Chương 2
“All right,” I said.
I walked outside.
She called my name twice.
I did not turn around.
I made it as far as the bench beside the pharmacy entrance before my knees began trembling badly enough that I sat down.
There was no triumph in it.
No wonderful rush of freedom.
I was an old woman sitting beside a trash can with a box of tea in her purse and no car.
My daughter had just told me not to come home.
I pressed both palms between my knees until the shaking eased.
Then I took out my phone.
There were three people I could theoretically call.
One was my sister Ruth in Jacksonville, who had arthritis, a husband on oxygen, and no business driving two hours to rescue me.
One was my neighbor, Evelyn Brooks, who was not really my neighbor because the house was Stephanie’s, not mine.
The third was Stephanie.
I called Evelyn.
She answered on the fifth ring.
“If this is about that casserole dish, I swear I gave it back.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
It sounded awful.
Evelyn went quiet.
“Margaret?”
“Could you pick me up?”
“Where are you?”
“The supermarket on Abercorn.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
A pause followed.
“All right.”
Then, more carefully, “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Stephanie with you?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“I’m getting my keys.”
Evelyn arrived twenty-three minutes later in a twelve-year-old Buick with an air conditioner that produced more noise than cold air.
By then I had received seven calls from Stephanie.
I declined all of them.
The eighth was a text.
YOU HUMILIATED ME IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.
A second message appeared before I could put the phone away.
Clinton had to leave work because of you.
I stared at those words.
Because of you.
Evelyn leaned across the passenger seat and pushed the door open.
“Get in before I melt.”
I climbed inside.
She looked at my purse.
“That all you bought?”
“Tea.”
“For nine hundred and eighty dollars?”
I turned toward her.
“How did you know?”
“Stephanie called me.”
Of course she had.
“What did she say?”
“That you had some kind of episode at the store and abandoned her.”
I looked through the windshield.
A cart attendant pushed a long line of carts toward the building, his orange vest dark with sweat between the shoulders.
“Did she mention asking me to pay nine hundred and eighty dollars?”
“No.”
“Did she mention telling me not to come home?”
Evelyn’s hands settled on the steering wheel.
“No.”
I nodded.
“Well.”
She waited.
I appreciated that.
Most people think silence is a hole they have to fill.
Donald had understood silence.
He could sit beside me for an hour with a newspaper and make the room feel occupied rather than empty.
“I need to go back to the house,” I said.
Evelyn frowned.
“After she told you not to?”
“My medication is there.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
I had not known I was going to say it until I did.
“My papers.”
Evelyn studied my face.
“What papers?”
“The ones I should have looked at four years ago.”
She started the car.
Neither of us spoke during the first few blocks.
My phone buzzed twice more inside my purse.
I left it there.
When we turned onto Stephanie’s street, I saw Clinton’s SUV in the driveway.
The garage door was open.
He stood beside the lawn mower with his phone pressed to his ear, still wearing his office clothes.
Stephanie’s car was not there.
“Do you want me to come inside?” Evelyn asked.
“Yes.”
That answer came more easily than the first no.
Clinton ended his call when we got out.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hello, Clinton.”
“Stephanie is stuck at the store with almost a thousand dollars of groceries.”
“I know.”
“She says you just walked off.”
“I did.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Margaret, tonight matters to me.”
“I’m sure it does.”
His expression changed slightly.
I had rarely answered him that way.
“I need my medication and some documents.”
“What documents?”
“Mine.”
He gave Evelyn a quick look.
“This is family business.”
Evelyn adjusted the strap of her purse.
“I’m seventy-five, Clinton.”
He stared at her.
She shrugged.
“I don’t have enough years left to be intimidated by a man standing next to a lawn mower.”
Under different circumstances, I might have laughed.
Instead I walked past him.
My room smelled damp.
Two of Clinton’s golf bags leaned beside my dresser.
A cardboard box marked CHRISTMAS LIGHTS sat on the chair where I used to read.
I opened the bottom drawer.
My prescription bottles were there.
So was the accordion folder Donald had bought when we made our wills.
I carried it to the bed.
The folder held my birth certificate, marriage certificate, Donald’s death certificate, old tax papers, and the closing documents from the sale of our house.
Beneath those was a thinner envelope from the attorney who had handled Stephanie and Clinton’s refinancing.
I had signed those papers in his office.
At the time, I had been grieving so badly that dates seemed meaningless and meals tasted like cardboard.
Stephanie had put sticky arrows beside the signature lines.
Just sign there, Mom.
This makes sure your investment in the house is protected.
I sat down.
Evelyn remained near the doorway.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I found the document with my signature.
Then another.
The language was dense, but one phrase was plain enough.
Contribution toward principal balance.
Not gift.
I read it again.
A handwritten note was clipped behind the document.
Margaret contribution to be credited against residence agreement.
My heart began beating harder.
There was supposed to have been another agreement.
I searched the folder.
It was not there.
“Evelyn, would you look in that blue box?”
She opened it.
“Insurance, old bank statements, Donald’s Social Security stuff.”
“No residence agreement?”
“No.”
Clinton appeared in the doorway.
May you like
“What are you digging through?”
I looked up.
