Whisper Me This(80)

I feel a little quake at the thought of all the responsibility. “What all does that entail? The power of attorney thing?”

“You would be responsible for his finances. For the estate. You could get him out of this house and into a facility.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

Greg rolls his shoulders and sighs, patiently. “He can’t stay here by himself. I think we all see that.”

“I don’t. He’s a little muddled off and on, but what do you expect? My mom died, Greg. We buried her yesterday, in case you didn’t notice.”

He slows his speech down into elements of exaggerated pronunciation. “You need to face the facts, here, Maisey. I know it’s not your favorite thing to do, so let me help you. Fact: Walter is an old man and is now alone. Fact: he didn’t call for help when your mother suddenly collapsed. For three days, Maisey. Three days. Think about that. Her lying unconscious in that bed, and him just letting her lie there. Fact: he was burning something in the fireplace and made a big enough fire to warrant a call to 911.”

“It wasn’t that big of a fire,” Elle says with her mouth full.

“Fact,” Greg goes on. “He burned papers in that fire. Maybe important papers, like an advanced directive.”

“Objection. Speculation. We don’t know what he burned.”

“I’m finding your attitude juvenile and not helpful,” Greg says. “You want to pay for an attorney to do all this? Or, better stated, can you afford one?”

I squeeze my rebellious hands together in my lap and drop my eyes. “I’m sorry. Please proceed.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. If the power of attorney thing seems like too much for you, I’m willing to do it myself. It makes sense to have somebody a little . . . detached . . . from the emotions. The house will need to be sold, for example.”

“No!”

The mind-picture of strangers sitting at this table, working in Dad’s study, drinking coffee by the fireplace in the winter, is like a knife in my gut.

“I’m not selling the house.”

“See? You can’t be logical about this. You need somebody who is.”

“I am logical. I’ll live here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I live in Kansas City. We can’t share custody over that kind of a distance.”

Despite his dismissive tone, there’s an implicit threat behind those words that makes me bite my lower lip to keep my mouth shut.

A throat-clearing sound draws my eyes to the kitchen door. Dad stands there. He’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. His feet are bare. They look vulnerable and pathetic, the toes twisting into each other, vine-like, as if trying to grow in new and unusual directions.

“This is Leah’s house,” Dad says. “All her things are here.”

He starts to pour himself a cup of coffee, but his hands are shaking, and he drops his half-filled cup. It splinters on the floor, and scalding coffee splatters everywhere. He continues to stand there, still pouring coffee out of the pot in his left hand, staring at the broken mug as if it’s a strange occurrence completely disconnected from his control.

I knock my chair over with a clatter, leaping up to help him.

“Here, let me take that. Don’t move. You’ll cut your feet.”

His eyes take a slow elevator trip from the floor up to meet mine. “I spilled the coffee.”

“Yes, you did. We can make more.” I bend down to clear away the pieces. Elle comes running with paper towels. His feet are reddened where the hot liquid splashed him, but I don’t see any blisters. Greg’s expression is pure I told you so.

I want to kiss the burns better, like I used to do for Elle when she was little. All I can do is take Dad’s hand and walk with him, side by side, down the hallway to his room.

“Come on, let’s find you some dry clothes, okay?”

Mom’s drawers are still full of precisely folded clothes. Dad’s are untidy, dirty socks and underwear stuffed in with the clean.

“Jeez, Dad, you’ve got a college boy system going here.”

“Don’t sell the house, Maisey.” He drops heavily onto the bed.

“Oh, Daddy. I don’t want to.” I kneel on the floor in front of him and press his hands between mine. They are so cold, so stiff.

“There’s money,” he says. “Don’t tell Greg. You can live here. I’ll give you full access to all the bank accounts.”

“I’m not good with money. Maybe it would be better—”

“No!” His vehemence startles me. “Don’t let him. Don’t let Greg do it. You have to stand up to him.”

“Elle.” My throat closes around her name. Everything always comes back to Elle. If I antagonize Greg, maybe he’ll take her from me.

Dad pulls his hands away from me and scrubs them across his face. “It’s Leah’s house,” he says. “She’s here. She’s everywhere.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He seems to have shrunk since my mother’s death. His T-shirt hangs on him, too big. The bottoms of his pants are coffee-soaked.

“How are your feet? Do they hurt?”

“Don’t have much feeling in my feet. Diabetes.”