Chương 12
Now certainty seemed irresponsible.
“I’m still trying.”
Emma nodded.
“Okay.”
That was worse than disappointment.
Children should not learn that early how to protect adults from hope.
I spent the afternoon on the phone with my real estate agent, Nina Brooks.
Nina had sold houses for nineteen years and spoke about deadlines with the calm of someone who had survived people screaming about refrigerators.
“The seller has another offer,” she confirmed.
“Better?”
“They won’t disclose terms.”
“Can they cancel ours?”
“Not while we’re performing under the contract.”
“But the financing contingency ends Wednesday.”
“Yes.”
“And if my loan isn’t clear?”
“We request an extension.”
“Will they give one?”
“I don’t know.”
I exhaled.
“That phrase is following me.”
“What phrase?”
“I don’t know.”
Nina laughed.
“Real estate is professionally organized uncertainty.”
“Apparently banking too.”
“What’s holding underwriting?”
“A collection.”
“New?”
“Old.”
“Disputed?”
“Complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“My ex signed a settlement in my name.”
Nina went silent.
“That kind of complicated.”
“Yeah.”
“Does the lender know?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“And there’s another financial issue with my mother.”
Another pause.
“Do I need to know?”
“Not for the house.”
“Then I do not want to know.”
That made me smile.
Nina continued.
“Here’s what matters.”
“I’m listening.”
“The seller wants certainty.”
“I can’t give them that.”
“You can give them evidence of progress.”
“How?”
“I’ll ask Marisol for an updated lender status Monday.”
“She can’t approve what isn’t approved.”
“She doesn’t need to.”
“What does she need to say?”
“That the file is active and not denied.”
I thought about it.
“Would that help?”
“It might.”
There it was again.
I groaned.
Nina laughed.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Correct.”
She told me not to contact the seller directly.
She told me not to panic over an offer I had not seen.
She told me not to spend any large amount of money without clearing it with Marisol first.
By the time we hung up, I had been ordered not to panic by three different professionals.
None had explained the practical method.
At four, Eric called.
I nearly sent him to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“I found the settlement offer,” he said.
“How much?”
“They’ll take thirty-six hundred if it’s paid by Tuesday.”
I sat up.
“That’s less than you thought.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get that in writing?”
“I’m looking at the letter.”
“Send it.”
“I already forwarded it.”
My laptop chimed.
The email arrived.
I opened the attachment.
The letter was dated two weeks earlier.
It offered to accept thirty-six hundred dollars as settlement in full, contingent upon timely payment.
“This expires Tuesday.”
“I know.”
“You have enough?”
“My brother said yes.”
“You talked to him?”
“He transferred twenty-five hundred this morning.”
“And your twelve hundred?”
“Still there.”
“Then don’t pay yet.”
A long silence.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll want Marisol to review it.”
“Yes.”
“And probably the collector.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe someone else.”
“Eric.”
“I’m not making fun of you.”
“You sound like you are.”
“I’m saying I understand why you do it.”
I looked at the screen.
That felt more dangerous than an apology.
“Why do I do it?”
“Because I don’t.”
The answer landed quietly.
He continued before I could respond.
“I used to think you liked controlling things.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“I know.”
“Thank you.”
“But I think I made you worse.”
I leaned back in the chair.
“Worse?”
“At needing everything documented.”
“That’s a strange apology.”
“It wasn’t an apology.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I’m bad at this.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
Then he got serious again.
“I’ll wait until Monday.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I talk to Emma?”
I looked toward the spare room.
She was lying on the bed reading with the moon blanket over her legs.
“She’s awake.”
I carried the phone to her.
“Your dad.”
She took it.
“Hi.”
I started to leave.
Emma grabbed my sleeve.
So I sat at the edge of the bed.
Eric asked how she felt.
She said better.
He asked whether she had eaten.
She said yes.
He asked what.
She listed toast, eggs, soup, crackers, and “a very disappointing apple.”
Eric laughed.
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was soft.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Exactly.”
They talked for seven minutes.
Not about the hospital.
Not about money.
Not about me.
At the end, Eric said, “I love you, bug.”
Emma looked down at the blanket.
“Love you too.”
She handed me the phone after he hung up.
“Dad sounds sad.”
“He has some things going on.”
“Is it because I was sick?”
“No.”
“Is it because you’re mad at him?”
“Some of it.”
She thought about that.
“Are all grown-ups mad at each other?”
“Not all.”
“Lena isn’t mad.”
From the kitchen, Lena called, “Give me time.”
Emma laughed.
I looked at her and felt the room steady around me.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A bank notification.
I opened it.
A deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars had been made into Emma’s savings account.
The memo read CALEB TOURNAMENT.
A screenshot arrived from Vanessa seconds later.
No message.
Just the receipt.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then another text appeared.
This one from my father.
Your mother wants the cash back.
I typed, It’s not hers.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally he wrote, I told her that.
I read the sentence twice.
It was not an apology.
It was not courage.
It did not repair anything.
But somewhere in the house I had just left, my father had apparently said no to my mother and survived the experience.
That counted for something.
An hour later, my mother called.
I let it ring.
She called again.
Then again.
On the fourth call, I answered.
“What?”
Her voice was controlled.
“Your father says you took thirty-eight hundred dollars from my house.”
“I took an envelope with my name on it.”
“That money is mine.”
“You told us it was for Vanessa.”
“It was money I set aside.”
“From where?”
May you like
“Household funds.”
“Then show me the records.”
