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“I promise I’ll be careful.” Is that fondness in her voice, in her smile? Do I want it to be?
She settles in with another stack of folders, and the pleased little noise she makes grabs my attention. “This is a lot more recent. Thank goodness.”
“Yes, there aren’t even any dates on the folders.”
“No offense, but I can almost imagine him laughing to himself over what a mess he knew he was leaving for you. I know he probably wouldn’t do that,” she’s quick to add when I frown. “But it would be kind of funny if he did.”
“That wasn’t his way. It’s more likely he thought he was going to live forever.”
“I can imagine that, too,” she decides, and we exchange a smile before diving back in.
It isn’t another few minutes before she gasps. “Wait a second. You said D.S.?”
My head snaps up, and I nod. “Yes. Why?”
“What if it stood for Doctor something?” she asks, holding up a bill. “Like Dr. Santoro?”
“Let me see that.” I all but rip the page from her hand and scan the print. It’s a bill for a treatment, though the nature of the treatment isn’t specified.
“It would make sense,” she muses as I read. “If he was sick like you-know-who said.”
“Frankie. You don’t have to tiptoe around his name.”
“I wanted to be sure, is all.”
“I appreciate that.” I can’t tear my eyes away from what’s before me. Is this it? Is this what he was hiding?
“Let’s start looking at more recent files,” she suggests. “Pare this down some. If he was this meticulous with his records, he would’ve saved every bill and correspondence.”
“Good thinking.” We get to work identifying files from the past few years, which greatly reduces the number of folders to look through.
“I thought there was like universal healthcare in Europe,” she muses as we pull files.
“To a point. Some services aren’t covered.”
“What if this guy was a specialist of some sort?” Yes, that would explain why Grandfather would be billed for services. I don’t like the implications, but in the end, the result is the same. The man is dead.
Within twenty minutes, we have a stack of folders between us. Now it’s almost like a game, finding the doctor’s letterhead and pulling the pages free once we do. My heart sinks a little each time we find the name, however. I can’t help it.
Was my grandfather dying all that time?
By midmorning, I’m left holding a stack of bills. “He visited the doctor twice a month by the end,” I murmur, staring at the dates once we’ve organized everything chronologically.
“That’s not something someone does when they’re well.” She touches my shoulder, allowing her hand to linger. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You didn’t do anything.” I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. What a shitty thing to say. Yet she doesn’t back down, only tightening her hold on me a bit.
“I know it isn’t easy, but I’m sure he had a good reason for not telling you.”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t care what his reasons were.” My fist clenches and crumples the page I’m holding. “He should’ve told me. Why did he keep it a secret?”
“Was it a secret, though? Really?”
Her gentle question cuts me to the core because she’s right. I heard the man’s coughs. I even noticed once or twice how much thinner he seemed toward the end. Why did I say nothing? Because I knew he would lash out if I did. “If I so much as hinted at him looking poorly or sounding bad, he would’ve had my balls in a vise.”
“I have no doubt about that,” she murmurs. “Men like him don’t want to be seen as weak, even by their own family. Especially not, I think.”
“Why do you think that?”
