Chapter 4

04

Roger was a businessman, and businessmen cut clean.

His so-called divorce agreement was worse than anything I'd imagined.

"This house I bought before we married. It's in my name. It has nothing to do with you. The savings we had went on Dad's treatment over the years, all of it, you know that. The company's cash flow is tight right now, and that's the appreciation on assets I owned before the marriage, so you don't get a share of it either."

Roger sat on the living-room sofa, one leg crossed over the other, going down the list item by item.

"As for the car, it was bought under the company. Imogen, let's part on good terms. Here's fifty thousand. Call it compensation for your trouble these past years."

Fifty thousand.

Thirteen years of my youth, thirteen years working myself to the bone, and to him it was worth fifty thousand. Less than four thousand a year. Cheaper than a maid.

"Fifty thousand?" I laughed, laughed until my eyes nearly welled up. "Roger, when your company was just getting off the ground, wasn't it me who borrowed two hundred thousand from my parents to keep you afloat? Did you ever pay that back?"

Roger's face changed, then he said, shameless as ever, "That money? That money went into this house long ago! You've eaten my food and drunk on my dime all these years. You don't think that gets counted?"

"Stop wasting your breath on her, Rog!" Rose sat beside him cracking sunflower seeds and rolling her eyes. "This kind of woman is never satisfied. She should go take a look at herself. A worn-out old hag, and fifty thousand's a good deal. If it went to court, you wouldn't even get the fifty, you'd be paying legal fees out of pocket!"

I ignored the barking dog and kept my eyes fixed on my father-in-law, sitting in the single armchair, soaking up the sun.

He seemed to have a little more life in him today, sitting there listening to the radio as if the argument in the room had nothing to do with him.

"Dad, do you think so too? That I should take fifty thousand and get out?" I walked over, crouched down in front of him, and looked straight into his eyes.

He switched off the radio, his clouded old eyes settling on me.

"Immy," he said, his voice rough, "Roger's business is big now, he needs to save face. That... that girl, her family has money, she can help him. And you know Dad's illness is a bottomless pit. Without the money, I'd have been dead long ago."

What he meant was that for his life, for the Dickersons' future, I had to be the one to sacrifice.

"These thirteen years, who turned you over in the middle of the night? Who dug the stool out of you? Who carried you up and down the stairs?" I asked quietly, my voice terrifyingly calm.

He looked away from me and sighed. "You did. Dad remembers everything you did. But... a person has to accept their lot."

Accept my lot.

What a fine thing to say.

I stood and looked around the home I had run for thirteen years. Our slightly faded wedding photo still hung on the wall, and the girl in it was smiling so foolishly, so innocently.

"Fine. I'll accept my lot."

I turned and looked at Roger and Rose, at those smug small-minded faces.

"Bring the agreement. I'll sign. And I don't want the fifty thousand either. Keep it and buy yourself a coffin."

Roger froze at that, then flew into a rage. "Watch your mouth!"

"What? We're getting divorced, and I still have to wait on you like a servant girl?" I gave a cold laugh, picked up the pen, and pressed the two words Imogen Fox hard into the agreement.

The nib tore through the paper, the strokes cutting all the way to the back.

"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. The records office."

Then I went straight to the bedroom and started packing. There wasn't much to pack. Just as Roger had said, nothing of value in this house was mine.

I took only a few old clothes, and a yellowed notebook hidden deep in the cabinet.

It held every entry, every account, from all thirteen of those years.