"Okay, we'll figure it out," I say, more to myself than to him. "There's still work around the county. Jazz says she heard the Hendersons want their boathouse redone. There's also the new marina in Naugatown, maybe they're still accepting bids on that one. And there's the boardwalk down in Bellingham that needs some serious work done. Maybe if you go over there and..."
"Maddie, stop."
He finally moves that damned hand from his desk, but it's to stop me from rambling. My mouth closes with a dry clicking sound as my teeth clack together.
He brings his gaze down and looks at the stack of envelopes again as he brings his hand down and sets it on either side of the stack.
That's when I see the open drawer. It's open about an inch, but my heart races as I see the top corner of a white envelope stick out. That drawer is filled with them.
I stand up slowly like in a dream and I walk around the desk, reach past him, and pull the drawer open.
He doesn't stop me. He holds still and lets me pull the rug right from underneath him.
It's stuffed. It's stuffed the way drawers get stuffed when a person has been stuffing things into them instead of dealing with them. Envelopes. White and manila, with a few pale pink in the mix.
I say nothing. I take a handful out of the drawer. I put them on the desk, on top of the other stack, which I now understand is the same stack. I flick through them, then put them all down in a careless shuffle.
"How far behind are you on the mortgage?"
"Maddie." He shakes his head and refuses to meet my gaze. "Don't worry yourself. I'll figure things out."
I pick three envelopes from the pile and lift them, one after the other. They're all from Seacoast Mortgage.
"How. Far. Behind. Are. You."
Dad suddenly doesn't look so big and strong anymore. Suddenly, he looks old and tired. This, more than anything else, terrifies me.
"Four months on the mortgage," he says. "The hospital is... the hospital is its own thing. Fifty-three thousand on its own. I've been moving it around, Maddie. I've been dealing with it. The piers project was going to clear it all and then some. We were going to be ahead by Christmas." He stops. "I had things figured out."
"Yeah."
I put the envelope back down and rearrange his neat little pile. I don't even know why I bother lining it all up. It's all such a mess.
Everything has been a mess these past three years. Ever since Mom's cancer.
There's a moment where I'm very aware of the sound of the house. The kitchen, far off. Mom humming while she cooks, which she's always done, which I've been hearing my entire life. I'm hearing it now through the office door like it belongs to a different house than the one I'm standing in.
"Don't tell your mom," he says quietly, like he can't believe he's saying this. "Not yet. Not until I've figured something. She went through enough already."
My ears buzz at his words and somehow, the only sound that pierces through the buzzing is my mom's voice, humming from the kitchen. I want to protest, I want to tell Dad that it's not fair, that lying to Mom is wrong.
Then I remember that wince of pain as she lifted her arm and the way that cardigan hangs around her frame like it's meant for someone twice her size.
"Okay. I won't tell her. But we can't keep this from her for long. If we don't figure things out quickly, then she needs to know."
He nods and then he keeps nodding.
"Okay, kiddo."
I get up and walk to the door. I turn with my hand still on the knob, and Dad is looking at the stack of envelopes again with his hands flat and his mouth set. I walk out and close the door behind me, but I don't walk away.
Through the closed door, a sound reaches me.
It's a hollow, muffled sound. It's the sound a person makes when they're trying not to make a sound.
Dad is crying.
I don't move. I don't think I would, even if I could.
