Life after Goodbye novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Sorry, Chelsea

At Ansel's table Calla says the tea tasted wrong and Ansel and Kendrick make her apologize; she records it, and her father announces the lake house goes to the first grandchild; Chelsea says Kendrick and Calla should hurry.

On Sunday we ate at my father's house, at the table where my mother used to sit.

I had my phone in my cardigan pocket with the voice recorder running.

Dr. Hagan had not told me to do it.

I had done it because the woman on the phone had said, "Tell no one," and a recording is not a person.

My father sat at the head, Ansel on his right, and Chelsea beside Ansel.

Kendrick sat next to me and kept one hand on the back of my chair.

Chelsea passed the potatoes.

"You look better today, Calla," she said. "Did the tea help on Friday?"

Everybody looked at me.

I set down my fork.

"It tasted wrong," I said. "It was bitter and chalky."

Chelsea's face crumpled.

It happened so fast I almost missed it.

Her eyes filled, and she pressed her napkin to her mouth.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I only wanted to help. I didn't know what I'd done."

"Cal," Kendrick said, low.

"She made it from scratch, Calla," Ansel said. His voice was the one he used on vendors. "She stood at my stove for twenty minutes."

"I'm not saying she did it on purpose," I said.

"Then what are you saying?" Ansel asked.

I looked at my father.

He was frowning at his plate and not at anyone.

He never said anything when we argued.

He hadn't said anything since my mother died.

"I'm saying the tea tasted wrong," I said. "That's all."

"She has no one, Cal," Kendrick said. He leaned toward me so quietly that only I could hear. "She's been alone her whole life. Just say sorry."

"For what?"

"For hurting her feelings," Ansel said.

All three of them were looking at me now.

Chelsea was crying into her napkin, and my father was cutting his meat.

I thought of the tiny light on the screen in Dr. Hagan's office.

I thought of a hoarse voice saying, Tell no one.

"I'm sorry, Chelsea," I said.

I said it flat, in one sentence, with my eyes on her face.

"Thank you," she said, and wiped her cheek. "That's all I wanted."

Kendrick squeezed my shoulder.

Ansel nodded, satisfied.

I picked up my fork and ate a potato I couldn't taste.

My phone recorded all of it.

For a while we talked about the warehouse in Waukesha and a shipment of lumber that had come in late.

Chelsea laughed in the right places, and she asked my father about his knee.

He smiled at her.

He had not smiled at me like that in a year.

Kendrick leaned over while she cleared the plates.

"See?" he murmured. "That wasn't so hard. I'm proud of you."

I said nothing, because my hand was already on my phone, making sure it was still recording.

"Dad," Ansel said, when the plates were cleared. "You wanted to say something about the will."

My father set down his wine.

"I did." He cleared his throat. "I'm sixty-nine. At seventy a man should put his house in order."

"Dad, you're fine," Chelsea said, and touched his sleeve.

"I'm fine. I'm also not going to live forever." He looked around the table. "The lake house and the block of Dorsey Supply that came from your mother's side will go to the first grandchild."

Nobody spoke.

"Not to any of you," he said. "To the child. Held in trust until they're twenty-five."

I felt Kendrick's hand go still on my chair.

I did not look at him.

I kept my face very calm, and under the table I laid my hand flat on my stomach.

"That's generous, Dad," Ansel said.

"It's what your mother would have wanted. She loved babies."

My father's eyes had gone wet, and he looked down at the tablecloth.

I looked across at Chelsea.

She had stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth.

It was the smallest thing, a half-second where her whole face went blank.

Then it was gone.

She smiled, and set her fork down gently, and turned to Kendrick and me.

"Then you two should hurry," she said brightly.

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