Chapter 13: The Bottom Drawer

I took the bus to Orchard Lane after class, because I wanted to ask my father with nobody else in the room.

My mother had a board lunch downtown.

I had checked the Foundation's calendar on the library computer.

The housekeeper let me in without a word and pointed down the hall.

My father was in his study with his reading glasses on and a ledger open on the desk.

He stood up when he saw me.

He is fifty-eight, and he has always stood up when a woman walks into a room, even a daughter he doesn't know how to talk to.

"Talia."

"Is Chloe yours?"

I had planned to say it softer.

It came out the way I had been carrying it.

He took off his glasses and folded them.

"Sit down."

"I'll stand."

"Your mother told me she went to see you this morning."

"She did. She said, 'Chloe is more his than you'll ever know.' She meant you."

His right hand rose and rubbed behind his left ear.

I had watched him do it at dinners all through my first year home, whenever someone asked how I was settling in.

I had watched him do it in the living room the night my mother put the word unwell on paper.

I had never asked myself what it meant.

"Your mother says a great many things when she's upset," he said.

"I didn't ask what Mom says. I asked you."

"Chloe is the daughter of an old friend of mine who died. We took her in. That is all it is."

"Then why does Mom say she's more yours?"

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