Sisters in the Wind(15)

I reviewed the November 2004 file, since it was the most recently completed month. To my surprise, it was messy. I compared it to November 2003, the last month my dad had done the recordkeeping. The difference was extreme.

His ledger sheet had every expense listed, to the penny. The checkbook labeled November 2003 had carbon-copy duplicates where my dad had added the date the check had cleared the bank. There were a few blank checks remaining. A glance at the next month’s checkbook confirmed that my dad had started each month with a fresh book.

I peeked at the other files from this year and, again, found Bridget’s recordkeeping lacking. Perhaps she had a different system that worked better for her and kept her files somewhere else, I thought, while flipping through a random checkbook.

A check to American Express for $2,500.00 caught my eye. My dad didn’t have an American Express card. He used a Mastercard issued through the credit union with a low interest rate that didn’t really matter because he paid every bill in full each month.

I searched for more checkbooks, paying closer attention to what Bridget spent money on. There were the usual household expenses for utilities and such. But each month also included a large payment to the same American Express account. She had updated her wardrobe. And bought things like a KitchenAid mixer that sat unused on the countertop like a trophy.

Surely these items wouldn’t add up to thousands of dollars every month.

My stomach began its familiar tumult. I had a nagging feeling that I was missing an important clue. Again, I turned to the last month my dad had recorded. There was a deposit for $750.00. Once they were married, Bridget had insisted on contributing part of her paycheck toward household expenses. It had been one of the good things about her that I’d mentioned in my bedtime prayers.

Since her recordkeeping was haphazard, I looked at the credit-union statements. There were no deposits in that exact amount after my dad died. Halting her financial contribution didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Still, my gut protested.

The answer was in front of me. The alphabetized files on the left side. A file labeled MET FOR LUCY. The Michigan Education Trust my dad had set up as soon as he began teaching. He included ledger sheets listing every monthly contribution going back to when he began teaching. I was five years old at the time.

Lucy, college is a necessity for a secure future, my dad had said a few years ago. For women, a master’s degree is the minimum.

There were no contributions to MET after my dad died. Maybe there was life insurance money going toward it. I found a document designating Bridget as an appointee until the time of his death, upon which she would be named as the purchaser in his place. He had printed out an informational booklet; I skimmed the Frequently Asked Questions until I reached the section called “Terminating Your MET.”

In the event of death or disability of the Beneficiary, a lump sum refund is available for all contracts.



My dad died, but he wasn’t the beneficiary. I was. If I died, Bridget would get every dollar my dad had saved for my college education.

What about life insurance? I wondered. I found that file folder as well. Bridget was the sole beneficiary of his life insurance.

With shaking hands, I returned everything to the desk before racing to the bathroom. Afterward, I returned to Bridget’s bedroom, determined to find her important papers.

It didn’t take long.

She stored paperwork in a round hatbox on the highest shelf. I sat on a pink plaid area rug and went through every piece of paper.

Bridget Marie Smith, formerly Mapother, liked Prada. She also liked shoes from Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. And Louis Vuitton handbags. There weren’t any receipts for purchases prior to my dad’s death in December 2003. Most of the items were not in her closet. Just the few things I’d already noticed her wearing.

The hair prickled at the base of my skull as I went back to a storage-unit receipt. I had been focused on receipts with designer names. But there it was: Unit 92. A twelve-by-twelve-foot storage unit in Petoskey. There was also a single key on a key ring at the bottom of the hatbox.

I sat at the dining table waiting for Bridget to return. I selected the chair my dad had custom ordered to match our original two. He’d been a practical person and could’ve purchased any chair to serve its function. Had Bridget recognized the loving intention of his action in making our duo a trio?

Bridget didn’t see me at first. The only light was above the mantel, highlighting the Paris artwork. It wasn’t until she dropped the shopping bags on the sofa and turned toward the kitchen that she gave a startled hop and told me I gave her a fright.

“What did you buy?” I asked.

Ignoring my monotone, she gave a vague nonanswer while turning on lights.

I gave her one chance to salvage the situation. “Anything for me?”

She turned toward me. Her frown might have been a shadow that quickly disappeared. She tentatively mentioned a Christmas shopping trip we could take together where I could select my own gift. After all, she didn’t know what fourteen-year-old girls liked.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know fourteen-year-old girls; Bridget didn’t know me. I was a bookish loner whose dad thought he was providing a mother who would raise me like he would have.

“So,” I began, pausing to give a deliberate, pointed look at the shopping bags before meeting her eyes again. “What were the important purchases you had to make on the anniversary of my dad’s death? More Prada or Jimmy Choo?” Instead of smoothing my bangs, I ran my fingers through my hair.