The question struck harder than Sylvia expected. Dean’s eyes closed for one second.
“What does that mean?” Sylvia asked.
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “It means we don’t have six thousand dollars sitting around.”
Priscilla moved toward him. “Which is why this is ridiculous. Your mother can afford it.”
Sylvia felt the last of her uncertainty leave her.
There it was. Not gratitude. Not misunderstanding. Arithmetic.
She picked up her phone from the end table. “I am calling the card company.”
Priscilla’s face changed. “Don’t.”
Dean turned. “Why not?”
“Because if she disputes the charges, the vendors will come after me.”
“They should,” Sylvia said.
“It will look like fraud.”
Sylvia met her eyes. “Then you should have considered how it would look before you used a card that was not yours.”
Priscilla’s voice dropped. “You would really do that to family?”
Sylvia almost smiled, though there was nothing amusing in the room. “You keep using that word when you mean access.”
She called the number on the back of the card.
The conversation took twenty minutes. Sylvia answered security questions, reviewed pending transactions, and listened while the representative separated posted charges from authorizations. The caterer had charged $2,800. The rental company had placed $1,175. The florist had charged $600. A wine merchant showed $842. There were smaller charges for serving platters and delivery services.
The representative froze the card and opened disputes on the transactions Sylvia had not authorized. She explained that the merchants might contact the person who had placed the orders and that signed contracts could create separate obligations between that person and the vendor.
Priscilla stood completely still during that sentence.
When Sylvia ended the call, Dean pulled out a dining chair and sat as if his legs had finally stopped cooperating.
“You signed contracts?” he asked.
Priscilla’s silence answered before her words did.
“The catering agreement,” she said. “And the rentals.”
“In whose name?”
“Mine.”
Dean leaned back and looked at the ceiling.
Sylvia did not feel triumphant. She felt tired.
For years, she had rushed to solve every emergency before anyone had to sit inside the discomfort of creating it. A broken water heater became her check. A late utility bill became her transfer. A birthday dinner became her reservation. Each rescue had felt loving in the moment. Now, watching Priscilla face the first consequence Sylvia had not volunteered to absorb, she understood that rescue could become a kind of concealment.
“I am still leaving for Christmas,” Sylvia said.
Dean looked at her. “Mom, you don’t have to.”
