Chapter 3 - Dishes In The Kitchen
The living room filled up fast after dessert was cleared. Dad turned the football game up louder and my cousin pulled the recliner closer to the TV. I stood and started stacking plates because I needed something to do with my hands. My sister picked up the cranberry bowl and fell in beside me like we had planned it.
In the kitchen the light was brighter and colder than the dining room. The chandelier glow stopped at the doorway. She set the bowl by the sink and turned on the faucet. The water ran too hot and steam rose off the stainless steel.
"You didn't have to do that in front of everybody," she said. She didn't look at me. She scraped turkey skin into the trash with her fingers.
I set the stack down hard enough that the plates clinked. The white mug I had been holding all night was still on the table in there. I could see it from where I stood, right beside my plate.
"You said you listed it," I said. "You said you signed where I would have signed."
She reached for another plate. "Your condo sat for four months, Lauren. Four months. You weren't doing anything with it. I was helping."
That was the first time that night she said my name like she meant it. I pulled the dish towel off the oven handle and held it folded in both hands.
"Helping how?" I asked.
She glanced toward the doorway to make sure Dad couldn't hear. The game announcer shouted over a play and then the room went quiet again.
"I handled the listing for you," she said. "Same brokerage I use. I saved you the commission. You would have paid six percent to a stranger. I cut it down. I took care of the photos, the showings."
I watched her hands moving under the water. Her wineglass was on the counter now, empty, leaving a red ring near the coffeemaker.
"You didn't answer me," I said. "Why didn't you just ask me to sign?"
She turned the faucet off. For a second the kitchen was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming.
"Just trust me," she said.
I stared at her. It wasn't an explanation. It wasn't even an apology. It was the same thing she used to say when we were kids and she borrowed my car and brought it back with the gas light on.
I opened the junk drawer beside the stove where Mom used to keep takeout menus. My sister had left her purse on the counter when she came in to start cooking that afternoon. The tote with her brokerage logo was half open. I had seen the corner of a manila folder sticking out during dinner when she went to get her phone.
"What's that?" I asked, nodding at it.
She followed my eyes. "What?"
"That folder. Is that the listing?"
She hesitated, then pulled it out. A couple pages clipped together, a copy with MY HOME LISTING in bold at the top and a signature on the bottom line that looked like mine but wasn't. The loops were wrong. I knew my own hand.
"I brought it to show you after," she said quickly. "So you'd see it was legit. It's already in the system. We have interest."
I held my hand out. She didn't move at first.
"Let me keep this copy," I said.
"This is my file—"
"Let me keep this copy," I said again.
She handed it to me. The paper was warm from being near the stove. I folded it in half and slid it into the back pocket of my jeans. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. "You're making this bigger than it is. The title office flags everything. It's routine."
I thought about the message still on my phone in the other room, the one I had read out loud. Flag. Signatures. Unauthorized.
"If it's routine," I said, "then you won't mind if I keep this."
May you like
She didn't answer. In the living room someone cheered at the TV. Dad laughed. The smell of turkey grease and dish soap hung between us.
I picked up a wet plate and dried it slowly, edge to edge, because I didn't want to walk back out there yet and pretend. She watched me, then turned the water back on and started washing again like we could finish the night normal.
