Chương 8
“Here?”
“In everything.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Did you think Dad was coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always say you don’t know.”
“Because sometimes I don’t.”
“You said he signed.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t not knowing.”
“No.”
Lily wiped her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie.
Megan reached for a napkin and set it near her, not touching her.
Lily said, “You made Dad say something when he couldn’t say it.”
The sentence went through Megan slowly.
“Yes.”
“Because he was asleep.”
“Yes.”
“Not asleep.”
“No.”
Lily looked down.
“In a coma.”
“Yes.”
“That’s creepy.”
Megan nodded.
“It is.”
Lily looked surprised.
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma says you were trying to erase him.”
Megan’s jaw tightened.
“Grandma shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“So she’s lying?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Megan stood, carried her plate to the sink, and came back without washing it.
“I wasn’t trying to erase your dad.”
“Then why were we leaving?”
“Because I got a job. Because we needed money. Because the rent is too high. Because I was tired of fighting with Grandma. Because I thought a new place would make everything quieter.”
“Would it?”
“No.”
Lily stared at her.
Megan said, “I know that now.”
Lily picked at the corner of her toast.
“If Dad comes back, will he be mad?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly to soften.
Lily nodded.
“At me?”
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
Megan almost said I do.
Instead she said, “I can’t imagine any reason he would be angry with you.”
Lily considered that.
“Can I sleep with the light on?”
“Yes.”
“Hall light too?”
“Yes.”
“Can I lock my door?”
Megan felt the request in her chest.
“Yes.”
Lily looked at her mother for a long time.
Then she carried her plate to the sink.
That night, Megan heard the lock click in Lily’s bedroom.
She stood in the hallway for a moment.
Then she turned off her own bedroom light and left Lily’s on.
Weeks passed.
Not gracefully.
Lily sometimes acted normal for hours and then asked a question that reopened everything.
Did you lie to the bus driver?
No.
Did Aunt Rachel know?
Yes.
Did Grandpa know?
No.
Did Grandma hate you before?
Maybe.
Do you hate Grandma?
Some days.
That answer made Lily laugh.
Megan allowed it.
Eleanor did not apologize for the slap until three weeks after the terminal.
She did it in Megan’s kitchen while Thomas and Lily were in the living room arguing about a puzzle.
“I assaulted you,” Eleanor said.
Megan looked up from the coffee maker.
“You make apologies sound like weather reports.”
“I’m not good at them.”
“No.”
Eleanor ignored that.
“I was frightened. That does not excuse it.”
Megan poured water into the machine.
“No.”
“I am sorry.”
Megan looked at her.
Eleanor’s posture remained stiff, but one hand gripped the strap of her purse.
Megan could have made her work harder.
Part of her wanted to.
“Thank you,” she said.
Eleanor blinked.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want, a certificate?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The coffee machine coughed.
Eleanor looked toward the living room.
“Lily asked whether I hate you.”
“She asked me too.”
“What did you say?”
“Some days.”
Eleanor stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
It was quiet and brief.
“I said the same thing.”
Megan looked at her.
“That’s disturbing.”
“Yes.”
They drank coffee standing up.
Neither mentioned forgiveness.
The legal process moved slower than emotion wanted it to.
There were meetings.
Declarations.
Requests for documents.
Conversations about temporary schedules.
Nobody marched into a courtroom and solved the family in twenty minutes.
Patricia warned Megan repeatedly that telling the truth did not guarantee a favorable outcome.
“Truth is not a coupon,” she said once.
Megan wrote that down because it annoyed her.
Thomas provided the photograph of Daniel’s notebook page and a written account of the phone call.
Eleanor provided her hospital calendar.
Hospital documentation, obtained through the proper process, confirmed what everyone already knew: Daniel had not been conscious on May 14.
Megan provided the original forged consent.
She also provided a sheet of printer paper she had found in a desk drawer containing eight practice versions of Daniel’s signature.
Patricia stared at it.
“You kept this?”
“I forgot it existed.”
“That is believable and astonishingly unhelpful.”
“Should I have destroyed it?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m looking at you like someone who has aged me.”
“You bill by the hour. Consider it professional development.”
Patricia almost smiled.
Megan’s decision to turn over the practice sheet mattered more to her than she expected.
Not because it helped.
It did not.
Because for months she had lived by asking one question: What can they prove?
Now she was trying to live by another.
What is true?
The second question was much more expensive.
Daniel’s disappearance remained the great uncooperative fact.
Investigators had found no reliable evidence of his location.
He had used an ATM twice after leaving rehabilitation.
A traffic camera had captured what might have been his truck three counties away, but the plate was unclear.
His phone stopped connecting to the network within days.
No dependable social-media activity appeared.
Rumors circulated through friends and former coworkers.
Arizona.
Texas.
Canada.
A recovery house near Tulsa.
A woman in Missouri.
Every rumor produced hope in Eleanor and contempt in Megan, then guilt in Megan for the contempt.
Thomas treated rumors like weather.
Possible rain.
Bring an umbrella.
Do not cancel your life.
Four months after the terminal confrontation, a former coworker of Daniel’s called Thomas.
He had received a postcard.
No return address.
The card showed a mountain road in New Mexico.
On the back, in Daniel’s handwriting, were nine words.
I’m alive. I’m sorry. Don’t try to find me yet.
Thomas brought the postcard to Megan and Eleanor together.
They sat at Megan’s kitchen table.
Nobody touched it at first.
Eleanor began crying silently.
Thomas stared at the wall.
May you like
Megan felt nothing.
Then rage arrived so quickly she stood.
