Chương 4
“Birthday?”
I looked at the silver number balloons still tied near the fireplace.
“Yes.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Yes.”
Monica glanced at the room.
“Old enough to know better.”
The younger man coughed into his hand, possibly hiding a laugh.
For the next ninety minutes, they documented everything.
The couch upholstery could probably be cleaned.
The rug might not survive the wine.
The damaged cabinet hinge was minor.
The burn on the terrace table was permanent.
The carpet upstairs would need extraction cleaning.
The mattress in my mother’s room had a stain I had not noticed.
I stopped asking what kind.
Then Monica examined the kitchen floor.
“Someone dragged something here.”
She pointed to three long scratches in the hardwood.
Those boards had been refinished less than a year before my mother died.
I remembered sitting with her on overturned paint buckets while the polyurethane dried.
We had eaten sandwiches on paper towels because every piece of furniture was stacked in the living room.
I turned away before the memory could finish.
Monica gave me a preliminary estimate that was already above four thousand dollars, not including replacement items or the scratched flooring.
“Could go higher,” she said.
“How much higher?”
She made a face.
“That depends what we find once we start.”
I thanked her.
After they left, I called a local cleaning service and scheduled them for the following afternoon, after documentation was complete.
Then I drove home.
Daniel’s car was in the driveway.
That was unusual at noon on a Monday.
I found him at the kitchen table with his laptop closed.
He had not shaved.
There was coffee beside him that looked untouched.
“Rose called me,” he said.
“I assumed she would.”
“She’s freaking out.”
I put my bag on the counter.
“So am I.”
“I know.”
“No, you keep saying that.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to stop acting like the biggest problem here is that two women in your life are angry and you’re stuck between them.”
His eyes lifted.
“That isn’t what I think.”
“It’s how you behave.”
“That’s not fair.”
I nearly answered immediately.
Then I stopped.
Maybe it was not entirely fair.
Daniel had grown up in a house where conflict was handled by pretending it had never happened.
His father disappeared into the garage.
His mother made food.
Rose cried, apologized just enough to end the argument, and everyone moved on.
Daniel had learned young that peace meant getting through dinner without anyone raising their voice.
I had known that when I married him.
Knowing why someone did something did not make living with it easier.
I pulled out a chair.
“The estimate is over four thousand dollars already.”
His mouth tightened.
“That much?”
“And they haven’t evaluated the floors.”
He looked toward the window.
“What did she actually break?”
I stared at him.
He caught it.
“That came out wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I mean, I’m trying to understand.”
I opened my phone and showed him the photographs.
The broken lamp.
The stained pillow.
The scratched floor.
The overturned planter.
The bedding.
The cracked frame.
Daniel went through them slowly.
When he reached the picture of my mother’s bed, his thumb stopped.
“Jesus.”
Neither of us spoke for a while.
The refrigerator compressor kicked on.
A truck passed outside.
Daniel handed the phone back.
“She told me it was mostly cups and some spilled wine.”
“Of course she did.”
“She said nobody went into your mom’s room.”
“They did.”
He nodded once.
Something had shifted in his face.
Not enough to make me feel better.
Enough to make me less alone.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m sending her the estimate.”
“And?”
“And she pays it.”
Daniel leaned back.
“What if she can’t?”
“She works full time.”
“She has debt.”
“So do lots of people.”
“I’m not defending her.”
“It sounds like you’re preparing her defense.”
He looked irritated now.
“Claire, I’m asking practical questions.”
“Good.”
I folded my arms.
“Here’s a practical answer.”
“If she can’t pay at once, she can set up a payment plan.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then I file a police report.”
Daniel stared at me.
The silence lasted long enough to become its own argument.
“You’d really do that?”
“She took the key from our home after I told her no.”
“I know.”
“She entered private property without permission.”
“I know.”
“She damaged it.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you sound shocked?”
“Because she’s my sister.”
The words came out louder than anything else he had said.
I felt something inside me go still.
“And my mother was my mother.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Damn it.”
“No.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Stop.”
He pushed his chair away and stood.
For a second I thought he might leave.
Instead, he walked to the sink and stared through the window above it.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
His voice was quieter.
“I know what that place means.”
I looked down at the table.
“You know what I’ve told you it means.”
He turned.
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that everybody treats it like an asset.”
I struggled to find words that did not sound theatrical.
“That house is the last place where she was still herself.”
Daniel said nothing.
“She was sick in our house.”
“She was sick in hospitals.”
“She was sick at appointments.”
“At the lake, for a little while, she still yelled at squirrels and complained about grocery prices and made terrible coffee.”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t need Rose to worship the place.”
“I needed her to hear the word no.”
Daniel sat down again.
This time he did not try to solve anything.
He reached across the table and put his hand near mine without touching it.
After a moment, I moved my fingers beneath his.
That evening, I emailed Rose the preliminary estimate along with photographs and a short message.
May you like
I did not insult her.
I did not mention my mother.
