Chapter 3 - The New Year’s Gathering Begins
New Year’s Day dawned cold, grey, and bitterly windy. A fresh layer of powdery snow coated the streets of Westerville, crunching satisfyingly beneath our tires as I pulled my Honda Civic into the packed gravel driveway of my parents’ rental house.
Cars lined both sides of the narrow suburban street—my sister Paige’s oversized white SUV taking up half the lawn, my uncle Gary’s battered pickup truck parked hazardously close to the mailbox, and several unfamiliar sedans belonging to family friends my mother had invited to bolster her social standing.
Lucy sat beside me in the passenger seat, wearing her deep-green consignment shop dress and clutching Copper tightly against her chest. She looked out the frosted window at the house, her small shoulders tensing.
“We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to,” I reassured her, unbuckling my seatbelt. “If anyone gives you a hard time, you come straight to me. Understand?”
Lucy nodded solemnly, her fingers tracing Copper’s newly mended ear. “I have my secret keeper with me. We’ll be fine.”
We walked up the shoveled walkway together, the biting wind whipping our hair across our faces. As soon as I pushed open the front door, the familiar, oppressive wall of heat and noise hit us. The house smelled intensely of overcooked ham, artificial pine air freshener, and cheap sparkling cider.
Almost immediately, my mother materialized from the kitchen. Darlene was wearing a stiff floral blouse that looked like it belonged in a 1990s catalog, her blonde-highlighted hair teased into a rigid helmet. Her eyes scanned past me instantly, zeroing in on Lucy before snapping back up to meet my gaze with an expression of icy disapproval.
“Well, you finally made it,” Darlene said, not bothering with a greeting or a hug. Her voice cut effortlessly through the dull roar of conversation coming from the living room. “And look at you, bringing that raggedy toy back inside my house after the fit she threw on Christmas. I hope you brought the rent check your father asked for, Rebecca. We have bills clearing today, and we don’t have time for your usual corporate delays.”
Before I could even open my mouth to respond, my father, Walter, materialized behind her, wiping his hands on a greasy dish towel. He was a tall man with a permanent scowl etched into his weathered face, his belt riding dangerously low over a protruding belly.
“Did you bring the cash, Becca?” Walter asked, skipping pleasantries entirely, his voice echoing loudly enough to draw the attention of my aunt Linda and uncle Gary, who were standing nearby holding plastic cups of ginger ale. “Your mother’s been worrying all morning. Don't tell me you forgot after we reminded you three times.”
The timing was immaculate. The entire entryway seemed to hold its collective breath. Paige poked her head out from the living room doorway, a smug little smirk playing across her lips, clearly anticipating the public scolding I was about to receive for being a "irresponsible daughter."
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look down at my boots. I simply reached down, unzipped my black leather briefcase, and pulled out one of the heavy, black cardstock binders.
“Good afternoon, Mom. Happy New Year, Dad,” I said, my voice carrying an unnatural, terrifying level of calm that visibly rattled them both. I extended the thick binder toward Walter like a corporate executive presenting a hostile takeover agreement.
“As for the rent, Dad,” I continued, locking eyes with him, “and every other expense you’ve demanded over the last five years... I brought a complete accounting. Let’s review the ledger together, shall we?”
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Darlene’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. “What on earth is that nonsense? We don’t need a book report, Rebecca. We need your money. Hand over the check right now before your father loses his temper.”
“Oh, I think you’ll want to look at this very carefully, Mom,” I replied softly, stepping past them into the crowded living room. “Because according to my records, you haven’t owed rent on this house since October of last year.”
