Chapter 8 - THE LAST CONVERSATION WITH GRANDMA
Grace had kept the video on an encrypted hospital memory drive because Sophie asked her to.
Was that perfect procedure?
No.
Grace admitted it.
She had wrestled with whether to give it to me.
Then Sophie died.
Then I nearly stopped functioning.
Then the book.
“Why now?”
“Because Margaret is rewriting what happened.”
That was enough.
The video began with Sophie sitting upright in bed.
Her hair had grown back in thin, uneven patches.
My mother sat beside her.
I recognized the coat.
Red wool.
She had worn it to the funeral.
Sophie said:
“Mom doesn’t know you’re here.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Margaret smiled nervously.
“Because she’s upset with me.”
Sophie looked unconvinced.
Then:
“Are you going to help with Ben and Jamie?”
Mom hesitated.
“I don’t think your mother wants me interfering.”
Lie.
Sophie knew.
“You said no.”
My mother froze.
Apparently Sophie had overheard me crying on the phone weeks earlier.
Then:
“Grandma, why did you say Mom chose this?”
My mother’s face changed.
Children ask questions adults spend years avoiding.
“I was angry.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother always thinks she can do everything alone.”
Sophie whispered:
“She asked you.”
Silence.
Then Mom started crying.
“I know.”
There.
Not misunderstanding.
Not exclusion.
She knew.
Then Sophie said:
“You should say sorry.”
My mother took her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not to me.”
My chest broke.
“Tell Mom.”
The video continued.
Mom promised.
She never did.
Not until my book sold.
Not on the porch.
Even then she said:
We want to make things right.
Not:
I abandoned you.
Not:
I lied.
Not:
I took money.
Not:
I hid Sophie’s folder.
Sophie had given her instructions.
She ignored them.
Then the video shifted.
My mother asked:
“Did your mom tell you she’s writing about all this?”
Sophie nodded.
“Do you think that’s good?”
“Yes.”
“Even family things?”
“Yes.”
Margaret looked uncomfortable.
“What if people get hurt?”
Sophie thought.
Then said:
“Then they can do nicer things.”
Grace paused the video.
I laughed helplessly.
That child.
Then came the secret.
My mother leaned closer.
“Sophie, your mom doesn’t know this, but your grandfather opened an account for you kids.”
My heart stopped.
What account?
Mom continued.
“He wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”
Sophie whispered:
“Can Mom use it for the hospital?”
“Yes.”
My breath stopped.
Dad had created more than the twenty-thousand-dollar gift.
He had opened a family account.
How much?
Grace resumed.
Sophie:
“Then give it to her.”
Margaret:
“It’s complicated.”
Sophie:
“Money isn’t complicated. Grown-ups are.”
Grace and I both cried.
Then the video ended.
I called Dad.
He went silent again.
The account contained eighty thousand dollars.
Money he had set aside for all three grandchildren after Sophie’s relapse.
He had given my mother co-signing authority because she handled household finances.
I had never received a dollar.
“What happened to it?”
Dad sounded sick.
He had only recently discovered the account was nearly empty.
Withdrawals:
Brooke’s wedding.
My mother’s new kitchen.
A Caribbean cruise.
And one large transfer.
Thirty-five thousand dollars.
Recipient:
Daniel Ellis.
My ex-husband.
May you like
The man who told me he could not help while our daughter was dying had received money from my parents’ account during her treatment.
And neither of them had ever told me why.
