Chương 5
She took the mug.
It was exactly how she liked it, half a teaspoon of sugar and enough milk to turn it beige.
That irritated her too.
Corinne leaned against the counter.
“I canceled the showing.”
“Good.”
“The agent is furious.”
“I’ll try to survive.”
“I also called the utility company about the cabin. The account was closed after Neftalí died. It had been in his name.”
Eulalia looked at her.
“I didn’t close it.”
“I believe you.”
Corinne blinked.
The admission seemed to make her more uncomfortable than accusation.
“I called someone about the floor.”
“You’re not fixing it.”
“It needs to be fixed.”
“It’s my cabin.”
Corinne gave a humorless little smile.
“Apparently we have to determine what belongs to whom.”
Eulalia drank her coffee.
“Apparently.”
The metal box sat between them.
The letter was upstairs under Eulalia’s pillow, an absurd hiding place she knew Corinne would guess immediately.
She had taken photographs of every page before sleeping and emailed them to herself.
She had also photographed the box.
The practical part of her mind, once awakened, had become difficult to quiet.
At nine fifteen she called the attorney whose number Neftalí had written near the end of the letter.
The woman had handled family property matters years earlier.
Eulalia did not put the call on speaker. She walked into the living room and closed the door.
Corinne remained in the kitchen.
The conversation lasted twenty-seven minutes.
When Eulalia returned, Corinne was washing the same coffee mug she had already washed once.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m getting a copy of the recorded deed.”
Corinne dried the mug.
“She’ll find it.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“She also told me not to sign anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to give you anything.”
“You did three days ago.”
Corinne looked at her.
The papers.
The papers Corinne had placed on the breakfast table before driving Eulalia to the cabin.
Consent to dispose of personal property.
Acknowledgment of temporary relocation.
A document regarding estate distribution that Corinne had described as routine.
Eulalia had refused to sign because she had been angry, not suspicious.
Now she felt cold.
“What was in the estate document?”
“Exactly what I told you.”
“I’m going to have someone else read it.”
“You should.”
That answer took some pleasure out of the accusation.
Eulalia hated when Corinne behaved sensibly.
By afternoon, the recorded deed had arrived electronically.
Eulalia printed it on the old office printer.
Her signature was there.
It looked like her signature because it was.
That was somehow worse than forgery.
She remembered signing the page.
Not the words above it. Only the shape of the signature box and the yellow tab.
The transfer had been recorded nineteen days later.
No one had needed to imitate her.
Her trust had done the work.
Corinne stood at the office door while Eulalia read.
“I never notarized this.”
“The notary came to the restaurant.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“He notarized the acknowledgment afterward.”
Eulalia looked up sharply.
Corinne’s face went pale.
“You knew that too?”
“I knew he did the paperwork through someone who worked with the restaurant.”
“Someone who wasn’t in the room.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That sentence should be carved on your grave.”
Corinne absorbed it.
Then she nodded.
“Probably.”
Eulalia pushed the paper away.
The attorney had been careful on the phone. She had not made promises. She had said the circumstances could justify a challenge and that the letter mattered, but more evidence would be needed. There were questions about intent, reliance, debts, subsequent transactions, and the notarial acknowledgment.
Nothing would be instant.
Nothing would be clean.
Eulalia had expected that.
What she had not expected was the sudden shame of seeing her own signature.
“I should have read it.”
Corinne’s head lifted.
“What?”
“I should have read it.”
“Eulalia—”
“Don’t comfort me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
Corinne stepped into the room.
“You trusted your son.”
“That was my choice.”
“He lied to you.”
“And I signed.”
“You’re not responsible for his lie.”
“I’m responsible for my name.”
Corinne was quiet.
Eulalia folded the deed.
The bruise around her left eye had begun to pulse.
“Did you ever tell him to undo it?”
Corinne looked toward the window.
“Not at first.”
“Later?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After his diagnosis.”
Eulalia waited.
Corinne’s hands disappeared into the sleeves of her sweater.
“He wanted to keep the restaurants. I wanted everything sold. We were fighting almost every day. Then one night he said he was changing the house back to you.”
“And you said?”
“I told him he couldn’t.”
“Because of the debt.”
“Yes.”
“Because you needed the money.”
“Yes.”
“Because you wanted me out.”
“No.”
Eulalia stared at her.
Corinne met the stare.
“Not then.”
The honesty landed hard.
“When did you start wanting me out?”
Corinne walked to the desk chair and sat.
“When he came home from the hospital the second time.”
Eulalia felt a flash of anger.
“I was helping.”
“I know.”
“I cooked. I did laundry. I sat with him.”
“I know.”
“You were working.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
Corinne rubbed her thumb against the edge of the desk.
“You made it impossible for him to be sick.”
Eulalia almost stood.
Corinne continued.
“Not because you meant to. You brought him food every hour. You asked about every medication. You watched him walk to the bathroom. Every time he coughed, you appeared in the doorway. He started pretending he felt better so you wouldn’t look scared.”
“He was dying.”
“He knew.”
“I knew.”
“No. You knew medically.”
The words stopped Eulalia.
Corinne looked tired again.
“You didn’t let him be afraid. Every time he said something about what would happen after, you told him not to talk that way.”
Eulalia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
A memory came without permission.
May you like
Neftalí sitting on the back steps in February, wrapped in his father’s old coat despite the afternoon sun. He had said, Mom, I need you to listen to something without fixing it.
Eulalia had brought him tea.
