Chương 5
“Stop.”
“I genuinely don’t. The trust has changed in value.”
“What did it start at?”
“Two hundred fifty thousand each.”
Laura sat again.
Emma had eight dollars and forty cents in a ceramic piggy bank shaped like a fox.
“Emma has a quarter-million-dollar trust?”
“Potentially more now.”
“And nobody told me.”
“The distributions don’t begin until certain educational expenses, and the trustee was supposed to contact you when she turned nine.”
“She turns nine in three months.”
“I know.”
Laura laughed once, without humor.
“What happened Thursday?”
“Mom said the review could reopen questions about Dad’s capacity when he signed the amendments.”
“Amendments. Plural.”
“Yes.”
“What else changed?”
“I don’t have all the documents.”
“Why does she need your affidavit?”
“Because I witnessed one of the signatures.”
Laura gripped the phone.
“You witnessed it?”
“I was in the room.”
“Was Dad confused?”
David’s breathing changed.
“David.”
“He asked me why the lawyer was there.”
Laura felt the world narrow.
“What?”
“Then Mom reminded him.”
“And?”
“He said he remembered.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You signed as a witness anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was twenty-nine.”
“You were a lawyer.”
“Barely.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
For the first time, David sounded angry at himself rather than at her.
Laura said nothing.
Rain tapped against the bathroom window.
“I thought it was paperwork,” he said. “Dad had signed a hundred things in front of me. Mom said they’d been discussing it for months.”
“Did Dad read it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did Mom tell you Thursday?”
“That the trustee had requested records related to the amendment.”
“And she wants you to swear Dad was competent.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Laura’s anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“Does she know that?”
“She does now.”
“What happened when you told her?”
“She said I was letting you manipulate me.”
Laura looked toward Emma.
There was the connection.
Not complete.
Enough.
“So she sees Emma, and she sees me.”
“I think so.”
“And the cake happens.”
“Yes.”
Laura stood and opened the bathroom door.
Emma looked over.
“You okay?”
Laura almost said yes.
Instead she said, “Not especially.”
Emma considered that.
“Me neither.”
Laura walked to the bed and sat beside her.
David remained on the phone.
“Can I call you tomorrow?” Laura asked.
“Yeah.”
“Send me everything you have.”
“Laura, I need to talk to the trust attorney first.”
“Then do that.”
“I will.”
“And David?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t sign anything.”
“I won’t.”
She ended the call.
Emma handed her the hot chocolate.
“You can have some.”
Laura took a sip.
It was too sweet and already lukewarm.
“Thanks.”
Emma studied her.
“Is Grandma mad because of money?”
Laura looked at her daughter.
“How much did you hear?”
“Not all of it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Emma shrugged.
“You said quarter million really loud.”
Laura closed her eyes.
“Right.”
“What’s a trust?”
“Something I was hoping not to explain while wearing wedding clothes.”
Emma waited.
Laura set the cup on the nightstand.
“It’s money somebody sets aside for another person, with rules about when and how it can be used.”
“Do I have one?”
“Apparently.”
“How much?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is it a million dollars?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She sounded disappointed.
Laura stared at her.
Emma shrugged again. “A million is more.”
“Excellent financial analysis.”
“Can I buy a horse?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even think.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“What if the trust says horse?”
“It does not say horse.”
“You haven’t read it.”
Laura looked at her.
Emma’s mouth twitched.
There she was.
Still frightened. Still wounded.
Still eight.
Laura leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“Nice try.”
Emma pulled her knees up.
After a minute she said, “Grandma doesn’t like me.”
Laura could have lied.
She could have said Margaret loved her in her own way, one of those adult sentences designed less to comfort children than to preserve structures adults were afraid to examine.
Instead she asked, “What makes you think that?”
“She’s different when you’re there.”
Laura waited.
“When you’re not there,” Emma continued, “she asks questions.”
“What kind?”
“About you.”
A knot formed in Laura’s stomach.
“What questions?”
“Like if you talk about Grandpa.”
“Do I?”
“Not really.”
“What else?”
“If you’re mad at her.”
“Did she ask you that today?”
Emma nodded.
“What did you say?”
“I said sometimes.”
Laura almost laughed.
“Fair.”
“And she asked if you ever said she stole something from you.”
Laura’s smile vanished.
“When?”
“Before the cake.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Emma frowned, trying to retrieve the words.
“She said, ‘Has your mother ever told you I took something that belonged to her?’”
Laura felt the hairs rise along her arms.
“And what did you say?”
“I said you said she took your green sweater once.”
For several seconds Laura could not speak.
The green sweater.
College, 2008. Margaret had borrowed it, denied borrowing it, then appeared in a photograph wearing it.
Laura covered her mouth.
Emma looked worried.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Laura was.
It came out helplessly.
Of all the answers Margaret might have feared, she had received an accusation involving a twenty-dollar sweater from the Gap.
Emma began laughing too.
They laughed harder than the joke deserved.
That was probably why they needed it.
Eventually Laura wiped her eyes.
Then she saw Emma’s expression change.
“Did Grandma steal money from you?”
The question landed cleanly.
Laura stopped laughing.
“I don’t know.”
“Is that why she asked?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Emma pulled at a loose thread on the blanket.
“Are you going to put cake on her again?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Did it feel good?”
Laura looked at her daughter.
Emma looked perfectly serious.
“For about three seconds.”
“Then what?”
“Then it felt complicated.”
Emma nodded as if this confirmed something she had suspected about adulthood.
Laura’s phone vibrated again.
May you like
This time it was Margaret.
She let it ring.
