Chapter 3: The Call My Daughter Made Before I Kicked Her Out
For several seconds, I couldn't make sense of what the woman had just told me.
My daughter hadn't merely taken the money.
She had contacted the hospital, too.
I gripped the edge of the coffee table so tightly that my knuckles began to ache.
"What exactly did she ask you to change?"" I said.
The surgical coordinator lowered her voice.
"She asked whether she could become the authorized person responsible for handling your mother's payment arrangements. She also asked whether the hospital could direct future billing communications to her.""
"Did she say why?""
"She said you were having difficulty managing the expenses and that she wanted to help.""
I stared at the framed photograph.
The woman in the picture was smiling. My mother had always smiled that way, with her whole face, as though happiness were something she could offer the people around her without ever running out.
I looked back at the paperwork.
"Did you approve the request?""
"No, sir. We couldn't verify her authorization. We left the existing account details unchanged.""
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Thank you.""
"Of course. I also want to make sure you understand that no changes have been made to your mother's scheduled care based on that call. However, we do need to discuss the outstanding payment.""
"Yes," I said.
"I understand.""
After we ended the call, I remained at the table with the phone against my ear.
The screen had gone dark.
I could hear my own breathing.
I thought about the way Nia had looked at me when I confronted her. The trembling hands. The tears. The repeated insistence that she'd done it because she loved Terrence.
She hadn't mentioned the hospital call.
Not once.
Why would she contact the hospital to take over the account if all she'd wanted was to get Terrence out of jail?
I replayed the conversation in my head, searching for something I'd missed.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Nia appeared on the screen.
You didn't have to put me out like that. I hope you're happy.
I read it once.
Then again.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I wanted to tell her that I wasn't happy. That I was sitting in an empty house, trying to figure out how to pay for my mother's surgery. That I'd just learned she'd attempted to alter the hospital account without my permission.
Instead, I typed one question.
Why did you call the hospital this morning?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then her reply came.
What are you talking about?
I stared at the message.
I could almost hear her voice saying it, the defensive edge, the quickness with which she tried to make an uncomfortable question disappear.
I typed back.
They told me you called to change the payment authorization.
This time, the reply took longer.
Finally, three words appeared.
I was helping you.
I set the phone down.
Helping me.
That was what she'd called taking the money, too.
I stood and walked to the kitchen, needing to move. The sink was empty. A dish towel hung over the oven handle. On the refrigerator, a crooked photograph showed Nia at eight years old, missing one front tooth, holding a science fair ribbon above her head.
I'd kept every version of her.
The baby who slept against my chest.
The little girl who asked me to check under her bed for monsters.
The teenager who promised she'd never become one of those people who let money or romance change who they were.
I opened the refrigerator, stared inside without seeing anything, then closed it again.
My phone vibrated.
Nia was calling.
I answered.
"What did you mean when you said you were helping me?""
Her voice came through unevenly.
"Why are you interrogating me?""
"Because the hospital says you asked to take over the payment account.""
"I was trying to make things easier.""
"By changing the account?""
"I didn't change anything!""
"You asked them to.""
"Because you were stressed!""
I rubbed my forehead.
"Nia, listen to yourself. You took money you knew I needed for your grandmother's surgery. Then you contacted the hospital and tried to become the person in charge of the account. Why?""
"Because I thought I could fix it!""
"Fix what?""
She didn't answer.
I walked back into the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa.
"Where are you right now?"" I asked.
"Why?""
"Because I want to know whether you're safe.""
That question seemed to disarm her.
For a moment, all I heard was traffic and the faint sound of a car door shutting.
"I'm at the gas station on the corner," she said.
"Which one?""
"The one near the grocery store.""
"Are you alone?""
"Yes.""
"Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?""
Silence.
Then, quietly, "Not yet.""
My anger loosened its grip for a moment.
"Call one of your friends. Your cousin Danielle might let you stay over.""
"Danielle hates Terrence.""
"Danielle has been telling you the truth about him for two years.""
"See? That's what I'm talking about. Everybody judges him.""
"Nia, I'm not discussing Terrence right now. I'm asking whether you have somewhere safe to stay.""
"I'll figure it out.""
I closed my eyes.
There was the same phrase again.
She'd said it when she dropped out of college for a semester. When she lost her first job. When Terrence wrecked the car she'd helped him buy.
Every time, she expected the consequences to arrive at somebody else's door.
"All right," I said.
"But you need to tell me the truth about that hospital call.""
"I already did.""
"No. You told me you were helping me. That's not an explanation.""
She inhaled sharply.
"Can we please not do this right now?""
"When, Nia?""
"I don't know!""
"Then tell me what you were trying to change.""
Her voice dropped.
"I thought I could put my name on the account.""
"Why?""
"Because—"
She stopped.
I sat forward.
"Because what?""
A long silence followed.
Then she whispered, "Terrence said it would be easier if I handled it.""
