Chapter 10 - THE LETTER FROM LOS ANGELES
The television producer’s name was Celia Hart.
She flew to Chicago two weeks later.
Not to meet my family.
To meet me.
“I want to be very clear,” she said. “Nobody else controls your story.”
Good start.
She had contacted Daniel because an online article identified him as my ex-husband.
That was all.
She had no agreement with him.
No agreement with Lauren.
No agreement with Margaret.
She wanted adaptation rights from me and the publisher.
Period.
“How much?”
She smiled.
“Your agent should answer that.”
Agent.
I still found the word ridiculous.
Miriam had become my literary manager informally and connected me with a real agent, Priya Desai.
The offer was not twenty-five thousand.
It was considerably larger.
Option payment:
$175,000.
Additional purchase price if produced:
Potentially $650,000.
Consulting.
Royalties.
Nothing guaranteed.
Still life-changing.
A year earlier I had calculated whether I could afford gas for three hospital trips in one week.
Now people were discussing television rights.
I felt no victory.
Only distance.
Then Celia said:
“There’s one issue.”
Of course.
“Your mother contacted us directly.”
“What did she want?”
“To sell Sophie’s private writings.”
My hands went cold.
The pink folder?
Mom no longer had it.
But she had scanned it first.
I nearly stood.
“She copied everything?”
“Yes.”
Celia looked uncomfortable.
“She sent samples.”
I closed my eyes.
My daughter’s private questions.
Letters to her brothers.
Medical fears.
A nine-year-old’s grief.
Copied and offered to a television producer.
“What did you do?”
“Deleted them.”
Good.
Then:
“And sent her a notice that we would not review any material she did not own.”
I exhaled.
Celia continued.
“But she included one item that might belong to you.”
A photograph.
Sophie holding a handmade certificate.
Title:
THE HORSE TRIP FUND.
I laughed through tears.
Dad?
No.
Grace.
Apparently nurses had created a jar after Sophie kept talking about wanting to see horses.
Staff contributed spare change.
Patients’ families did too.
By the time Sophie died:
$1,840.
I never knew.
“What happened to it?”
Grace thought hospital administration returned it to family.
Which family?
My mother had signed for the envelope.
Again.
Margaret had taken another thing.
Dad confronted her.
This time, no denial.
She used the money for funeral flowers.
I stared.
“Why?”
Because she wanted a “proper service.”
I had chosen simple arrangements.
She thought they looked cheap.
So Sophie’s horse-trip money purchased the enormous floral displays my mother stood beside while telling relatives:
We did everything we could.
Something inside me finally stopped asking whether my mother understood what she had done.
She did.
Her priorities were simply different from mine.
Then Celia placed one final paper on the table.
A receipt from the hospital foundation.
The nurses had anticipated problems.
Grace deposited a matching amount from staff donations into a restricted account after Sophie died.
Name:
SOPHIE’S HORSE DAY FUND.
Current balance:
$4,920.
Purpose:
Experiences for siblings of pediatric cancer patients.
Grace had kept the idea alive.
I began crying.
Then Celia smiled.
“There’s more.”
An anonymous donor had added $25,000 the previous week.
Who?
The foundation disclosed it only because the donor authorized them to tell me.
Frank Parker.
My father.
May you like
Dad had finally stopped giving money through my mother.
And for the first time in his life, he had done the right thing without asking Margaret’s permission.
