Chapter 4

After dinner, I brought up the house.

"Mom, Dad, I'd like to buy you a new place."

Mom's chopsticks paused over the dish.

"A new place?"

"Yes. A three-bedroom, something with room to breathe. You're getting older, and climbing to the fourth floor every day isn't easy. I looked at a few listings. Some have elevators. They're nice."

She set her chopsticks down, her eyes lighting up.

"Well, that would be wonderful! Look at you. You've really made something of yourself." There was a closeness in her voice I'd never heard before. "How much would that run?"

"Don't worry about the money. I'll pay for it."

"So how much have you been making?"

The question came too directly. I hesitated.

"Enough to get by," I said vaguely.

She glanced at me but didn't press.

The meal went smoothly enough, warm, even. Somewhere in me was a strange, faint feeling, as if my mother had changed, as if she wasn't so sharp-edged anymore.

But what happened the next day showed me I'd been fooling myself.

The next morning, before I'd gotten out of bed, I heard voices in the living room.

Mom and Nicholas.

I didn't go out. I lay there and listened.

"How much?" Nicholas's voice.

"She didn't say an exact number, but it's got to be a lot." Mom kept her voice low. "Look at her clothes, the bag she carries. That's tens of thousands right there, at least. All those years in the States, she's made plenty."

"And she said she'd buy us a house?"

"She said it. Three-bedroom, with an elevator."

"That's great, then."

"Great how?" Her voice sharpened. "She buys us a house, and whose name goes on the deed? Her own? The day she turns on us, we'll be living in her house, and we won't be able to hold our heads up."

"Then..."

"So you need to figure out a way to get that money into your own hands."

I lay in bed, cold all over.

They were scheming against me.

From the moment I walked through that door, they'd been scheming against me.

I closed my eyes and drew a long breath.

Fine.

If you want to put on a show, then I'll play along.

I want to see just how far you'll take it.

That afternoon, Mom suddenly said she wanted to take me to see a house.

"An old friend of mine told me about it. Says it's a really good place, good location, fair price."

"What kind of house?"

"A family brownstone."

Something in me jolted.

A brownstone in Ashford City was a rare thing. I had thought about buying one, in fact, but hadn't had the chance to look yet.

"Where?"

"The East End. My friend says the owner needs cash fast and wants to sell as soon as possible."

I said nothing and went with her.

The brownstone really was beautiful. A two-section layout, brick and slate, a wraparound covered walkway, everything well preserved. There was even a pomegranate tree in the courtyard, heavy with fruit.

The agent had been referred by that "old friend" of my mother's, a man in his forties with a slick, greasy way of talking.

"This place is absolutely worth it. It'll only go up, never down."

"How much?"

"Forty-five million. But there's room to talk. The owner needs the cash. For a serious buyer, forty-two million takes it."

Forty-two million.

The money I had was just enough.

I walked through it once, and I have to admit I was tempted. It was better than any of the listings I'd seen, with more room to appreciate.

"Let me think about it," I said.

On the way home, Mom kept it up in my ear: "Such a good house. If you buy it, you'll have a place to land when you come back home..."

I didn't answer.

That night, alone in my room, I looked up the brownstone online.

The listing was real. The price checked out too.

But something felt off.

It was too easy.

Since when was my mother this kind, offering to find me a house on her own?

She had to have another reason.

On the third day, I made a decision.

I decided to buy the brownstone.

Not because my mother had recommended it, but because the place really was good.

As for whatever my mother was plotting, I'd take it one step at a time.

I contacted the agent and started negotiating. The owner really did need the cash, and we settled at forty-two million in the end.

Signing the contract required a large sum, and my money was in a U.S. account. International transfers had limits, endless paperwork, and took time.

That was when Mom spoke up.

"Just move the money to my card. It'll make paying easier when the time comes."

I looked at her.

Her expression was easy, as if she were saying the most ordinary thing in the world.

"You've been using that card all along, haven't you? I opened it for you back when you started college. Makes it easy for you to put money in, too."

The card really was in her name. For all these years I'd known the PIN, and she'd never once touched the money in it.

I'd thought that was a kind of understanding between us. A kind of trust.

I moved the money.

Forty-two million, transferred in several installments.

Once it was done, I set the signing date with the agent, three days out.

For those three days, Mom treated me with extraordinary warmth. A different spread of food every day, fussing over whether I was warm or hungry, more than she had in twenty-some years put together.

I knew she was performing, but I didn't call it out.

I wanted to wait. Wait until the contract was signed, and see how she'd keep the act going.