it.” Dean looked at her in disbelief. “Because Mom told me to keep it in case something serious happened again.” Priscilla laughed bitterly. “So I was supposed to ask permission every time we needed something?” “Yes.” The answer came from both Dean and me. At exactly the same time. Priscilla looked between us. Dean’s voice dropped. “You were absolutely supposed to ask.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “You have no idea what everything costs.” “I know what things cost.” “No, you don’t. You leave me to handle all of it.” “Then you talk to me.” “I did.” “No,” Dean said. “You complained that things were expensive. You didn’t tell me you were charging them to my mother.” Priscilla turned toward me. “I always planned to pay her back.”
I looked at her. “With what?” She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Dean looked down at the folder. Then asked quietly: “How much?” I knew what he meant. “I haven’t totaled everything.” He pulled out a chair. “Then let’s total it.” Priscilla’s face hardened. “We don’t need to do this right now.” Dean sat down. “Yes. We do.” I finished the call with the bank. Confirmed the case number. Then went back inside. My suitcase was still beside the door. I hadn’t taken off my coat. Dean found a calculator. I read the highlighted charges. He entered them. June. July. August. September. October. November. December. Some were small. Thirty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Seventy-two dollars. One hundred eighteen dollars. Others were not. Six hundred forty. One thousand one hundred twenty-five.
One thousand eight hundred forty. The caterer’s deposit alone was twenty-six hundred dollars. Then came the premium wine. The linens. The serving pieces. The flowers. Dean kept pressing buttons. Priscilla paced behind us. Every few minutes, she tried to explain a purchase. “That was for the family.” “That was necessary.” “That was part of Christmas.” But Dean continued calculating. Finally, he stopped. He stared at the screen. Priscilla folded her arms. “How much?” He didn’t answer. “Dean.” He turned the calculator toward her. $14,782.63. The room became completely silent. I had expected perhaps six thousand dollars. Maybe eight. Not almost fifteen. Dean whispered: “Jesus Christ.” Priscilla immediately said: “That includes Christmas.” He looked at her. “As though that makes it better?” “Your mother spends thousands on Christmas every year.”
I stared at her. “My choice.” She stopped. I repeated it. “Every turkey. Every gift. Every string of lights. Every extra grocery run. My choice.” My hands were trembling now. “You didn’t take almost fifteen thousand dollars because I couldn’t afford it.” She flinched. “You took away my ability to choose.” “I didn’t take—” “Stop.” Dean’s voice cracked across the room. Priscilla turned toward him. He looked sick. “What else?” “Nothing.” “What else have you used?” “Nothing.” “Her checking account?” “No.” “Her passwords?” “No.” “Any other cards?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Yes!” The force of her answer startled even her. Then my phone rang. Unknown number. I almost ignored it. Something made me answer. “Mrs. Grant?” “Yes?” “This is Michael from Maison Alder Events. I’m calling because we just attempted to process the remaining balance for your December twenty-fifth service,
and the transaction was declined.” Priscilla closed her eyes. I looked directly at her. “How much was the remaining balance?” “Three thousand four hundred dollars.” Dean stood. “What?” The event coordinator hesitated. I put the phone on speaker. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I did not authorize this event.” There was a pause. “Our contract lists this address and your name as the billing contact.” My stomach tightened. “Who signed the contract?” “It was submitted electronically.” “Whose name?” Another pause. “Yours.” Dean looked at Priscilla. I did too. “Would you please email me a copy?” I asked. “Of course.” The email arrived while we were still standing there. I opened the attachment. Scrolled to the bottom. And there it was. An electronic signature. Sylvia Grant. My name. A signature I had never provided. Dean sat down again. He looked ten years older. “Did you sign Mom’s name?” Priscilla wiped her cheeks. “I knew she would agree.” He stared at her. “You knew?” “She always pays for Christmas!” “So you signed her name?” “I was going to tell her.” “When?” “After everything was arranged.” “Why?” She hesitated. Then finally said: “Because she says no when things get too expensive.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A quiet, astonished laugh. Priscilla stared at me. “Yes,” I said. “Sometimes the person paying gets to decide something costs too much.” She began pacing. “You don’t understand what it’s like.” I looked at her. “What?” “To have everyone come here every year and talk about how beautiful everything is. How amazing Christmas at Sylvia’s is.” I stared. “So this was about that?” “No.” “You wanted
