Chương 5
There were pages about trustees, successor trustees, permitted distributions, education, medical care, housing, beneficiary rights, termination dates.
Her father had created the trust eighteen months before his diagnosis.
That surprised her.
Susan noticed.
“It wasn't because he was sick.”
Emily kept reading.
“At twenty-five.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Susan pointed carefully, not touching the paper.
“That section. Control was supposed to change when you turned twenty-five.”
Emily looked at the date.
Her birthday had been in October.
Two months ago.
She raised her head.
Susan looked miserable.
“You were supposed to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Susan said nothing.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I don't know.”
“Today?”
“I was trying to.”
Emily glanced toward the car outside.
“You were going to give me the car.”
“Yes.”
“Not tell me about the trust.”
Susan's silence answered.
Emily stood.
Her chair scraped the floor.
“I can't do this.”
“Emily.”
“I can't sit here while you keep choosing which answer I'm allowed to have.”
She went to the hallway for her bag.
Susan followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“The roads are icy.”
“I'll take a rideshare.”
“On Christmas?”
“They still have cars on Christmas.”
“Don't be sarcastic.”
Emily turned.
“Don't mother me right now.”
Susan recoiled.
Emily regretted it immediately.
She did not apologize.
That frightened her too.
Robert appeared in the hall carrying the steel case.
“You can stay with us.”
“No.”
“You don't have to be alone.”
“I need to be alone.”
Margaret brought Emily's boots.
“They're wet.”
For some reason, that almost undid her.
Emily sat on the bench and pulled them on.
Susan stood five feet away.
“Please don't call anyone until we talk.”
Emily tied one boot.
“That's exactly the kind of thing Dad warned me about.”
Susan pressed her lips together.
Emily tied the other.
She stood.
“I don't know whether you stole from me.”
Susan's face went blank.
“But I know you lied to me.”
“I did.”
“And I know everybody in this house knew enough to decide I didn't deserve the truth.”
Margaret whispered, “Yes.”
Robert closed his eyes.
Emily took the case from him.
At the door, Susan said, “The car is yours.”
Emily looked at the yellow car beyond the glass.
“I don't want it today.”
She left.
The rideshare driver was named Luis.
He apologized twice for being late even though he was only four minutes late and spent most of the drive talking about his sister's new puppy, which had eaten a Christmas ornament at six that morning.
Emily sat in the back seat with the steel case on her lap and listened.
It was almost a relief to hear about a dog.
At her apartment, she carried the case upstairs, put it on her kitchen table, and didn't open it for three hours.
She changed out of the red sweater.
She showered.
She made tea and forgot to drink it.
At four in the afternoon, she opened the TRAVEL FUND pouch she had apparently stuffed into her bag without remembering.
Eight hundred dollars.
Her grandparents had given her eight hundred dollars toward the trip to Portugal she had been talking about for two years.
She stared at the cash.
Then she laughed.
It came out wrong.
She put the money back.
Her phone had twenty-three notifications.
Robert had texted once.
I am sorry.
Margaret had texted twice.
We love you.
Then:
That does not excuse us.
Susan had sent fourteen messages.
The first was defensive.
Please do not misunderstand those statements without context.
The second was longer.
Then one asking her to call.
Then an apology.
Then another explanation.
Then silence for forty minutes.
Then:
Your father was not trying to turn you against me.
Then:
I know that's not what you said.
Then:
I am afraid.
Emily read that one three times.
She put the phone facedown.
At seven, she opened the second envelope from the steel case.
It was addressed:
Em.
Not Emily.
Em.
Only her father called her that.
She unfolded the page.
He had written slowly. The letters were larger than in the first note.
Em,
If I'm still around when you open this, you have my permission to make fun of me forever for being dramatic.
Emily covered her mouth.
She read on.
If I'm not, don't make me into a saint because I planned ahead. I'm not one. I've been stubborn, scared, and unfair to people I love, especially your mother.
That stopped her.
The apartment hummed quietly around her.
Her refrigerator turned on.
A neighbor's child ran down the hallway outside.
Emily continued.
The money is for you. Not because I think money fixes grief. It doesn't. It fixes bills. It buys time. It gives you the ability to leave a bad job, stay home when you're sick, say no to somebody who thinks you can't afford to. That's all.
Your mother loves you. She also gets scared and calls fear responsibility. When she's frightened, she decides for everyone. I have done my own version of that more times than I can count.
If she tells you she used some of this to keep the house, believe her. We argued about it before I set up the trust. She thinks the house is security. I think security is having choices.
Don't punish her because I was angry when I wrote the other note.
But don't hand over the key.
Emily stopped.
She cried then.
Not loudly.
She sat at the kitchen table with both hands over her face and let the tears come because there was no one there to comfort or interrupt her.
Her father had anticipated the argument.
Not the exact one.
Not the slap.
Not three years.
But the shape of it.
He had known Susan.
He had known himself.
Maybe he had known Emily too.
At the bottom was another name.
Dana Whitcomb.
Attorney.
A phone number.
Underneath Michael had written:
She did the trust. Ask questions until you're annoying.
May you like
Emily smiled despite herself.
The next morning she did not call.
