Page 18 of The Trust We Broke
My heart jumps. Maybe Adam knows about the drawer, maybe he doesn’t. I stand, as if leaving, hoping he can’t see the drawer and the mess on the floor from where he’s positioned.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Oh, no. I’ll be leaving in a minute or two. Did you need something?”
He looks around the office for a moment, before his eyes settle on old copies of the Harvard Law Review. “Just needed volume seventy-nine.”
I gesture to the shelf. “Help yourself.”
Adam grabs the book. “Thanks. Do you want me to walk you out? It’s dark already.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good. I got a space right outside.”
When he leaves, I let out a whoosh of air and then stuff everything back into the drawer and lock it. Charging the phone fully will have to wait until tomorrow, but I have a feeling I’ve just stumbled on something I shouldn’t, what Mom was concerned about.
I know the old adagecuriosity killed the catexists for a reason, but I can’t help but want to know what my father is involved in. And I take the key with me, just in case anyone else comes looking for it.
The drive home is uneventful, and it’s cold when I hurry from the car to my parents’ home.
“Your father would have appreciated a visit today,” Mom says when I walk in the door and drop my briefcase.
I glance down at my watch. It’s already seven p.m. Dinner is at eight and it’s a ten-minute ride. “Well, I would have appreciated not having to fly all the way out to get up to speed on Dad’s cases, and wrangle a trial handover, and handle questions from my own clients.”
I lack sympathy.
I lack empathy.
I fully admit that when it comes to my father, I have neither.
“We’re trying to keep your father’s condition…quiet.” The words come out on a frustrated whisper for reasons I don’t understand, as no one else is around.
“Mom, I’ve had to let people know that Dad is unavailable due to a minor medical problem. But it won’t take a rocket scientist to realize it must be serious when the work-addicted lawyer doesn’t show up for his clients within the week.”
Mom puts her hand to her chest, which is the closest she gets to expressing any kind of anger. “You’re the only person who can update your father on what is happening at the firm.”
“I told him two days ago what I was going to do. And today, I spent all day doing it. I’ll email him in the morning.” Because I really don’t want to face him. I don’t want to stand in a hospital with air that chokes me between us.
Dad has pending cases. Clients with trial dates in the future.
But as I sat there, listening to one corporate lawyer after the other, I realized that most of my father’s cases are deeply rooted in greed. And it left me feeling like there was a sticky substance all over my skin.
By the end of the day, I felt grimy.
My mother sighs, the breath wheezing through her nose. “Well, don’t forget, we have dinner with Douglas and Helena tonight. Douglas is a very important client to your father, as well as a long-term family friend. Your father doesn’t want them worried. We need to reassure them that nothing is significantly wrong until your father is back on his feet.”
The last part is whispered in hushed tones again.
Officially, I have a month of leave. I told my boss what happened with Henry and that I needed some time to deal with it and move out. Thankfully, I was between major cases becausemy mother was quite insistent that I didn’t tell anyone the truth about my father, including my employer.
“It’s bizarre, this whole cloak and dagger thing, when it’s crystal clear something must be very wrong after I asked for a continuance. You can tell everyone Dad is fine as much as you want, but this is impossible to keep hidden. The story you tell, that Dad is having a minor medical issue treated, does not line up with the optics of him in the hospital and clients moving to other law firms because he can’t help them.”
She puts her palm to her forehead, and her eyes sparkle with tears. “Please, just come.”
I glance at the time on my phone. It’s still forty-five minutes until we have to leave for dinner. “Fine.”
She grabs my wrists. “Thank you. They do an amazing crème brûlée.”
“Great,” I say, letting it pass that she didn’t remember I can’t stand the caramelized sugar.
