Chapter 4: The Woman Across the Table
Helen waited in the back booth of a quiet café near the old library.
When I walked in, she stood so quickly that her cup tipped into its saucer.
“George.”
I stopped several feet away.
“Please don’t hug me yet.”
Her arms fell to her sides.
“Of course.”
Anna sat beside me while Helen remained across the table.
Dad’s threat still rang in my ears, but the photograph lay between us.
“Tell me about the trust,” I said.
“My parents created it for your education and first home,” Helen replied.
“Robert could manage it while you were a child, but he couldn’t spend it on himself.”
“He did.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get the statement?”
Helen looked at Anna.
“Your grandmother kept copies with Robert’s sister.”
“Aunt June?”
“She knew what he was doing,” Anna said.
I pushed back from the table.
“June sent me birthday cards every year.
She sat beside Dad at Christmas and said nothing.”
Helen reached toward me, then stopped.
“She was afraid of him.”
“So were you.
So was Anna.
Everyone was afraid, and I was the one left believing my mother was gone.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice rose.
“I spent every Mother’s Day standing beside an empty chair at school.”
Helen’s face folded.
“I stood outside one of your school plays,” she said.
“You came out holding Anna’s hand.
You called her Mom by mistake.”
Anna covered her mouth.
Helen continued, “I went back to my car and cried because you looked happy without me.”
“Don’t say that.” My hands struck the table.
“Don’t make your absence sound like a gift.”
“It wasn’t a gift,” she whispered.
“It was my greatest failure.”
The words emptied the strength from my legs.
I sat down and pressed my palms against my eyes.
Anna put one arm around me.
“George, breathe.”
“I don’t know who any of you are.”
A chair scraped behind us.
“You know me,” a woman said.
I looked up and saw Aunt June holding a metal key and a thick envelope.
Her coat was buttoned wrong, and tears had streaked her makeup.
“What are you doing here?”
“What I should have done twelve years ago.”
She placed the key on the table.
Dad called my phone.
I turned it face down, but June stared at the screen.
“Answer him,” she said.
“Let me hear his voice.”
I put the call on speaker.
“George,” Dad said, “come home now.”
“No.”
“Anna’s police report is still open.
If she doesn’t leave, I’ll make one call.”
June leaned toward the phone.
“Then you’ll have to explain why you filed a false report, Robert.”
Dad went silent.
“June?” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand what you’re interfering with.”
“I notarized the temporary care agreement.
I know exactly what you changed.”
Helen gripped the table.
“You knew?”
June’s chin trembled.
“I knew after he filed it.
He said he would correct it.
Then he threatened to take my house if I spoke.”
“You watched me lose my son.”
“I did.” June placed both hands flat on the table.
“And there is no apology large enough.”
I pointed at the key.
“What does it open?”
“A bank box your grandfather kept under my name.
Robert never knew about it.”
“What’s inside?”
“The original agreement, Helen’s returned letters, and a recording Anna made the night Robert drove her away.”
Before June could say more, two uniformed officers entered the café.
One approached our table and looked directly at Anna.
May you like
“Anna Mercer?
We need to speak with you about an unresolved theft complaint filed by Robert Hale.”
