I just saw her.
There was only a little white gift box on the carpet. A cream-colored card was nailed under the tape.
I took the card and read it twice.
“The time has come for you to find out that your daughter is hiding something terrible from you.”
The first thing I thought was that some student at his school was playing a joke.
High school dramas, jealousy, that sort of thing. I almost threw it in the trash right there.
I took the card and read it twice.
But my hands wouldn't allow me.
I loaded the box down the hallway, going through the sound of Lily's laughter, and I closed my bedroom door behind me.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it for a whole minute.
“What nonsense,” I muttered, without believing that the note could be serious. “You are a man made and entitled, Paul. Open that box.”
So I did.
“That’s nonsense.”
Inside was a bunch of papers, a picture and a folded note.
The topsheet was a legal document, partially torn on one edge. I could see Lily's signature at the end, with her healing and careful lyrics.
Below was a bank statement. His name. An account I've never seen before. Deposits every two weeks, for almost two years, small at first, then larger.
The balance made me want to vomit.
I could see Lily's signature.
Where did that money come from?
The picture was worse. It was Lily sitting in front of a table, in front of an older man in a gray suit. A briefcase was open between them. She leaned forward, serious, listening to what he said. It seemed that the photo was made through a window.
The note was handwritten.
“She is preparing to officially end the relationship soon. You should know by now.”
My head started to turn.
The picture was worse.
“That could be someone playing a joke on us,” I said out loud.
The photo could have been mounted. In the emergency room, he had seen enough recreation to recognize a frame when he was so carefully riding on a bed. I forced myself to breathe. Whoever did it wanted a reaction, and the smart thing would have been to stop.
Then, against my will, my mind swerved into the briefcase that had been on the kitchen table for the last month. The one my daughter hid as soon as I walked in. The suspersed calls. The extra shifts in the cafeteria, he said, were just to “spend money.”
