Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF A PEACEFUL EVENING
I called Roland.
“Where did the fifteen thousand go?”
He took too long.
“To Mom.”
“Why?”
“I owed her.”
“For what?”
“A previous business expense.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
He had emptied eighteen thousand four hundred dollars from our emergency account.
Fifteen thousand had gone straight to Celeste.
The remaining money had covered overdue company expenses.
“So while I was in the hospital, you paid your mother back.”
“She needed it.”
“What did Wren need?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. It really isn’t.”
He lowered his voice.
“Mom was threatening to tell Faye the investment wasn’t confirmed.”
I stared at the wall.
“You paid her to stay quiet?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Explain how it was.”
“She’d helped me before. She wanted her money back before she helped again.”
“Helped you do what? Write a fake letter?”
He didn’t answer.
I could hear traffic behind him.
For some reason, that ordinary sound made me furious.
The world was still moving. People were buying lunch, missing exits, complaining about parking.
And I was learning the price of the peaceful evening his mother thought he deserved.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
I ended the call and sent Maya the details.
An hour later, Celeste texted:
You see? He lies to all of us. Don’t destroy the whole family over his mistakes.
I wrote back:
You helped write the letter.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
You don’t understand what mothers do for their sons.
I looked at Wren, asleep in clean pajamas, her mouth open just slightly.
For months, Celeste had corrected everything I did.
Too much coffee.
Not enough walking.
The wrong crib.
The wrong hospital bag.
Once, she had put her hand on my stomach and said, “Let’s hope you’re less sensitive after she gets here.”
I had laughed because everyone else did.
Now I typed one sentence.
I’m starting to understand what I need to do for my daughter.
Then I put the phone down.
That afternoon, my Camry arrived on a tow truck.
The driver handed Raymond the keys and a folded piece of paper.
Roland had written on it:
I brought your car back. Please stop punishing me.
I opened the passenger door.
The diaper bag was on the floor.
Inside, beneath a burp cloth, was the discharge folder I had been searching for since leaving the hospital.
Tucked into it was a second packet.
A loan application.
May you like
My name was printed beneath the words PERSONAL GUARANTOR.
And someone had already filled in the signature line.
