Chapter 9 - The New Baseline
Three months passed.
The Chicago autumn collapsed into the gray, freezing reality of November. The lake turned into an expanse of white-capped black water, and the first light dustings of snow began to settle on the slate roofs of Lincoln Square.
At Vanguard Consulting, the incident had become an unspoken footnote. The Illinois Logistics Council audit had been renewed without comment; my billable hours were back at sixty-five a week, and David Keller had recommended me for the senior partner review board for the coming spring.
My life had returned to its rhythm.
Micah and I spent our Saturdays at the farmers' market, our evenings cooking together in the kitchen without the ghost of an emergency hovering over our cell phones. We had bought a rug for the living room. We had booked two weeks in Portugal for our delayed honeymoon in February.
I had not spoken to Dalia since August.
My cousin Sarah told me she was living in the Evanston basement. She had lasted three weeks at the Jewel-Osco before quitting because of "foot pain," and was now working part-time answering phones at a veterinary clinic in Skokie. She didn't have a car. She took the CTA Purple Line in the freezing dark every morning at 6:45 AM.
Helena had tried to text me twice.
Once on my birthday in October: *Thinking of the day you were born. Hope you are well.*
I had not replied.
Once on Thanksgiving morning: *Your father made a turkey. There’s an extra plate if you and Micah want to stop by after his parents.*
I had replied with a simple: *Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. We are having dinner in Oak Park.*
The boundaries had been set in reinforced concrete. They were ugly, they were lonely, but they held the weight of my life without cracking.
Then, on the Tuesday before Christmas, I received an envelope in the mail at my office.
It was addressed to *Vera Holt — Personal*, written in a shaky, cramped hand that I didn't recognize.
I sat at my desk, the afternoon snow drifting past the twentieth-floor window, and sliced the envelope open with a bone-handled letter opener.
Inside was a single sheet of lined notebook paper and a certified cashier's check from Chase Bank.
The check was made out to *Vera Holt*.
The amount: **$150.00**.
In the memo line, written in black ink: *Restitution — Cake/Glassware (1 of 20).*
I stared at the check for a long time.
I unfolded the lined paper.
*Vera,*
*The vet clinic pays $17.50 an hour. After my bus pass and the rent Dad makes me pay him, this is what I have left over from my first two checks.*
*The therapist Dad makes me see twice a month told me I shouldn't write this letter because I’m still angry at you. And I am. I’m furious at you. I hate that you were right about the car. I hate that I had to ride the train in the rain yesterday while my shoes leaked water.*
*I’m not sorry because I want you to pay for DePaul. I enrolled at Oakton Community College for the spring. It’s $140 a credit hour. I’m paying it myself on a payment plan.*
*I’m sending this because Dad said if I don't pay you back for what I broke at your wedding, he’s cutting me out of his will completely. He’s serious. He’s changed, Vera. He doesn't listen to Mom anymore. Nobody listens to Mom anymore. The house is completely quiet. It’s horrible.*
*I don't expect you to call me. I don't want you to call me.*
*Here is the first payment.*
*— Dalia.*
I held the cashier's check between my thumb and forefinger.
One hundred and fifty dollars.
Out of the nearly ninety thousand I had poured into the bottomless pit of her life, it was a drop of rain falling into an empty quarry.
Micah called me at 5:15 PM to ask if I wanted him to pick up Thai food for dinner.
"Vera? You there?"
"Yeah," I said, looking at the check resting on the blotter beside my keyboard. "I’m here."
"Everything okay at the firm?"
"Dalia sent a check," I said. "For the wedding cake."
Micah was silent for three seconds. "How much?"
"A hundred and fifty dollars."
"Are you going to cash it?"
I looked at the signature on the check. It wasn't the frantic, looping scrawl from the loan application. It was small, tight, and careful.
May you like
"I don't know," I said.
***
