Chapter 11 - The Space Station
Two weeks later, the first heavy snow of December fell over Minneapolis, blanketing the city in eight inches of clean, silent, sparkling white.
Inside our kitchen, the air was warm, smelling of cinnamon rolls, woodsmoke, and roasting chicken.
On the large dining table, taking up nearly every square inch of the surface, was the finished LEGO Apollo Saturn V rocket and the lunar research station. Owen and Mason were huddled over it, their heads nearly touching, carefully placing the tiny plastic astronauts around the lunar lander.
Mason was staying with Greg in an apartment three miles away. The court had granted Greg temporary full custody, with Lauren allowed only supervised visitation once a week at a county social services office. Mason’s old, collapsed skates had been thrown in the dumpster; in their place in Greg’s trunk were a pair of custom-fitted Grafs, and Mason had been enrolled in a junior development league that valued fun and teamwork over professional vanity.
The boy had changed in fourteen days. The permanent hunch in his shoulders was gone. The frightened, guarded look in his eyes had been replaced by a quiet curiosity.
“Hey, Owen,” Mason whispered, pointing a tiny plastic wrench at the lunar rover. “If the aliens attack the station, where’s the defense laser?”
“There are no defense lasers on a research station, Mason,” Owen replied with deep, seven-year-old scientific seriousness. “It’s for science. But if we need to escape, this module detaches and flies all the way back to the Pacific Ocean.”
“Cool,” Mason said, grinning.
I stood at the kitchen island, rolling out dough for sugar cookies, watching the two boys through the wide archway.
My father was sitting in the armchair in the living room, wearing his reading glasses, quietly reading the Sunday newspaper. He had moved out of the Edina house ten days ago. He had rented a small, comfortable one-bedroom apartment near Lake Harriet, four minutes from my house. He had filed for legal separation from Evelyn.
My mother had refused to leave the Edina house. She had barricaded herself inside, refusing to take Dad’s calls, spending her days on the phone with Lauren’s defense attorneys, burning through her own personal savings to pay retainers for the grand larceny charges the Ramsey County prosecutor was preparing to file. She had chosen her hill, and she was determined to die on it.
Dad looked up from his paper, caught my eye, and smiled. It was a tired smile, but it was genuine. For the first time in forty years, his shoulders were relaxed. He looked lighter, as if a crushing stone had been lifted from his chest.
The front door chimed.
Greg stepped inside, stamping the snow from his heavy winter boots, carrying a gallon of fresh apple cider from the orchard.
“Smells like heaven in here,” Greg said, setting the cider on the counter and pulling off his knit cap. “How are the astronauts doing?”
“They’ve successfully colonized the kitchen table,” I said, handing him a warm mug of coffee. “I don't think I’m ever getting my dining room back.”
“Small price to pay,” Greg murmured, watching Mason laugh as Owen made engine noises with a plastic rocket booster.
Greg looked at me, his expression turning serious. “I spoke to the prosecutor’s office this morning, Megan.”
I wiped the flour from my hands with a dish towel. “What did they say?”
“The grand jury returned a true bill on two counts of wire fraud, one count of aggravated forgery, and one count of identity theft against Lauren,” Greg said quietly. “Her arraignment is set for next Thursday. Because of the Delaware LLC and the magnitude of the undeclared assets, the Department of Revenue is joining the case. They’re freezing all her accounts tomorrow morning.”
I stood by the counter, listening to the news that would once have terrified me, that would once have sent me rushing to empty my savings to save my sister from public ruin.
Now, I felt only a profound, quiet stillness.
“And Evelyn?” I asked.
Greg hesitated. “They aren't charging your mother criminally. Not yet. But the IRS is auditing their joint returns for the past three years because of the way Lauren funneled money through the family address. Your dad is insulated because his forensic audit proved he was shut out of the documentation, but your mom... she’s going to have to sell the Edina house, Megan. The back taxes and legal fees will wipe out whatever equity she has left.”
I looked over at my father, who was now helping Owen attach the tiny solar panels to the satellite.
He didn't care about the house. He had spent his whole life working to pay for that sprawling suburban monument to Evelyn’s social ambition. All he cared about now was sitting on that carpet, watching his grandsons laugh without fear.
May you like
“Let her sell it,” I said softly. “It was never a home anyway. Just a showroom.”
***
