Chương 4
By one, the firm’s public email address had received forty-seven messages.
At one thirteen, Ethan’s business partner called.
“Tell me there is more to this.”
“There’s more to this.”
“Great. How much more?”
“My mother burned my daughter’s doll.”
Silence.
“What?”
“It was made by Claire.”
“Jesus.”
“In front of her.”
Another pause.
“Is that on video?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because the internet currently thinks you are Patrick Bateman with a mortgage license.”
“I’m an architect.”
“You know what I mean.”
Ethan sat at the dining table. The damaged doll lay on a clean dish towel in front of him. He had found Claire’s old sewing kit in a hallway closet but had not yet opened it.
“Don’t respond publicly,” his partner said.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I want to.”
“I know. Don’t.”
Ethan rubbed his jaw.
“What are clients saying?”
“Two have asked questions. One canceled tomorrow’s call. That might be unrelated.”
“It isn’t.”
“Probably not.”
Ethan looked at the blackened blue fabric.
His partner sighed.
“Take care of your kid. I’ll deal with work today.”
“I can deal with work.”
“No, you’re going to make something worse.”
“That’s supportive.”
“It is, actually.”
After the call, Ethan opened Claire’s sewing kit.
The top tray held thread, pins, three fabric pencils, a bent thimble and a measuring tape that Mia had colored with green marker when she was four.
Underneath was a folded piece of paper.
Ethan unfolded it.
It was not a letter.
It was a grocery list.
Milk.
Bananas.
Dish soap.
Cinnamon.
Printer ink.
Mia’s toothpaste.
Claire’s handwriting tilted upward as it moved across the page, a small habit Ethan had forgotten.
He sat there longer than the grocery list deserved.
Mia came in wearing pajamas at one in the afternoon.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing important.”
She climbed onto the chair beside him.
“Mom wrote it.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s important.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Fair point.”
Mia picked up the measuring tape.
“I did this.”
“I know.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“I didn’t know I kept it.”
She frowned, apparently dissatisfied by the answer.
Then she looked at the burned doll.
“Can we make her not burned?”
Ethan stared at the blackened side.
“No.”
Mia’s face changed.
He added, “But we can make her stay together.”
That seemed to matter.
They spent the next hour repairing the left arm badly.
Ethan’s first stitches were too loose. His second attempt pulled the cloth unevenly. Mia watched with the grave patience of a small supervisor who had been assigned an incompetent adult.
“That looks terrible.”
“I’m learning.”
“Mom’s didn’t look like that.”
“Your mom practiced.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she used to make pillows.”
Mia blinked.
“Mom made pillows?”
“Terrible pillows.”
“She was bad at sewing?”
“At first.”
Mia looked down at the doll.
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“I don’t know.”
She touched the repaired seam.
“It just is.”
At three in the afternoon, someone rang the doorbell.
Ethan checked the camera before opening it.
Nora stood outside holding a paper grocery bag.
He let her in.
She took off her coat and looked toward the dining table.
Mia had fallen asleep on the sofa with the doll beside her.
Nora lowered her voice.
“I brought food.”
“We have food.”
“You have condiments and cereal.”
“That’s food adjacent.”
She put the bag on the kitchen counter.
For several seconds they did not look at each other.
Finally Nora said, “I’m sorry.”
Ethan leaned against the refrigerator.
“For laughing?”
“For laughing. For not stopping her. For a lot of things I’m just now realizing I categorized as Mom being Mom.”
He crossed his arms.
Nora rubbed her palms together.
“I didn’t know she’d been saying things to Mia.”
“Neither did I.”
“You’re her father.”
The words landed harder because Nora did not say them cruelly.
“I know.”
“She’s seven.”
“I know.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“You should.”
Nora looked at him.
“No. But I’m also not going to tell you something comforting because you look awful.”
He almost smiled.
“That does sound like you.”
She opened the grocery bag.
“I brought rotisserie chicken.”
“On December twenty-sixth?”
“The grocery store doesn’t observe emotional collapse.”
She took out bread, soup, apples and a package of cookies.
Then her expression changed.
“Derek’s video is getting worse.”
“I saw.”
“Mom is sharing it.”
“Of course she is.”
“She wrote a post saying Claire isolated you from the family and that she spent years trying to repair the damage.”
Ethan’s arms dropped.
“She mentioned Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Publicly?”
“Yes.”
He reached for his phone.
Nora put her hand over it.
“Don’t.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“If you answer angry, you become the video.”
“She doesn’t get to use Claire.”
“She already did.”
He stared at her.
Nora removed her hand.
“I’m not telling you to do nothing. I’m telling you to decide what you actually want.”
“I want her to stop.”
“That’s not fully in your control.”
“I want people to know what happened.”
“Okay.”
“I want—”
His voice broke off.
Mia shifted on the sofa.
Both of them looked toward her.
Nora lowered her voice again.
“What do you want more than that?”
Ethan looked at his daughter.
The answer took longer than it should have.
“I want Mia out of it.”
“Then don’t make the internet your courtroom.”
At four thirty, Ethan received a text from Derek.
You’re destroying this family because Mom made one bad joke.
Ethan read it twice.
Then another arrived.
Claire would be embarrassed by you.
Ethan stood so abruptly that his chair scraped the floor.
Nora looked up.
“What?”
He handed her the phone.
She read the messages.
“Don’t answer.”
“I’m going to his apartment.”
“He lives with Mom.”
“I’m aware.”
“Ethan.”
He walked toward the front hall.
Nora stepped in front of him.
“You’re not going over there.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“He does not get to use my wife’s name.”
May you like
“He already used it. Going over there doesn’t erase the text.”
Ethan stared past her at the door.