I felt a chill travel up my arms.
"Terrence told you to contact your grandmother's hospital?""
"He said you were getting overwhelmed. He said the hospital might listen to me if I explained everything.""
"Explained what?""
"That I could help with the payments.""
"With what money?""
She didn't answer.
I looked at the bank transaction again.
Eight thousand four hundred dollars.
The amount wasn't random. It had been the sum of my savings after months of careful budgeting. I'd never told Terrence the exact balance, but Nia knew it.
She knew because I'd shown her the hospital estimate when she'd asked how much the procedure would cost.
I had trusted her with the information because she was family.
Now I wondered what else she'd shared.
"Nia," I said slowly, "did Terrence know how much money was in my account?""
Her silence was enough to make my stomach turn.
"Did he?""
"Yes.""
"How?""
"I told him.""
I rose from the sofa.
"You told him how much I had saved for your grandmother's surgery?""
"I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't.""
"He's my boyfriend, Dad!""
"And I'm your father!""
The words burst out of me before I could stop them.
My voice echoed through the living room.
I lowered it immediately.
"Listen to me. I don't care how much you love him. I don't care how many promises he makes. You do not give somebody else access to information about your family's finances without thinking about what they might do with it.""
"He wouldn't hurt us.""
"Then why is he asking you to take over an account that isn't yours?""
She began to cry.
"I don't know.""
For the first time since the argument began, she sounded genuinely frightened.
I leaned against the mantel, staring at the photograph.
"Did he ask you to use the money to get him out of jail?""
"He said he needed help.""
"That's not what I asked.""
"He said if I loved him, I wouldn't let him sit there.""
I swallowed.
"And the hospital?""
"He said if Grandma's account was under my name, we could work things out without you getting involved.""
I felt the room tilt around me.
Without me getting involved.
My mother's son. The man who'd been making her appointments, driving her to consultations, answering calls from doctors, and working overtime to cover her bills.
Terrence wanted me out of the way.
Why?
I forced myself to speak calmly.
"Did he tell you to transfer the money to him?""
"No.""
"Did he ask you to?""
She hesitated.
Then she said, "He told me to send it to someone who could help with the bail.""
"Who?""
"I don't know his full name.""
I stared at the phone.
"Nia, you transferred eight thousand four hundred dollars to someone whose full name you don't know?""
"I was trying to get Terrence home!""
"Did you see the bail paperwork?""
"No.""
"Did you speak to his lawyer?""
"No.""
"Did you confirm the amount with the jail?""
"No!""
Her voice cracked on the last word.
I shut my eyes.
For a moment, I couldn't tell whether I was angrier at Terrence for manipulating her or at my daughter for giving him every opportunity to do it.
Perhaps both.
"Send me the transaction details," I said.
"What?""
"The account you transferred the money to. The name, the account information, the confirmation number. Everything.""
"Why?""
"Because I want to know where my money went.""
She began breathing quickly.
"Dad, please don't do anything.""
I straightened.
"What does that mean?""
"Just don't call the police.""
The words landed with a weight I couldn't ignore.
I gripped the mantel.
"Why would I call the police?""
"I didn't mean—"
"Why would you think I'd need to call the police?""
She started crying harder.
"I don't know! I'm scared, okay?""
I looked toward the hospital paperwork.
Then toward the front door, the same door I'd opened and watched her walk through less than an hour earlier.
I had thought the hardest part of that afternoon was telling my daughter to leave.
I had been wrong.
"Nia," I said, "what aren't you telling me?""
She didn't answer.
I waited.
Finally, she whispered, "Terrence said it was the only way to keep everything from falling apart.""
"Keep what from falling apart?""
Her breathing became ragged.
Then I heard a man's voice in the background.
It was faint, but unmistakable.
"Nia, hang up. Don't tell him anything.""
My blood went cold.
I knew that voice.
Terrence.
I heard a car door slam, followed by hurried footsteps.
Nia whispered something I couldn't make out.
Then Terrence spoke again, louder this time.
"Give me the phone.""
"Nia?"" I said sharply.
"Are you with him?""
"No, Dad, I—"
The call ended.
I stood frozen in the living room, staring at the screen.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then I called her back.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Voicemail.
I sent a message telling her to answer immediately.
Nothing.
I paced to the front window and looked toward the street, though I knew she wasn't there. My heart pounded against my ribs.
Then another notification appeared on my phone.
It was a bank alert.
Someone had attempted to access my online banking account from a new device.
The transaction had been blocked because the login required additional verification.
I stared at the screen.
The attempted access had occurred less than a minute after my call with Nia ended.
And underneath the alert was a second message from my bank.
*A password reset had been requested.*
I slowly raised my eyes toward the framed photograph of my mother.
Then I looked back at the screen.
May you like
Someone wasn't finished with my money.
And whoever it was had just discovered that I was no longer willing to look the other way.