“I don’t want the money,” I offered, hoping it would be enough to end the conversation. “Mom knows.”
“And why not?” Aunt Helen asked, propping her elbows up on the table and leaning toward me. “I know that the money your father left the two of you helped Taylor get that beautiful baby in her belly. Why wouldn’t you use it for your own baby?He would want that. He believed in you.” Her voice went softer, but it didn’t help blunt her words.
Taylor had shared every step of her IVF journey with us, from the initial hopes of the first set of shots to the eventual crushing blow. That they’d been able to go for another round thanks to the money my father had left her felt poetic, but it wasn’t something we talked about. Tears filled my eyes as I stared down at my full plate.
“Say something, Chels,” Aunt Helen urged. “Let’s talk through this together.”
I sniffled and cleared my throat a few times until I felt composed. I knew that she’d just keep bulldogging me until I broke, so it was better to get it over with now, so it wouldn’t ruin the rest of her visit.
“That money shouldn’t exist. The only reason it does is because Dad gave up,” I managed, finally looking at Aunt Helen. She was frowning, but I could tell it was over concern for me, not disapproval. “You know that I foundsomany treatment options for him. Like, cutting-edge clinical trial stuff that he qualified for. And the success rates were good too.”
“They were decent, not good.” Taylor corrected me. Her arms were crossed and resting on top of her bump.
“They were better options than whathechose,” I fired back at her.
“Chels, honey,” Aunt Helen said in a soft voice, “your mom forwarded those trials to me and I sent them to my friend who’s an oncology nurse practitioner. They were promising, yes, but they weren’t a fit for your father’s diagnosis.”
“Okay, but there were other treatment protocols. Instead of fighting he just... gave up.” My voice faltered.
“Chelsea,stop,” my mom scolded. “I’ve told you not to say that. It’s not true.”
“Which is exactly why it’s impossible for us to talk about it,” I shouted at her, feeling the usual desperate anger clawing at my insides. “I see the facts and you’re lost in the fiction.”
We all went quiet, thinking about the man we’d lost. In moments like this my dad was always the first one to break the tension, to try to get us to laugh. I could picture him leaning back in his chair, a little smile on his face and his finger in the air, saying, “Check, please.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what that has to do with the money,” Aunt Helen said, glancing around the table at all of us. “You have a problem and the inheritance will solve it, it’s as simple as that.”
“I don’t want the money.”
“Well, I think you’re making a mistake,” Aunt Helen said, putting out there what I’m sure my mom and sister were thinking. “A building like that is an investment. And you’d be a wonderful landlord.”
I barked out a laugh at the thought of collecting rent checks from Andrew and felt three sets of eyes swing my way at the outburst.
“Nothing,” I said at their questioning looks. “I, uh, I need to get Edith outside for a potty break. Keep eating.”
None of them recognized the fact that I was rousing a perfectly content Edith in an effort to stop the conversation. I picked her up and snuggled her against my neck, waiting for her to give me a typical nip on the ear. But even Edith seemed to be able to feel the vibe, offering me a nuzzle of support instead.
chapter twenty-one
It took everything in my power to keep from whooping.
I’d walked into the Mean Girl pen expecting more of the same long-distance glaring I’d been enduring from Darling, Petunia, and Thistle, but here they were, eating animal crackers directly from my hand.
They were tentative at first, taking a treat then backing away to eat it, but once they realized that I was essentially a frozen human treat machine they decided that crowding me was perfectly fine. I was shocked by how gentle their mouths were, and the way they studied me as they took the goodies. At one point Thistle tried to sample my fingerless glove along with the treat. And Petunia bleated, which I took as a good sign.
“Oh mygosh,” Patricia stage-whispered from the fence line. “You did it!”
“And now it’s your turn,” I whispered back. “I’m going to toss a bunch of cookies across the pen to distract them. Come in quietly when they go to eat them.”
I dug into my treat bag and crunched up a handful of crackers, then underhanded the crumbles just beyond where thegoats were standing. They turned to start cleaning up the goodies and Patricia slid into the pen and walked over to me in slow motion. Thistle raised her head to glance at her but went back to eating without a complaint.
“I’m nervous,” Patricia admitted with a soft laugh. “I just want them to like me.”
“What’s not to like?” I laughed, bumping my shoulder against hers. “I’m no goat expert, but what’s true with dogs seems to also be true with goats: don’t push. Let them set the pace. Here, I brought the big guns for you.” I reached into the second compartment in my treat bag and gave her a handful of nickel-sized balls. “I made these; they’re oatmeal, molasses, and pumpkin seeds from my Howl-o-Ween pumpkins.”
Patricia looked at the goodies then up at me with wide eyes. “Youmadethem? Chelsea, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted you to give them something they’ve never had before, to make sure they associate you with extra-special stuff.”
