Chapter 17 - The Ghost at the Firm
Success has a way of attracting the ghosts one worked hardest to bury.
In June, Cassidy was promoted to Senior Managing Auditor at her firm, making her the youngest female department lead in the regional office's history. Her firm hosted a formal summer mixer on the rooftop garden of the St. Regis, celebrating the mid-year client expansions. Cassidy wore a sleek midnight-blue dress, her hair swept up, her laughter easy and unforced as she chatted with corporate partners and municipal clients.
She was standing near the champagne fountain when she saw her mother.
Eleanor Vance stood by the glass elevator doors, looking utterly lost among the suits and evening gowns. She wore an outdated floral blouse that was two sizes too big, clutching an imitation leather purse against her ribs like a shield. Her face was lined with deep, permanent creases of worry, her gray hair hastily pinned back with plastic barrettes.
Cassidy’s smile faded. She set her glass on a passing waiter’s tray and excused herself from the conversation.
She met Eleanor near the elevator foyer, away from the chatter of the party.
"Mother," Cassidy said. Not *Mom*. *Mother*.
Eleanor jumped, startled by the presence of her daughter looking so polished, so distant, so completely detached from the girl who used to scrub the kitchen grease on Elmridge Way.
"Cassidy," Eleanor breathed, her voice trembling. "They told me downstairs I couldn't come up without an invitation, but... but the security guard took pity on me. I had to see you."
"How did you find out I was here?"
"Your firm’s newsletter was on the website," Eleanor said, nervously twisting the strap of her purse. "Cassidy, your father had a minor stroke last Tuesday. He’s in the county rehabilitation wing. He can barely hold a spoon."
Cassidy felt nothing. Not rage, not sorrow, not guilt. It was like reading a weather report for a city on another continent.
"The county wing provides adequate medical care," Cassidy said evenly.
"They're taking his pension, Cassidy!" Eleanor cried in a frantic whisper, glancing around as if afraid the rooftop guests would overhear. "The restitution order... the bank’s deficiency judgment... they take seventy percent of his check every month. We’re living in a one-bedroom subsidized unit on 8th Street. Donald is sleeping on a cot in the kitchenette. Donald has panic attacks, Cassidy. He can't work in retail, the customers make him anxious!"
"Donald is thirty-five years old, Mother," Cassidy said, her voice dropping into that cool, measured ledger-tone. "He has two working legs and two working hands. If he wants to eat, he can unload freight boxes at night."
"He is your brother!" Eleanor pleaded, tears finally spilling down her hollow cheeks. "Family doesn't abandon family to poverty! We raised you! We gave you life! Have you no heart at all? How can you stand here drinking champagne in a designer dress while your own mother counts coins for canned soup?"
Cassidy took a single step closer. Her eyes were steady, dark, and utterly impenetrable.
"On Thanksgiving night," Cassidy said, "when Arthur told me to take my things and get out because I refused to pay Donald’s debts, where were you?"
Eleanor blinked, caught off guard. "I... you know how Arthur gets, Cassidy, he was angry—"
"You stood by the stove," Cassidy said, every word hitting like a dropped coin. "You checked the turkey. You didn't look at me. When Donald moved his video games into my bedroom the next morning while I was crying in a motel room, you helped him fold my remaining clothes into trash bags and set them on the porch."
"I had to keep the peace!"
"You kept his peace at the price of my life," Cassidy said. "For six years, you let your husband and your son treat me like an ATM with a pulse. You knew Arthur forged my signature on that loan. You were in the room when he showed you the ninety-thousand-dollar deposit slip. You bought a new dining room set with that money, Mother."
Eleanor shrank back, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"I don't owe you my twenties," Cassidy continued. "I don't owe you my salary. And I certainly do not owe you my future. Do not come to my workplace again. If you or Donald step foot in this building, the firm’s security has standing orders to have you arrested for criminal trespass."
Cassidy reached into her clutch, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and placed it into Eleanor’s trembling hand.
"Take a cab home, Mother. That is the last dollar you will ever receive from me."
May you like
Cassidy turned on her heel and walked back toward the terrace lights, where her friends were raising a glass to the future.
***
