Chapter 2 - The Forty-Eighth Call
Ray drove Leah home through a hot, gray afternoon. Neither spoke for the first mile. She held Ivy's repaired rabbit in her lap and watched ordinary life passing outside: a boy bouncing a basketball, a woman hauling groceries up apartment steps, a father lifting a sleepy child from a car seat. She had to turn away from the last one.
"You can stay with me," Ray said.
"I can't leave her room."
"Then I'll stay with you."
"You have the shop."
"The shop can live without me for one night."
Ray had offered help throughout Ivy's illness, but Leah had insisted on doing too much herself. She was learning that being the dependable one could turn into a trap. She had believed Grant's absences were business emergencies because he had trained her to feel unreasonable for questioning them.
At the house, Ivy's purple rain boots stood beside the door. One leaned against the other like a tired friend. Leah sat on the floor and cried until Ray brought a glass of water and sat nearby without touching her.
"I kept thinking he'd call," she said.
"I know."
"She asked for him Thursday night. I said Daddy was trying to get home."
Ray looked down at his hands. "You told her what you hoped was true."
"It wasn't."
"That's on him. Not on you."
Leah carried the purple boots into Ivy's bedroom and put them under the little desk, just where Ivy had insisted they belonged. A paper chain made from old magazine pages drooped above the bed. On the wall, someone had marked Ivy's height every birthday, with crooked dates and a drawing of a duck at the top. Leah put a finger on the newest mark. Only six weeks ago, Ivy had stood on tiptoe and accused her mother of cheating with the ruler.
"She was going to be tall," Leah said when Ray appeared in the doorway.
"She thought she already was."
"She told the doctor you were short."
"That was a personal attack."
Leah laughed, then doubled over with grief so abruptly that Ray set down the glass he was holding. He did not rush her out of the room. They stayed until she could stand again.
A knock sounded. Grant's mother, Audrey, stood on the porch wearing a navy dress and carrying a casserole wrapped in a towel. She had stayed at the hospital with Leah for eighteen hours, then gone home to rest before Ivy died. Her eyes were swollen.
"May I come in?" she asked.
Ray waited for Leah to answer.
"Yes."
Audrey set the dish on the counter. She saw the gala brochure on the table and went rigid. "Where did you get that?"
"The funeral director."
"Grant told me he was arranging a memorial donation. I thought it was after—" Her voice cracked. "I didn't know he was printing invitations while she was alive."
Leah watched her closely. Audrey had sent messages telling Leah to be patient with her son. She had called his trip an important client obligation. But she had also brought soft socks for Ivy, taken night shifts beside the bed, and washed every blanket without being asked.
"You told me not to bother him," Leah said.
Audrey accepted the blow. "I did. I was wrong."
"Did you know about Celeste?"
Audrey looked toward the window. "I suspected."
"You said nothing."
"I was afraid if I accused him, he'd stop letting me see Ivy. That's not an excuse. It's what I was afraid of."
Leah had no forgiveness to offer. "You can leave the casserole. You can stay if you want to remember your granddaughter. But don't ask me to protect him."
"I won't."
They ate three spoonfuls each. Audrey told a story about Ivy insisting the public library should lend people umbrellas because books shouldn't get wet. Leah smiled once, then covered her face.
After Audrey left, Ray checked the locks. Grant had texted twenty-six times since the chapel, each message more interested in controlling the scene than asking about Ivy. He wanted the funeral photographs, Ivy's medical records, the rabbit, and the key to Leah's desk. He claimed he needed them for the gala.
"He doesn't get her things," Leah said.
"You want me to tell him?"
"No. I'll tell him in writing."
She contacted a family attorney recommended by Maribel's social-work colleague. The attorney, Hannah Price, explained that Leah could set boundaries, preserve communications, and request financial information through proper channels. She did not promise a quick solution. Leah appreciated that.
The next morning, Leah returned to the hospital to collect Ivy's drawings. The children's wing had a mural of a bright yellow porch light. Ivy had helped paint one corner before her last admission.
Maribel met her with a paper bag. Inside were a blue hair clip, two library books, and a folded sheet labeled THINGS I WANT TO DO WHEN I FEEL BETTER. In shaky letters Ivy had listed: eat pancakes, see the ducks, ride the bus with Mama, show Daddy the light.
Leah pressed the page against her chest.
"There's one more call you should know about," Maribel said.
"What call?"
"Someone from your charity called the family desk Thursday evening. They were trying to book travel for another patient's mother. The transportation account had been suspended. They asked whether you'd approved it."
"Why would I approve that?"
"They said the approval came from your email."
Leah had not opened her charity email in four days. Her daughter had been dying. Grant had been in charge of payments while Leah stayed in the hospital.
"Was the woman helped?" Leah asked.
"The staff found an emergency voucher. She made it here. But the account was frozen again yesterday."
At home, Leah opened her laptop. The Porchlight dashboard showed thirteen pending ride requests and an alert about insufficient funds. She had helped raise that money through school bake sales, diners that donated a day's tips, and elderly neighbors who mailed five-dollar bills with handwritten notes.
A message from the charity's part-time bookkeeper sat unread in her inbox. It had been sent the day Ivy was admitted.
LEAH, PLEASE CALL ME. THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE RIDES ACCOUNT. GRANT SAYS YOU AUTHORIZED IT, BUT I DON'T BELIEVE HIM.
The sender, May Bennett, had been dismissed from her position the next morning for alleged misconduct.
May you like
Leah read the message twice. She had spent the worst week of her life waiting for a husband who would not answer. Someone else had been waiting for her answer, too.
"Ray," she said, "I need to find May."
