Chapter 5 - The Lie That Kept Us Apart
"You were driving?"
My father's eyes moved from my mother to Margaret.
Then to me.
For a moment, he seemed to be calculating which lie would cost him the least.
Finally, he laughed.
"Diane, you're embarrassing yourself."
Mom didn't look at him.
She was staring at the floor.
"Seventeen years," she whispered.
"Seventeen years, Robert."
His expression hardened.
"Think about what you're saying."
"I've thought about it every day."
He took a step toward her.
"You're confused."
She looked up.
"No."
The word was barely audible.
But something about the way she said it made him stop.
"I'm not confused anymore."
I stood beside Grandpa's desk, trying to make sense of everything.
My mother had spent seventeen years away from me.
She hadn't called on birthdays.
Hadn't visited when I broke my arm falling off my bike.
Hadn't attended my high school graduation.
Hadn't come when Grandpa was hospitalized.
Now she was standing in front of me, claiming she'd spent all those years hiding the truth about an accident.
The same truth my father apparently still wanted buried.
I looked at her.
"Start at the beginning."
Mom rubbed both hands over her face.
Dad opened his mouth.
Margaret cut him off.
"Robert, you have had several opportunities to explain."
He stared at her.
She continued.
"Let Diane speak."
Mom lowered herself into the armchair.
She looked exhausted.
Older than she'd looked thirty minutes earlier.
"It was raining that morning," she began.
I remembered the weather only because Grandpa used to tell me about it.
He'd said the spring had been unusually wet.
That the roads were slick.
That I spent almost an entire week wearing the same bright yellow rain boots.
"Robert had been meeting with investors," Mom continued.
"He'd barely slept."
Dad scoffed.
"That's not relevant."
"It is."
She looked at him.
"Because you were furious."
She turned toward me.
"Our company was already failing."
"Your development company?"
She nodded.
"We'd borrowed money we couldn't repay."
"We'd promised people things we couldn't deliver."
"Your father thought another large project would save us."
Dad crossed his arms.
"It would've."
Mom ignored him.
"He was driving me to a meeting with our accountant."
"Where were Chloe and I?"
"At daycare."
I felt an old ache in my chest.
For one brief moment, I pictured my five-year-old self sitting beside my little sister.
Two children waiting to be picked up.
Unaware their lives were about to split in completely different directions.
Mom continued.
"We were arguing."
"About what?"
"Money."
She swallowed.
"Your grandfather had refused to help us get another loan."
Dad muttered something.
Mom's voice sharpened.
"Robert was screaming."
She looked down.
"He said my father had ruined us."
A memory flashed through my mind.
Not a clear memory.
A sound.
A man's voice raised inside a car.
Rain striking a window.
I didn't know whether it was real or something my imagination had assembled from the story.
I kept listening.
"Then we turned onto Briar Creek Road."
Her fingers twisted together.
"Daniel Reyes was crossing with his bicycle."
She closed her eyes.
"Robert looked away from the road."
Dad snapped, "That's enough."
Mom continued anyway.
"He looked at me instead of watching the intersection."
Her voice broke.
"And when he looked back, the boy was right there."
I felt sick.
"Did Dad hit the brakes?"
"Yes."
"Too late?"
She nodded.
"I remember the sound."
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
"I remember getting out."
"I remember that little bicycle."
She pressed her hand against her mouth.
"And I remember Robert telling me not to say anything."
Dad stepped forward.
"That is a lie."
Margaret calmly reached for her phone.
"Robert, I suggest you lower your voice."
He glared at her.
Mom looked at me.
"He told me our insurance wouldn't cover what happened if they discovered he'd been driving recklessly."
"That wasn't true," Margaret said.
Mom nodded miserably.
"I know that now."
"But I didn't know it then."
She swallowed.
"He told me we would lose everything."
"The company."
"The house."
"Our savings."
"He told me I'd lose you and Chloe."
I stared at my father.
He shook his head.
"Your mother was just as responsible for what happened afterward."
Mom's face tightened.
"Yes."
That stopped him.
She looked at me.
"I was responsible for lying."
"For signing papers."
"For letting people believe things about you that weren't true."
She cried quietly.
"I was responsible for not protecting you."
I wanted to believe her.
I wanted the explanation to be enough.
But it wasn't.
"Then why didn't you come get me?"
Mom looked down.
Dad remained silent.
"Even after everything was over."
I took a step toward her.
"After the investigation."
"After the settlement."
"After the lawsuits."
