Chapter 8: The Parking Lot After Drop-Off
The church parking lot was half empty at 8:15. I got there early on purpose and parked two spaces down from the side entrance where the elementary school buses unloaded. The asphalt was still cool from the night before, and the white lines were faded enough that I had to guess where my own space was.
I stayed in my car with the engine off and watched the last of the parents walk their kids toward the sidewalk. I didn't want Dora to feel cornered, so I texted her from the lot.
I'm here. No rush.
She answered a minute later. Walking over now. He left for work.
That was the whole reason we'd picked this place. The school was neutral ground, and the church lot meant no one from Daniel's side of town would think twice if they saw us.
I saw her coming around the corner by the chain-link fence. Brown hair pulled back the way it had been at the table that night, gray zip-up over a t-shirt, hands pushed into her pockets. She walked fast, like she was trying to get it over with, then slowed when she saw me.
I got out and met her on the sidewalk where the church lot met the school's drop-off lane. The crossing guard was gone already. A few kids' voices carried from the playground behind the building.
"Thanks for meeting me," she said. She didn't make eye contact right away.
"Of course," I said. "You didn't have to."
We stood there a second too long without moving. I could see her breathing.
"I keep thinking about the cake," she said finally. It came out flat, like she'd rehearsed it and then decided not to rehearse it. "I didn't say anything. At the table. I just sat there."
I nodded. "You said he was joking."
"I know." She swallowed. "I said that because I didn't know what else to say. Danny gets like that and if I—" She stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the school. "If I say something, it gets worse after. Especially in front of —" She didn't finish. She meant the child.
"I know you were scared," I said.
Her eyes came up to mine then, quick. "Were you?"
"Yes," I said. I didn't dress it up.
That seemed to let some air out of her. She leaned against the low brick wall that bordered the church lot. I leaned with her, both of us facing the empty street.
"He does it with money too," she said after a minute. Her voice was lower. "I didn't want to say that on the phone. He handles everything. The checking account, the mortgage. I get a grocery card and he checks the receipts."
I kept my hands still on the wall. "How long?"
"Since after the baby was born. He said it was easier if one of us was in charge. At first it was. Then I asked about refinancing and he said not to worry about it. Then he said your house was part of our plan." She rubbed her thumb against her palm. "I told him I didn't want you involved. He said you owed it to us."
The sun was starting to hit the top of the church steeple. I could hear a lawn mower somewhere two blocks over.
"He told me not to talk to you," she said. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. "After you left. After the attorney letter came."
She held it out. I didn't take it from her, I just looked where she was pointing.
The text thread was between her and Daniel. His bubble, yesterday afternoon:
Do not text my mom about the estate. I mean it. Let me handle it. She'll try to turn you against me.
Below it, her unsent draft was still in the box: She asked to see — deleted.
She locked the phone and put it away like she didn't want to look at it either.
"I didn't listen," she said. "Obviously."
"You did the right thing telling me," I said.
"Did I?" She gave a short, nervous laugh. "I feel like I'm choosing sides."
"You aren't," I said. "This isn't sides. This is—" I paused. "I never want you to feel like you have to report to me about him. I'm not asking you to do that. I won't ask you to spy or carry messages."
She looked relieved, and then immediately guilty for looking relieved.
"I want to see you and the little one," I said. "That's separate. That has nothing to do with papers or houses or what Daniel says I owe. If you want to come to my apartment, you can. If you don't, I understand. No one has to know until you're ready. I mean that."
She stared at the sidewalk cracks for a long time. A school bell rang inside the building, muffled.
"He picks her up at three," she said. "If I bring her by after, he wouldn't know unless she tells him. She wouldn't. She likes your place."
"She likes the crackers," I said.
That made her actually smile. "She talks about your crackers."
"I have plenty," I said. "Tomorrow? After school? Just for an hour. You can text me when you're close and I'll meet you at the side door so you don't have to find parking."
Dora pushed off the wall. She adjusted her zip-up, pulled it tighter even though it wasn't cold.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Around three thirty. Don't tell him yet. Please."
May you like
"I won't," I said. "It's between us."
We didn't hug. We just stood there a second longer. Then she turned and started back toward the school sidewalk, and I watched her go until she was past the fence. I stayed by the wall until her figure was gone, my keys cold in my hand.
