Chapter 8 - The Crack Held Her Fingerprint
I didn't touch it at first. I just stood there looking down at it.
The black phone lay face-up on the marble where she'd dropped it that morning. The crack ran from the top corner clean across, then split into smaller lines like ice. The light beige case sat beside it, empty and useless. My mug was still on the left side of the island, cold now. I could hear the refrigerator humming and the shutters ticking a little in the heat.
My daughter leaned against the opposite side of the island with her arms crossed. My son stood a few feet back, his dark blue phone in his hand.
"I want a record," I said.
He looked up. "Of what?"
"Of what it looks like right now. Before anybody moves it again."
I held out my hand. It took him a second, but he placed his phone in my palm. It was heavier than I expected, warm from his pocket. I didn't like asking to use somebody else's phone. My hands weren't as steady as they used to be.
"Just open the camera," he said quietly. He stepped closer and tapped the screen for me. "There."
I bent over the island. The marble was cool under my other hand. I held his phone over the shattered one and waited for the picture to clear. I took one straight down, then one from the left so the case showed beside it, then one closer on the spidered corner where the glass had lifted a little.
"Why are you doing that?" my daughter said.
"Because this cost money," I said. I handed the phone back to my son. "Send those to yourself so we have the date on them. Please."
He nodded and did it without arguing.
She uncrossed her arms. "It was an accident, Mom. I already told you. It slipped when we were arguing. You're making it into something bigger."
I looked at the phone, then at her hand resting near it. Her palm had been open that morning, demanding. Now her fingers kept touching the edge of the counter.
"It didn't slip," I said.
She let out a breath. "You weren't even looking."
"I was looking," I said. "You picked it up off the counter and you slammed it down. I heard it."
For a moment nobody said anything. The daylight through the shutters made thin lines across the marble and across her brown blouse.
"It wasn't like I planned it," she said. Her voice got thinner. "You kept saying no. About the ten thousand. About the Wi-Fi. You just kept saying no with that face. I got mad and I smashed it. Okay? I smashed it because I was angry."
My son shifted behind her. I felt my chest tighten, but I kept my hand flat on the island.
"Thank you for saying it straight," I said.
She stared at me. "So what now? Are you going to hold that over me too?"
"No," I said. "I'm going to have it fixed. And you're going to pay for it."
She laughed once, short. "With what?"
"With a payment plan. To me. A little each week until the repair shop cost is covered. I'll get the estimate and show you the receipt."
"I need the new Wi-Fi password so I can work," she said. "That's more important than a cracked screen."
"The Wi-Fi isn't the payment," I said. "You don't get a new password because you broke the old phone. You get a repaired phone when you take responsibility for breaking it."
My son cleared his throat. "Mom, the screen still lights up. Maybe we could just—"
"No," I said, maybe too quick. I softened it. "Not yet. It stays like this until we agree on how it's made right. I don't want it thrown in a drawer and forgotten."
I picked up the beige case and set it squarely next to the black phone, the way they'd been that morning. The pair of them looked wrong together now, one whole and one ruined.
My daughter looked down at them. "So you're just going to leave it there cracked."
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"I'm going to leave it unrepaired until you start paying," I said. "That's different."
She didn't answer. She pressed her mouth together and looked away toward the shutters. My son put his phone back in his pocket. The photos were taken. Her words were out. The crack was still there, catching the light every time I moved.