"Why didn't you come back?"
Her shoulders shook.
"Because I was ashamed."
I stared.
"That's it?"
She shook her head.
"Not all of it."
I waited.
She looked toward Dad.
"He told me your grandfather had turned you against us."
My mouth fell open.
"What?"
"He said Samuel was telling you terrible things."
I thought about Grandpa.
About the way he'd never let me speak cruelly about my parents.
About the birthdays when he'd told me that adults sometimes made choices they couldn't explain.
About the times he'd reminded me that none of it was my fault.
Grandpa had spent seventeen years trying to keep bitterness from taking root inside me.
And my father had told my mother the opposite.
"Grandpa never did that."
Mom began crying harder.
"I know."
"No."
My voice rose.
"You don't know."
I pointed toward the living room.
"He used to keep a chair by the window on Christmas Eve."
"Every year."
"Because he thought maybe you'd come."
Mom pressed a tissue to her mouth.
"He made sure there were presents under the tree with your names on them."
My voice cracked.
"Not from you."
"From him."
"Because he didn't want me thinking nobody had remembered."
Mom made a small, wounded sound.
I kept going.
"When I turned sixteen, he gave me a necklace and said my mother would've wanted me to have something beautiful."
I swallowed hard.
"Did you know that?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"He never made me hate you."
Tears ran down my face.
"He worked harder than anybody in the world to make sure I didn't."
Dad shifted impatiently.
"This is getting us nowhere."
Something inside me snapped.
"Then leave."
His eyebrows rose.
"Excuse me?"
"Leave."
Mom looked up.
"Clara—"
"I can't do this anymore."
I pointed toward the hallway.
"You came here with a truck."
"You tried to kick me out."
"You called me a burden."
"And now I'm supposed to listen while you explain how difficult your life was?"
Dad's expression hardened.
"We're still your parents."
I looked at him.
"That used to mean something to me."
He stepped closer.
"Careful."
Margaret moved beside me.
"Robert, it's time to go."
Dad looked at her.
"Are you threatening me?"
"No."
She pointed toward the door.
"I'm asking you to leave private property at the owner's request."
He turned toward me.
"You'll regret this."
For a second, I felt like I was five years old again.
Small.
Powerless.
Waiting for an adult to decide where I belonged.
Then I looked around the room.
Grandpa's desk.
Grandpa's books.
The old photograph of Grandma Rose smiling beside a row of tomato plants.
And I remembered the recording.
This house is yours.
I straightened.
"No, Dad."
I looked him directly in the eye.
"I think I've spent enough years regretting things you did."
His jaw tightened.
But he didn't move.
Margaret took out her phone.
"Would you prefer that I contact the sheriff's office?"
Dad stared at her.
Then he grabbed his coat.
Mom rose slowly.
Chloe followed them toward the hallway.
At the front door, Mom turned around.
"Clara, please."
I didn't answer.
She stood there another moment.
Then she left.
Dad slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass.
I stayed in the study until I heard their car pull away.
Then I sank into Grandpa's chair.
For the first time since the funeral, the house was completely quiet.
Margaret sat across from me.
"I'm sorry," she said.
I stared at the carpet.
"Did Grandpa know Dad was driving?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"He strongly suspected it."
"Did he have proof?"
"Not enough to establish it conclusively."
I looked up.
"What does that mean?"
Margaret opened the blue folder again.
"Samuel spent years trying to find out what actually happened."
"Why?"
"Because he believed the lies surrounding the accident were connected to the money taken from your account."
I frowned.
"How?"
She hesitated.
"Your father didn't simply withdraw the settlement funds."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he do?"
"He used records concerning your identity to support a series of financial transactions."
"What kind?"
"Loans."
I stared at her.
"In my name?"
"Some applications included information belonging to you."
I felt my mouth go dry.
Margaret continued.
"And one of those applications may still be causing problems."
My heart pounded.
"What problems?"
She slid another document across the desk.
It was a letter from a collections company.
The date was recent.
Only three months old.
Across the top was my full legal name.
CLARA ELIZABETH BENNETT.
And beneath it was an amount.
$286,417.63.
I stared at the page.
I had never borrowed that money.
I had never heard of the lender.
But according to the document in front of me, somebody believed I owed nearly three hundred thousand dollars.
Margaret watched my face.
"Clara, we need to talk about what your father has been doing with your identity."
I looked toward the front door.
May you like
For seventeen years, he'd stayed away.
And somehow, he'd still found a way to reach into my life.
