Chapter 6 - The Daughter My Mother Needed to Keep Small
Bernard would not give me the red file yet.
I nearly walked out.
“Your father created legal conditions,” he explained. “I cannot ignore them because everyone is emotional.”
“What conditions?”
“One was Margaret publicly denying Dany’s place in the family.”
“That happened.”
“Yes.”
“Then give me the file.”
“There is another.”
“What?”
“Richard must fail to contact me by noon tomorrow.”
I stared.
“He’s alive.”
“I believe so.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“No.”
“When did you last?”
“Friday morning.”
Before he disappeared.
“What did he say?”
Bernard leaned back.
“He told me he was going to meet a ghost.”
Thomas.
“And if he didn’t call?”
“I was to proceed.”
“Proceed with what?”
“With protecting the beneficiaries.”
“Who?”
“You and Dany.”
Not Chelsea.
Not Carter.
Me and my son.
I left the office with more questions than answers.
That night I put Dany to bed.
He had built a tower from wooden train tracks Dad gave him at Christmas.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Grandma mad?”
“Probably.”
“At me?”
“No.”
He pushed a red train across the blanket.
“Did Grandpa go away because Grandma was mean?”
My heart twisted.
“Who told you Grandpa went away?”
“Carter.”
Of course.
“What exactly did Carter say?”
“He said Aunt Chelsea said Grandpa ran because you fight.”
I closed my eyes.
Family gossip traveled fast enough to reach kindergarten.
I sat beside him.
“Grandpa did not leave because of you or me.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
He thought about that.
Then whispered, “Grandpa gave me a secret.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What secret?”
Dany crawled off the bed.
He pulled a wooden locomotive from beneath his toy chest.
Dad had carved it himself.
Dany turned it upside down.
A tiny strip of paper was taped underneath.
I peeled it free.
Four numbers.
4 17 9 3
“What did Grandpa say?”
“He said don’t give it to Grandma.”
“When?”
“At Easter.”
Four months ago.
“Anything else?”
“He said Mommy would know.”
I did not.
Not immediately.
Then I remembered Dad’s old study.
He had one wall of framed family photographs.
Rows.
Columns.
Some dating back to his childhood.
The numbers might be coordinates.
Fourth row.
Seventeenth photo?
There weren’t seventeen in a row.
Book codes?
Dates?
April 17, 1993?
I froze.
I was born April 17, 1992.
So not that.
Could be 4-17-9-3.
I called Aunt Colleen.
She arrived twenty minutes later.
We stared at the paper on my kitchen table.
“Dad told Dany I’d know.”
“Maybe you do.”
“I don’t.”
“What did Richard do with numbers?”
“Everything.”
Dad numbered tools.
Files.
Storage bins.
He had even catalogued Christmas decorations.
Then I remembered.
The pill organizer.
After his stroke, Dad became obsessed with documenting medication times.
Mom hated it.
He made spreadsheets.
Four drugs.
Seventeen?
Nine?
Three?
No.
Colleen picked up the slip.
“This handwriting.”
“What?”
“It’s not Richard’s.”
I leaned closer.
She was right.
Dad wrote his fours open at the top.
This four was closed.
“Whose?”
Colleen looked uneasy.
“I think Thomas’s.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I used to receive invoices from him.”
“You worked for the company?”
“For six months.”
“You never told me that.”
“No one asked.”
My entire family history seemed constructed from things nobody asked.
Colleen grabbed her purse.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Richard’s study.”
“Mom will be there.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Her mouth hardened.
“We stop being afraid of your mother.”
We reached my parents’ house at nine thirty.
The driveway was dark except for a light upstairs.
I still had a key.
Mom had forgotten that.
We entered quietly.
Dad’s study smelled like cedar and old paper.
The photo wall faced his desk.
I switched on the lamp.
Four rows.
Seventeen total photographs.
Colleen whispered, “Four. Seventeen.”
The fourth photograph.
The seventeenth?
I counted.
Photo 4 was Dad and Thomas beside the company’s first truck.
Photo 17 was my parents at Chelsea’s high school graduation.
Nine.
Three.
I looked at the bookcase.
Nine shelves?
No.
Three cabinets.
The third lower cabinet was locked.
Dad had given Dany four numbers.
Maybe 4-17 opened something.
I tried the cabinet keypad.
Four digits required.
4179.
Red light.
4173.
Red.
1793.
Green.
The lock clicked.
Colleen stared.
Inside were binders.
And a small pharmacy bag.
I pulled it out.
Dad’s name.
Medication date from six months earlier.
Inside were two sets of pills.
One in the original bottle.
Another sealed in a plastic evidence pouch.
A handwritten note read:
Same label. Different tablets.
Colleen whispered, “Oh my God.”
Behind us, the study light suddenly brightened.
May you like
Mom stood in the doorway.
She was holding a baseball bat.
