter passed between us and vanished.
Ruth glanced at Maya’s blue-haired drawing.
“People die in the middle of things.”
I lowered my head.
“Arguments too.”
For the first time, I let myself stay in the room after crying.
I picked up the colored pencils.
I capped three markers Maya had left open.
Two were already dry.
That small waste made me furious.
I threw one across the room.
It struck the closet door and fell onto the carpet.
Ruth did not react.
“I hate this house,” I said.
“Okay.”
“I hate every room.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
“Then don’t.”
“I don’t want to stay.”
“Then don’t decide today.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“Sometimes not deciding is a decision you’re allowed to make for a while.”
A week later, my employer called.
Dr. Patel had given me paid bereavement leave beyond what the practice normally offered, but the office manager needed to know whether I intended to return before the end of the month.
I nearly said no.
Then I imagined another Monday morning in the silent house.
“Yes,” I heard myself say.
My first day back, nobody knew how to speak to me.
The receptionist hugged me too long.
A hygienist named Carmen burst into tears before I did.
One patient complained that her appointment had been moved after “whatever happened,” then turned pale when she learned who I was.
At lunch, I sat in the staff room and ate crackers from a vending-machine package.
Dr. Patel came in, opened the refrigerator, stared inside, and closed it again.
“There’s nothing good.”
“There’s yogurt.”
“It expired Tuesday.”
“That’s practically fresh.”
He sat across from me.
He was usually a man who filled silence with dental trivia nobody requested.
That day he folded and unfolded a paper napkin.
“You don’t have to prove anything by being here.”
“I know.”
“You can leave.”
“I know.”
“You can also stay.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
“Good talk.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
He looked relieved but wisely did not mention it.
Work did not make me better.
It made four hours pass without my checking the time.
At first, that was enough.
By January, I could complete a full day.
I stopped crying every time I saw a child with Maya’s hair.
I learned which grocery aisles to avoid.
I gave Julian’s clothes to no one.
I moved his shoes into the closet, then took them back out two days later because the empty floor looked worse.
My family continued trying to reach me.
Mom mailed letters.
Dad left voicemails from his office phone.
Eleanor sent flowers with a card that said, I hope someday you can see that everyone was hurting.
I threw the card away and gave the flowers to Carmen.
Nathan came to the house once.
I watched him through the doorbell camera while he stood on the porch holding a paper bag.
He rang twice.
Then he sat on the front step for several minutes, staring at his shoes.
Eventually he left the bag beside the door.
Inside were three things.
A bottle of wine.
A framed photograph of Maya and Leo from the previous Christmas.
And a handwritten note.
I was a coward because it was easier to believe Mom than to call you.
I’m sorry.
I kept the photograph.
I poured the wine down the sink.
I put the note in a kitchen drawer.
That was more mercy than I had expected to have.
February brought paperwork.
Insurance settlements.
Julian’s retirement account.
A small life insurance policy through his firm.
The sale of his ownership stake in the architecture partnership.
There was money everywhere now.
Money because three people were dead.
Every deposit made me nauseated.
I refused to touch most of it.
Then Thomas asked me to meet him for lunch.
He chose a diner near the river where Julian used to order pancakes at inappropriate hours.
Thomas looked older than he had at the funeral.
His hair seemed whiter around his ears.
He stirred coffee he had not sweetened.
“I need to ask you something unpleasant.”
“Those seem to be popular lately.”
His mouth twitched.
“Julian ever talk to you about Marshall Street?”
I searched my memory.
“The warehouse project?”
Thomas nodded.
Julian’s firm had spent almost two years trying to redevelop an abandoned industrial block near downtown into mixed-income apartments, shops, and studio space.
The project had stalled repeatedly because of financing disputes.
“He complained about it constantly.”
“He put money into it.”
“I know.”
“More than you know.”
I stopped moving.
Thomas slid an envelope across the table.
Inside was a copy of an operating agreement with Julian’s signature.
I read the number twice.
Then a third time.
“He invested this much?”
“Three years ago.”
“He told me it was a small share.”
“It was when he bought it.”
Thomas watched my face.
“Then two partners pulled out.”
I felt the beginning of anger, though I could not yet tell at whom.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means you do.”
Thomas looked toward the window.
A delivery truck crawled through traffic outside.
“Julian thought the project might fail.”
“So?”
“So he didn’t want you worrying about it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
Thomas rubbed a thumb along the edge of his coffee cup.
“He also knew you hated financial uncertainty.”
The words stung because they were true.
I had grown up in a family where money was discussed only when someone wanted control over someone else.
Julian knew I checked our savings account every Sunday night.
He knew unexpected bills could ruin my sleep.
“He hid it.”
“Yes.”
“How much is left?”
Thomas met my eyes.
May you like
“That’s the unpleasant part.”
He pushed a second paper across the table.
