Chương 9
For fifteen minutes we said nothing about the house, the loans, the signature, or the storage unit.
She told me a girl in her biology class had dyed her hair purple and gotten suspended from cheer practice because the coach said it violated competition rules.
I did not understand why hair color affected cheerleading.
Neither did Sophie.
That ordinary conversation did more for me than tea.
At ten, she went to sleep.
I lay on the couch staring at the ceiling.
The refrigerator knocked.
A truck changed gears on the road.
Somebody upstairs dropped something heavy.
Around eleven thirty, I gave up and opened my laptop.
I searched my email.
Storage.
Unit.
Northwest Highway.
Nothing.
Then I searched Logan’s name with “storage.”
One message appeared from five years earlier.
Dad, got your boxes moved today.
Unit is climate controlled.
Everything is safe.
I’ll send you the info tomorrow.
There was no follow-up.
I searched my bank records.
For the first twelve months, I had reimbursed Logan seventy-four dollars each month.
Then the charges stopped because he said he had added the unit to a household bundle with other expenses.
I had believed him.
I opened a blank document and made a list of the items I remembered storing.
Margaret’s sewing table.
My mother’s china cabinet.
Two lamps.
Four framed prints.
Christmas ornaments.
A box of Margaret’s handwritten recipes.
Photo albums.
Her wedding dress.
My father’s watch.
I stopped typing.
The watch.
I had not worn it because the leather strap was cracked.
It had belonged to my father for twenty-seven years.
After he died, Margaret kept it in the top drawer of the china cabinet.
I closed the laptop.
At seven the next morning, Sophie woke to the smell of coffee and burnt toast.
“You burned it.”
“Observant.”
She sat at the table, hair tangled, eyes half closed.
“Do old people lose toaster skills?”
“No, we become philosophical about carbon.”
She groaned.
My phone buzzed.
Logan.
I let it ring once before answering.
“Morning.”
“Is Sophie okay?”
“She’s eating breakfast.”
“I want her home.”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Are you and Chelsea calm?”
A long pause.
“We’re not yelling.”
“That was not my question.”
“Dad.”
I looked at Sophie.
She was pretending not to listen.
“She can come home when she’s comfortable.”
“She needs clothes.”
“I can bring her by.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
I straightened.
“No?”
“I’ll bring her things.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Chelsea doesn’t want you here.”
I almost said that arrangement already suited me.
Instead I asked, “Did she tell you about the storage unit?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
“What storage unit?”
Sophie looked at me.
I turned away from her.
“The one containing your mother’s belongings.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask Chelsea.”
“Dad, what are you talking about?”
“I said ask her.”
He lowered his voice.
“Did Sophie tell you something?”
“I am not putting her in the middle.”
“So she did.”
“Logan.”
“Just tell me.”
“Ask your wife what happened to Margaret’s sewing table.”
Nothing.
Then, faintly, “What?”
“And the china cabinet.”
“Dad.”
“And whether anything else was sold.”
I heard movement on his end.
A door opening.
Then his voice, distant.
“Chelsea.”
I ended the call.
Sophie stared at me.
“That was kind of dramatic.”
“I am capable of growth.”
She smiled, then looked down.
“Is Dad mad at me?”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“See?”
“See what?”
“You do that thing too.”
“What thing?”
“Say stuff like you know because you want it to be true.”
I sat across from her.
She was right.
That was becoming an unpleasant theme.
“Fair enough.”
She tore the corner from her toast.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Are you rich?”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“What?”
“Mom said something last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you were pretending to be broke.”
I set the mug down carefully.
“What else?”
“That you have money.”
“How much does she think I have?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she actually say?”
Sophie imitated Chelsea’s voice poorly.
“Your grandfather has more money than he lets people think.”
I sat back.
That was interesting.
Chelsea should not have known much.
Logan knew I had retirement savings.
He did not know the amount.
I had never shown either of them my full accounts.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because you act broke.”
“I do not act broke.”
“You use coupons.”
“Coupons are money.”
“You drive that car.”
“The car works.”
“You wear the same shoes all the time.”
“They also work.”
“That is extremely old-person logic.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Would it change anything if I had money?”
She thought about it.
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“If you’re rich and they’re losing the house, then everyone’s going to say you should help.”
There was more wisdom in that sentence than I expected.
“And what do you say?”
She looked at the burnt edge of her toast.
“I think if someone has a lot and someone they love needs some, they should help.”
I nodded.
“That is reasonable.”
“But.”
I waited.
She glanced up.
“If the person keeps doing dumb stuff, maybe helping is also dumb.”
“Less elegant, but also reasonable.”
She smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“Are you going to let us lose the house?”
There was the question I had been avoiding.
I did not answer immediately.
“I don’t know what is going to happen to the house.”
“But could you save it?”
I looked at her.
“I might be able to.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
That was more information than I had intended to give.
“So you are rich.”
“I am not discussing my finances with a fifteen-year-old.”
“You just kind of did.”
“I am aware.”
She leaned back.
“How rich?”
“No.”
“Like hundred-thousand rich?”
“No.”
She squinted.
“Millionaire?”
“No.”
“Almost millionaire?”
I stared at her.
She grinned.
“Oh my God.”
“Sophie.”
“You’re almost a millionaire.”
“Finish your breakfast.”
“Grandpa.”
“Toast.”
She laughed.
May you like
For a few seconds, the room felt lighter.
Then someone knocked on the door.
