Chapter 4 - HER MOTHER HAD BEEN EATING AFTER MIDNIGHT.
At 2:13 in the morning, Jessi woke to the sound of a cabinet opening.
She lay still for a second, disoriented by the hotel room.
Then she heard paper rustling.
Jessi got out of bed.
The kitchenette light was on.
Her mother stood barefoot in front of the counter with one of the sandwiches from dinner wrapped in a napkin.
She froze when Jessi appeared.
"I'm sorry."
Jessi rubbed sleep from her eyes.
"For what?"
"I'll put it back."
"Why?"
"I shouldn't have taken it."
"It's your sandwich."
Her mother looked at the food as if the sentence required explanation.
Jessi pulled out a chair.
"Sit."
Her mother didn't.
"Mom."
"You're tired."
"So are you."
"I can eat later."
"It's two in the morning."
Her mother said nothing.
Jessi's stomach tightened.
"Is this when you've been eating?"
No answer.
"At night?"
Her mother folded the napkin smaller around the sandwich.
"When everybody was done."
"Everybody who?"
"Luca. Wendy. Guests sometimes."
"You waited until they went to bed?"
"It was easier."
"Why?"
A long pause.
"Because then nobody counted."
Jessi sat down slowly.
"Counted what?"
"Bread. Fruit. Things like that."
The room seemed to shrink.
Jessi wanted facts.
She needed facts.
Her anger kept trying to race ahead of them.
"Who counted?"
Her mother looked toward the dark bedroom as if Luca might somehow be standing there.
"Wendy liked the kitchen organized."
"Did Wendy stop you from eating?"
"She said I forgot when I'd eaten."
"Did you?"
"Sometimes."
That answer hurt because it was honest.
Her mother continued.
"I'd forget breakfast sometimes. Or I'd make tea and leave it somewhere."
"Okay."
"But I didn't forget every meal."
Jessi nodded.
"What happened if you took food?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Who saw."
Jessi waited.
Her mother finally sat.
"Luca would say I was proving his point."
"What point?"
"That I couldn't manage myself."
Jessi looked at the wrapped sandwich.
"And Wendy?"
Her mother's mouth tightened.
"She'd take things out of the pantry and tell the staff I was on a meal plan."
"Was there a meal plan?"
"Not from my doctor."
Jessi closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, her mother was watching her.
"Don't make that face."
"What face?"
"The one your father used to make when he was trying not to yell."
That almost made Jessi laugh.
Almost.
"Mom, did they starve you?"
Her mother looked down.
Jessi immediately regretted the phrasing.
It was too big.
Too final.
Too much like asking her mother to label months of experience in one word.
So she tried again.
"Did you have enough food when you wanted it?"
"No."
"Did you ever ask for more?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"Sometimes they'd give it to me."
"Sometimes?"
Her mother nodded.
"And sometimes?"
"They'd say I'd already eaten."
Jessi looked at the medical paperwork showing weight loss.
That still didn't prove intent.
It did prove consequence.
"Why were you cleaning?"
Her mother shrugged.
"I've always cleaned."
"Not in a uniform."
Silence.
"Where did that come from?"
"Basement storage."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Wendy."
There it was.
A direct answer.
"What did she say?"
"She said if I insisted on following the housekeeper around, I might as well look appropriate."
"Did you want to wear it?"
Her mother gave Jessi a tired look.
"No."
"Why didn't you take it off?"
"Because then Luca would ask why I was being difficult."
Jessi leaned back in the chair.
She thought of every text Luca had sent over the past six months.
Mom's getting stubborn.
Mom's having episodes.
Mom accused Wendy of hiding food again.
Mom keeps wandering around at night.
Jessi had read those messages from airports, conference rooms, elevators, hotel beds.
She had replied with things like:
I'm sorry you're dealing with that.
Tell me if you need anything.
Maybe we should talk to her doctor.
She had believed she was being supportive.
Now each message looked different.
Not necessarily false.
But incomplete.
Maybe deliberately incomplete.
Her mother unwrapped the sandwich.
She took a small bite.
Then stopped chewing.
"What?"
"I called you."
Jessi felt a chill.
"When?"
"A lot."
"I didn't get calls."
"You didn't answer."
"I would've seen them."
Her mother looked embarrassed.
"I used the house phone."
"Why not your cell?"
"Luca kept it."
Jessi sat up.
"What do you mean, kept it?"
"He said I was calling people at strange times."
"Were you?"
"Once I called your aunt at five in the morning."
That was plausible.
Her mother smiled weakly.
"I thought it was five in the afternoon."
Despite everything, Jessi laughed.
So did her mother.
It lasted maybe three seconds.
Then the sadness returned.
"But after that, he took the phone."
"Completely?"
"Mostly."
"What does mostly mean?"
"He'd give it back if I was going somewhere."
"Where did you go?"
"Doctor appointments."
"Anywhere else?"
"Not much."
Jessi stared at her.
Her mother had spent decades organizing other people's lives.
School calendars.
Family holidays.
Fundraisers.
Appointments.
Bills.
She had known the birthdays of people Jessi barely remembered being related to.
Now she was asking permission to eat half a sandwich.
"Why didn't you tell someone at the doctor's office?"
"I tried once."
"What happened?"
"Luca came in."
That was all.
Jessi understood.
Her mother finished half the sandwich and wrapped the rest.
"You can eat all of it."
"I know."
She placed it in the refrigerator.
Jessi didn't correct her.
Small choices mattered.
At six-thirty, Jessi called the bank number printed on the envelopes.
She spent twenty-seven minutes proving she was herself.
The bank representative couldn't discuss certain estate accounts without additional verification, but she could discuss Jessi's personal correspondence.
Yes, the mailing address had been changed.
No, the representative couldn't tell her who had physically submitted the request until the fraud department reviewed it.
Yes, electronic confirmation had supposedly been sent.
Jessi checked her email.
Nothing.
Then the representative said something that made her sit straighter.
"Ms. Jessi, I can confirm twelve mailed notices were generated during the period you're asking about."
"Twelve?"
"Yes."
"I have eleven."
"I can't tell you why one didn't reach you."
"Can you tell me the date?"
The representative did.
Jessi wrote it down.
The missing envelope had been mailed before all the others.
It was the first notice.
"What was it about?"
"I'm not able to open the archived document from this screen."
"Can fraud review it?"
"Yes."
"Please flag it."
"I can do that."
Jessi thanked her and hung up.
Her mother was standing behind her.
She had heard enough.
"Twelve?"
Jessi nodded.
Her mother looked toward the desk where the eleven envelopes were laid out.
"The first one," she whispered.
"What about it?"
May you like
Her mother rubbed her wrist.
"That's the one Luca was looking for."
