Chapter 6: Roberta
Patrice called back four days later.
Marcus was at work.
I was at the kitchen table with a cold cup of coffee and a stack of Ellie's drawings she'd asked me to sort through.
I picked up on the second ring.
"I talked to Roberta," Patrice said.
"How is she?"
"Angry.
In a quiet way.
The kind of angry that's been sitting in a box for thirty years." A pause.
"She cried a little.
She said she never thought anyone would call her about it."
"What did she say happened?"
"After her husband left, she was completely alone.
Two kids, no income, no plan.
Mom stepped in.
Cooked, cleaned, watched the children.
Roberta said she was grateful every single day." Patrice's voice was measured, like she was reading from notes.
"Then after eight months, Mom sat her down at the kitchen table and put a piece of paper in front of her."
"An invoice."
"Handwritten, back then.
No logo yet.
But itemized.
Every visit.
Every meal.
Every hour." Patrice paused.
"Roberta said the total was six hundred and forty dollars.
In 1993.
She was a single mother with almost nothing in her account."
I set down the drawing in my hand.
"She paid it," Patrice said.
"She borrowed money from a friend to pay it.
And then she told Mom she wouldn't be needing her help anymore.
And Mom cried and said she didn't understand why Roberta was being so cold."
"She said the same thing to you."
"Almost word for word.
I checked." Another pause.
"Roberta still has the invoice.
She kept it too.
Tucked in the back of an old address book."
Two women.
Thirty years apart.
Both kept the paper.
"Patrice," I said.
"What do you want to do?"
"Roberta wants to come.
She wants to be there when we talk to Mom.
She said she's waited thirty years to be in that room."
"Marcus will need to know."
"I know.
I wanted to tell you first." A brief pause.
"Is that all right?"
"Yes," I said.
"That's all right."
I called Marcus at his office.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, the line was quiet for a moment.
"Roberta," he said.
"I haven't seen her since I was maybe twelve."
"She's been there the whole time.
She just stopped coming around."
"Because of Mom."
"Because of Mom."
He was quiet again.
I could hear him breathing.
"Set it up," he said.
"Whatever Patrice thinks is right.
Set it up."
We agreed on the following Saturday.
Not the lake house.
Patrice's home, forty minutes away.
Roberta would drive down from Vermont.
Marcus and I would bring Ellie to a neighbor's for the afternoon and drive over together.
I texted Diane on Thursday.
*We'd like to get together this weekend.
Patrice's place.
Saturday afternoon.
Can you make it?*
Her reply came in under two minutes.
*Of course!
I've been hoping we could all sit down.
I'll bring something.
Does Patrice still like lemon cake?*
I showed Marcus the message.
He read it.
Set the phone down.
Picked it up again.
"She has no idea," he said.
"No."
"She thinks this is a family lunch."
"I know."
He handed the phone back to me.
May you like
"Good," he said quietly.
"Let her think that."
