Chapter 3: What She Left in the Bag
Kelly's car backed out of the driveway and my father locked the front door. He didn't say anything about it, just turned the black deadbolt. Then he came back to the kitchen and took the wet towel from me and got me a dry one with fresh ice.
"Do you want to call your Aunt Diane?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Not yet."
He nodded like he understood but I could tell he wanted to call someone. He sat across from me at the island and we didn't talk for a while. The house was too quiet without the usual sounds of someone moving upstairs. The light through the skylight had shifted a little toward the west.
"Your cheek," he said finally. "Let me see."
I lowered the towel. He leaned forward and looked without touching. "It's not cut," he said. "Just red. Does it hurt?"
"A little," I said.
He sat back. "Maya, has this happened before? Not like this, but has Kelly put her hands on you before?"
I thought about it honestly. She'd grabbed my wrist once when I tried to take a photo off the mantel. She'd blocked doorways. She'd never shoved me across a room. "Not like today," I said.
He rubbed his eyes with both hands. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry I wasn't here."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I adjusted the strap of the handbag that was still on my lap. It was my mother's bag, beige with the two top handles, the one she'd carried to parent-teacher conferences and the grocery store. When she got sick she stopped using it and it sat in her closet and after she died I asked if I could have it. My father had said yes without hesitation. Kelly had never liked that I carried it. She said it was old.
I unbuckled the little gold clasp now just to do something with my hands. Inside was my library book, my phone, lip balm, and a folded envelope I hadn't noticed before. It wasn't mine. The paper was heavier, cream colored, with my mother's handwriting on the front: For Maya - house papers. My stomach dropped.
"What is that?" my father asked.
I pulled it out. Inside were two sheets, a copy of what looked like a deed and a short letter in the same handwriting. Dear Maya, if you are reading this it means your dad and I talked about making sure you always have a place here. This house was my parents' and then ours. No matter what happens, you belong here. Same words Kelly had thrown at me.
My father took the deed copy carefully, his suit sleeve brushing the island. He read it, his brow furrowing. "This is the original deed," he whispered. "Your mother's name is still on it. She added you as... I didn't know she kept a copy in there."
"Why would she put it in the bag?" I asked. My voice sounded small again.
May you like
He looked at me, and his stern expression from the stairs was gone. He looked tired and a little scared. "Because she knew you always had it with you," he said. He folded the letter back up precisely along its creases. "We need to know what this means. I'm going to call the county clerk in the morning. Tonight, you will sleep in your room and I will be right down the hall. And tomorrow we will go together and find out exactly where we stand."
I held the bag tighter to my chest. The ice had melted enough that water spotted the light blue of my sweater. Outside, the street was empty, and the house felt both familiar and strange, like a place I had to prove I still lived in. My father reached across the island and put his hand over mine for a second, warm and steady, before he stood to make us something to eat.
