Chapter 7 — The Price of Keeping the Peace

Nathan called back before my next appointment.

“The contractor confirmed there was no second invoice,” he said. “Keep your original statement. We’ll ask Barbara to explain the withdrawal.”

“Her lawyer called it a reimbursement.”

“I know.”

“For something she didn’t pay.”

“That’s the question she’ll need to answer.”

I looked at the papers on the passenger seat.

For years, my family had made me feel ashamed of asking questions. Now one of those questions had a date, an invoice number, and a payment record.

I gathered the pages and went back to work.

That Saturday, I met Megan at a coffee shop halfway between our apartments.

She was already there when I arrived. Her coat was folded beside her, and a blue folder lay on the table.

She stood.

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’ll get my own.”

She sat down again.

I ordered, then took the chair across from her.

Neither of us knew how to begin.

Finally, Megan pushed the folder toward me.

“I printed some of it. The full conversations are saved, too.”

“Did you change anything?”

“No.”

“Not even yours?”

“Especially not mine.”

I opened the folder.

The first page was from seven years earlier.

Barbara had asked whether anyone had told me Christmas dinner was at the coast.

Mom had answered:

Not yet. Let’s keep it simple this year.

Below that, Megan had written:

The detective can stay at work.

There was a laughing reaction beneath it.

Tyler’s.

I remembered that Christmas.

I had volunteered for an extra shift after Mom told me she and Dad were going to friends’ houses. I’d sent Megan a photograph of a crooked paper tree one of our patients had made.

She had replied with a heart.

Meanwhile, she had been packing for the beach.

I turned the page.

“Claire,” she said.

“Let me read.”

She pressed her lips together.

Another year. Another discussion.

She’ll find out from the pictures,

someone had written.

Barbara’s answer:

Then don’t post until we’re leaving.

Megan had asked whether they should invite me to dessert.

Mom replied:

That might make things awkward.

I put the page down.

“She thought inviting me would make things awkward.”

Megan nodded.

“And you agreed.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’d already called me the detective.”

“I know.”

There was no explanation after it.

That helped more than I wanted it to.

I kept reading.

The later group had started after Grandma asked why I wasn’t in a family photograph. Barbara suggested keeping travel arrangements separate so Grandma wouldn’t “worry about unnecessary details.”

They hadn’t needed an elaborate plan.

Just another group.

Just another place where I didn’t exist.

“Did Grandma know?” I asked.

“She knew you weren’t there. I don’t think she knew how we arranged it.”

“Did she ask?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were working.”

I shut the folder.

Megan’s eyes were wet.

“I kept thinking I should tell you.”

“When?”

“Lots of times.”

“Before dinner or afterward?”

She flinched.

“I deserve that.”

“I’m not trying to find something you deserve. I’m asking when.”

“Usually afterward.”

“When it wouldn’t change your plans.”

“Yes.”

A waitress passed our table carrying toast. Megan waited until she was gone.

“I liked being the easy daughter,” she said.

I looked at her.

“You asked questions. You argued when something wasn’t right. I just showed up, and everybody was happy to see me.”

“Because I wasn’t there.”

She wiped her cheek.

“I didn’t think of it that way.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No.”

She looked at the folder.

“I’m sorry I let you think there was something wrong with you.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

That was what I had wanted somebody to understand.

Not that Christmas had been lonely. Not that I disliked Barbara.

That I had spent years checking my own behavior, wondering which part of me made an empty chair preferable.

“I can send these to Nathan?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“He may need to ask you how you preserved them.”

“I’ll answer.”

“This doesn’t fix us.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to see you again.”

Her hand moved toward mine, then stopped.

“All right.”

We stayed another twenty minutes.

She told me the boys had asked whether I was angry with them. I said she could tell them I wasn’t.

I didn’t agree to a visit.

When we left, she didn’t ask for a hug.

Two days later, Mom came to my apartment.

I had agreed to half an hour.

She arrived with grocery bags.

“I thought you might need a few things.”

“I have food.”

“I know. I was at the store.”

I let her put the bags on the counter, then pointed to the table.

“Sit down.”

She noticed the blue folder.

“Megan told me she saw you.”

“Yes.”

“She’s been very upset.”

“So have I.”

“I know.”

She said it quickly, as though agreeing might keep me from discussing it.

I opened the folder to her reply about making things awkward.

Mom read it.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me why my being there was a problem.”

She rubbed the paper with her thumb.

“Barbara would get defensive. Mom would start worrying. Your father hated the arguments.”

“So you removed me.”

“We thought things would settle.”

“For thirteen years?”

Mom’s eyes filled.

I waited.

Finally, she said, “By then, I didn’t know how to invite you without explaining the other years.”

I leaned back.

That was the answer.

Every new lie had saved her from admitting the earlier one.

“What did you know about the money?” I asked.

“Not the amounts.”

“Did you know Grandma was asking Barbara to return some of it?”

“She mentioned it.”

“And?”

“Barbara said they’d worked it out.”

“Did you ask Grandma whether they had?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Mom looked toward the groceries.

“I didn’t want to get between them.”

“You got between them when you kept me away.”

She nodded once.

I could see how much effort it took.

“I didn’t think of it as choosing Barbara.”

“It still helped her.”

“Yes.”

Her phone vibrated inside her purse. She silenced it without checking.

Then she took out an envelope.

“I brought something else.”

I didn’t reach for it.

“Barbara asked me to speak to you.”

“About what?”

“She wants this finished. She’s willing to pay something.”

“How much?”

“Twelve thousand dollars.”

I stared at her.

Mom slid the envelope closer.

“There’s a draft agreement. You don’t have to decide today.”

“Why didn’t she send it through Nathan?”

“She thought you might listen to me.”

I opened it.

The payment appeared on the first page.

On the second was a statement acknowledging that the remaining transfers and purchases had been authorized gifts.

I read it twice.

Then I looked at my mother.

“You want me to sign that?”

“I want us to find a way forward.”

“By saying Grandma gave away money she asked to have returned?”

“It would end the fighting.”

I put the pages back into the envelope.

Mom reached across the table.

“Claire, please. Haven’t we all lost enough?”

I moved the agreement out of her reach.

“Who told you I was the one who should lose a little more?”