My Fake Sister Cried on Cue, So I Billed Her for the Tissues novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Twelve Seats
At her first Prescott dinner Lydia offers to move out, so Emme quizzes her on rent, counts the chairs and sits at the far end. A notice on her father's door ends the night.
Lydia offered to move out between the soup and the roast, so I asked her what a one-bedroom costs around here.
It was my first dinner in the house I was born to, and I had been inside it for forty minutes.
Lydia was twenty-four, same as me, and she had slept in this house every night of it.
She set down her spoon and pressed a hand to her chest.
"Mom, Emme is your real daughter," she said. "I don't want her to feel crowded. I can pack tonight."
Her eyes were already wet.
Her diamond earrings caught the chandelier and threw little lights across the tablecloth.
"Lydia, don't say that," the woman in pearls said. "This is your home."
"Nobody is asking you to leave," said the man at the head of the table, to his plate.
"But Emme waited so long," Lydia whispered. "Would she be happier if I wasn't here?"
Everyone turned to look at me.
A notice came up in my head, as they had since the DNA letter arrived.
[Emotional pressure detected. Expected response: guilt, then a speech begging Lydia to stay. If Host agrees, Host is soft. If Host agrees too fast, Host is smug.]
"Do you have somewhere to go?" I asked.
Lydia blinked. "I'd find something."
"A one-bedroom around here runs eleven hundred a month. Do you have a job?"
"I volunteer," she said.
"Do you have first month, last month and a deposit? Most landlords here want two pay stubs."
Lydia opened her mouth, and nothing came out of it.
"I'd hate for you to leave before you're ready and end up somewhere with a bad radiator," I said. "Do you cook? A lot of those kitchens are one burner."
The notice came back.
[Pressure defeated. Reward: $17,000.]
I checked my banking app under the tablecloth.
This morning my account had held $212.40.
Now it held $17,212.40, and Lydia's mouth was still open.
At the sideboard, a man in a dark jacket was holding a water pitcher.
His face did something and then stopped doing it. He came around and refilled my glass without a word.
"Emme, sweetheart," said the woman in pearls, whose name was Constance. "Take the chair beside your father. Lydia can slide down."
My real father was Godfrey, the man at the head of the table. I still had to remind myself.
Lydia lowered her lashes.
The second notice came before Constance had finished the sentence.
[Emotional pressure detected, public setting. Expected response: embarrassment, then a refusal that makes Lydia the injured party. Host's Actual Emotion: counting.]
I was counting.
"There are twelve chairs at this table," I said.
Godfrey looked up.
"There are four of us eating. That's eight empty. Nobody has to give up a seat, and nobody has to be moved down."
I walked to the far end, as far from the head of the table as you can get, and pulled out the chair nearest the bread basket and the door.
"This one works for me," I said.
I sat down, and the cook put the bread basket in front of me. I took a roll.
[Pressure defeated. Reward: $6,200. Host's Actual Emotion: Lydia's left earring alone is about four months of Dad's rent.]
Constance laughed, light and easy, and said I was a breath of fresh air.
When the plates were cleared the cook set a cup down in front of me.
It was coffee, black, with two ice cubes floating in it.
I hadn't said anything about coffee all night. It was a lucky guess, and I drank it.
"Emme." Constance leaned in and covered my hand with hers. "I know how this looks. We only found out two weeks ago. If we'd known one day sooner, you would have been here one day sooner."
"Okay," I said.
"Stay the week. Let us get to know you."
I thought about the duplex on Alder Street and Frank's back, and the envelope he kept on the fridge for the collections company.
Frank was the plumber who had raised me, and I still called him Dad.
Two nights ago I had not been able to pay for gas.
I looked down the long table at eight empty chairs.
So I told her I would stay for one week, and I'd buy my own groceries.
"Wonderful," Constance said, and she looked as if she meant it.
The man from the sideboard walked me to the door. His name was Mason, and he ran the house.
"Your room is at the top of the stairs," he said. "Dinner is at seven."
"What does the room cost?"
"Nothing."
"Then I'll be here Sunday," I said. "I'm going to tell my father tonight."
I drove home across town with the green tote on the seat beside me.
Alder Street was dark except for the porch light.
There was a sheet of paper taped to our door, with the staple still in it.
I read it under the bulb.
NOTICE OF SALE. The property at this address has been purchased. New owner: Prescott Holdings, LLC.
Behind the door, I could hear Dad's TV. He had stopped watching it. It was just on.
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