Chapter 8: What Margaret Did Next
I let it ring for a moment.
"Do you want to take it?" Ben asked.
"Yes," I said.
I pressed the button on the steering wheel.
"Margaret."
"Sarah." Her voice was different from the phone call at the hospital.
Tighter.
More deliberate.
"I'd like to come over this evening.
To the house."
"Tonight isn't a good night."
"I think it's important that we speak in person.
There are things I'd like to—"
"Tonight we're talking to Lily," I said.
"As a family.
I'm sure you understand."
A pause.
"Of course," she said.
"Of course, yes.
I'd still like to come.
I could be there after Lily is in bed.
I think there are misunderstandings that need to be—"
"Margaret." I kept my voice even.
"What you said to Patricia Hendricks and to the garden club and to whoever else — that wasn't a misunderstanding.
I think you know that."
"I was processing grief, Sarah.
I was processing the possibility of losing my son.
I don't think that deserves to be treated as—"
"I'm not punishing you for being frightened," I said.
"I'm asking you not to hold conversations about our family's finances and our home with people who have nothing to do with our family.
Those are two different things."
"The house was in this family before you were part of it," Margaret said.
The car was very quiet.
Beside me, Ben closed his eyes.
"Yes it was," I said.
"And Ben and I have been building our life in it for nine years.
Lily learned to walk in that house.
I'm not going to have this conversation while I'm driving."
"Then let me come this evening so we can—"
"Not tonight." My voice was final.
"I'll call you in a few days, Margaret.
When Ben and I have had time to settle."
"Sarah, I really think—"
"Goodbye, Margaret." I ended the call.
The highway unrolled ahead of us.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
"The house," Ben said.
"Yes."
"She's said that to me once before.
In a different way." He rubbed the side of his face.
"Early on.
When I was at my lowest and she came to see me here — she started talking about practical matters.
I told her it wasn't the right time."
"She kept talking anyway."
"She kept talking anyway."
I merged into the exit lane.
The neighborhood streets were quieter.
Someone had put out early Christmas lights on the corner house — just white ones, careful and simple.
"I need you to tell me honestly," I said.
"Is there anything in writing that could — anything she could act on?"
Ben looked at me sharply.
"No.
Nothing."
"Wills, beneficiaries — everything is current?"
"Everything has been in order for years," he said.
"You are my wife.
Lily is my daughter.
Everything goes to you.
My mother is not on anything."
"All right," I said.
"Sarah.
She's a frightened woman who handles fear badly.
She's not—"
"I know," I said.
"I'm not afraid of her.
I just needed to know the facts."
He was quiet.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"At her?
Not particularly." I turned onto our street.
"At the situation.
At the months of not knowing.
At the image of you sitting in a parking lot by the lake being scared by yourself." I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park.
"That's what I keep coming back to.
That you were alone with it."
He turned to look at me fully.
"I know," he said.
"I think I told myself I was protecting you.
And I think part of that was real.
But part of it—" He stopped.
"Say it."
"Part of it was that if I didn't tell you, it wasn't completely real yet." He held my gaze.
"As long as you didn't know, some part of my life was still normal.
Still the life I wanted." He paused.
"That was selfish.
I know it was selfish."
The porch light was on.
Through the front window I could see the living room lamp Lily always left on when she was home with the babysitter.
That warm, ordinary rectangle of light.
May you like
"Come inside," I said.
"Our daughter is in there waiting for her dad to come home."
