Chapter 9: Lydia's Price

"Get out," Clark said again.

Lydia did not move.

She stood in the door of my father's office with the ring of keys in both hands.

Her knuckles were white.

"You signed for his letter," I said.

"Yes."

"You carried my mail to your mother for five years."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She looked at the floor.

"Because she told me to," she said. "She told me when I was twenty-four."

She wiped her nose with her wrist.

"She said it was for your own good. She said you'd grieve less if nobody stirred it up."

"And you believed her."

"I wanted to." Her mouth trembled. "Katie, I'm twenty-nine years old, and I get nine dollars and ten cents."

I said nothing.

"Every month. Gold card, first Sunday, in front of everybody."

She laughed, once.

"I don't have a bank account. I don't have a car in my name. Mom decides if I can buy shoes."

"I thought you were the one who didn't mind," I said.

"I mind," Lydia said. "I mind every single day."

Clark folded his arms.

"Convenient time to find out," he said. "The night we open the desk."

"I didn't decide tonight. I decided Sunday, when you walked out of dinner."

She looked at me, and her eyes filled.

"You stood up. You put the card back. Nobody has ever done that."

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