Chương 10
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
That fact still refused to fit anywhere sensible.
Rachel continued.
“You don’t call to accuse her.”
“What do I call for?”
“Information.”
“She lies.”
“Then let her.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“People reveal things while protecting a lie.”
I stared at the television without seeing it.
“That sounds like something lawyers put on coffee mugs.”
“We put worse things on coffee mugs.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Then it disappeared.
“What do I ask?”
“Ask what Vanessa meant when she said you get everything.”
“That came from Lily.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want Mom knowing what Lily told me.”
“Then don’t quote Lily.”
Rachel paused.
“Ask why money came up at all.”
I called my mother fifteen minutes later.
She answered before the second ring.
“Claire.”
There was relief in her voice.
That hurt more than anger would have.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, thank God.”
I hated the phrase instantly.
“Where are you?”
“With Lily.”
“Is she okay?”
The question came late enough that I noticed.
“She’s resting.”
“I’ve been worried sick.”
I said nothing.
Mom filled silence the way some people filled empty rooms with furniture.
“Your father won’t talk to anyone.”
“Where are you?”
“A hotel near the marina.”
“With Vanessa?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Where is she?”
“With Mark and the boys.”
“Why aren’t you together?”
Mom sighed.
“Because this has become impossible.”
“Because of the hotel?”
“Because of everybody.”
There it was again.
Everybody.
A group so broad no one person had to carry blame.
I looked at Lily.
“Why was money part of yesterday?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
“Mom?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Claire, I really don’t.”
“Vanessa said I get everything.”
Mom exhaled softly.
“She has resentment.”
“About what?”
“You know how she is.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“She feels life has been uneven.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Uneven.”
“She doesn’t mean Daniel dying was some kind of benefit.”
I had not mentioned Daniel.
My mother realized it half a second too late.
Her next breath caught.
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m explaining.”
“Explaining what?”
“She has never processed things well.”
“Mom.”
“I am not defending her.”
“You always say that right before defending her.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
My voice remained quiet.
“That sentence doesn’t work anymore.”
Mom went silent.
I could hear gulls on her end of the call.
Then she said, “She thinks you were treated differently after Daniel died.”
“By who?”
“Everyone.”
“Meaning you and Dad?”
“Partly.”
“How?”
“We helped you.”
“With what?”
“Emotionally.”
I nearly laughed.
My father had suggested dating apps eight months after the funeral because, in his words, I was young enough not to make widowhood my identity.
My mother had once told me that talking about Daniel made Vanessa uncomfortable because her marriage was going through a difficult period.
“What help?”
Mom became defensive.
“We were there.”
“You visited three times.”
“Because you kept saying you needed space.”
“I needed you not to rearrange Daniel’s things while I was at work.”
“That happened once.”
“You donated his coats.”
“You weren’t wearing them.”
I closed my eyes.
This was why conversations with my mother could swallow entire afternoons.
Every road branched into an older injury.
I pulled us back.
“What does Vanessa think she lost because Daniel died?”
Mom did not answer.
“Money?”
Still nothing.
“An inheritance?”
Her silence sharpened.
I stood.
“What inheritance?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“There is no inheritance.”
“Then why did you react?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“This is exactly what Rachel does to people.”
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know I spoke to Rachel?”
A pause.
“Vanessa assumed.”
“Why?”
“Because you always involve her.”
I almost corrected her.
I had not spoken to Rachel about my family in more than a year before yesterday.
Then I heard my mother say something away from the phone.
A man answered.
My father.
They were together.
Of course they were.
“Put me on speaker,” Dad said.
I leaned against the dresser.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Your mother’s upset.”
“So am I.”
“You’ve made your point.”
My pulse began to rise.
“What point?”
“That you’re angry.”
“This isn’t about being angry.”
“You took the car.”
“It’s my rental.”
“You left us without transportation.”
“There are rental companies everywhere.”
“We had plans.”
My hand tightened around the edge of the dresser.
“Lily had plans too.”
Dad said nothing.
I continued.
“She planned to nap in her room.”
“Here we go.”
That phrase landed with such casual cruelty that for a second I could not speak.
Here we go.
My daughter crying for three hours had already become repetitive to him.
Something inconvenient I kept bringing up.
Then Mom said, “Your father didn’t mean it like that.”
I laughed.
It sounded ugly.
“Do either of you know what Vanessa meant by family adjustment?”
Silence.
Absolute this time.
Not even gulls.
My heartbeat pounded once in my ear.
“Interesting.”
Dad spoke first.
“Where did you hear that?”
I sat down slowly.
“I asked a question.”
“And I asked one.”
Mom said his name softly.
“Richard.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
His voice changed.
“Linda, not now.”
That was the first moment I understood there really was something beneath Vanessa’s behavior that involved both of them.
Not merely her jealousy.
Not merely years of family resentment.
Something discussed.
Something planned.
I kept my voice even.
“What was supposed to happen on this trip?”
“No one planned anything.”
Dad’s answer came too quickly.
“What was I supposed to volunteer for?”
Mom inhaled.
Dad said, “Claire, stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You’re getting fragments of things and turning them into a conspiracy.”
“What fragments?”
Silence.
I felt my skin go cold.
“You just told me I have fragments.”
“That was a figure of speech.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“What fragments?”
Mom began crying.
Quietly at first.
I closed my eyes.
There was a time when that sound could end any argument.
May you like
I would apologize just to make it stop.
Now all I could picture was Lily by the ice machine.
