Pam removed the plastic lid from the coffee container.
I expected to see coffee.
Instead, I saw money.
Bundles of bills had been placed inside.
Some were folded together with rubber bands.
Others were loose.
There were five-dollar notes, tens, and twenties.
Pam carefully lifted the contents and placed them on the table.
Nobody spoke.
The money sat between the ham platter and the cardboard box.
"Seven hundred and fifty dollars," she said.
Her voice was quiet.
"That's what you three sent me last October."
I looked at the bills.
Then I looked at her.
"Two hundred and fifty from Rob. Two hundred and fifty from Dean. Two hundred and fifty from Connie."
She paused.
"All for Mom's propane."
Rob leaned forward.
Dean looked confused.
Pam pushed the money toward us.
"I spent four hundred dollars on the October delivery."
I remembered the pink ticket.
Two hundred gallons.
Four hundred dollars.
The numbers matched.
Pam looked at me.
"The rest went toward our mortgage, our electricity, and Mark's prescriptions."
Nobody moved.
She lowered her eyes.
"And I didn't put in my own two hundred and fifty dollars."
That was the first time I had heard her say it.
Not an explanation.
Not a guess.
A direct admission.
"I didn't have it," she said.
Dean opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Pam placed both hands in her lap.
"I know what I did."
Her voice began to shake.
"I know I shouldn't have used the money that way."
She pushed the coffee can farther across the table.
"This is everything I could put together. All of it."
I looked at the cash.
Then at the cardboard box.
I still couldn't understand.
"Where did you get this money?"
Pam looked directly at me.
"I sold some things."
"What things?"
She swallowed.
"Grandma's Bernina sewing machine."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
The machine had belonged to Grandma Heinz.
Pam had inherited it and kept it for years.
She used it to repair clothes, make curtains, and work on quilts.
It was one of the few things from Grandma's house that she had kept.
She continued.
"I also sold the quilt stand Dad made for me."
I looked down.
"And Mark's deer rifle."
Mom made a small sound.
"Pammy…"
Pam didn't turn.
Her eyes stayed on me.
"I've been working Saturday shifts at the Cenex in Harvey since January."
I hadn't known that either.
She worked at the clinic during the week.
Then she spent part of her weekends running the cash register at the gas station.
She looked exhausted because she was exhausted.
"I wanted to pay everything back," she said.
Then she took a breath.
"Connie, you were right to take over the account."
I didn't respond.
"You were right to call the cooperative."
Her eyes filled.
"And you were right to make sure Mom had fuel."
She looked toward Mom.
"I let her get cold."
The words settled over the kitchen.
I had expected her to defend herself.
I had expected her to blame the weather, the cooperative, or the road conditions.
Instead, she was admitting what she had done.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Nobody answered immediately.
Then Pam reached for the cardboard box.
"This is the other reason I came."
She removed the top.
Inside were stacks of papers.
Receipts.
Bills.
Delivery slips.
Pharmacy statements.
Some were folded into envelopes.
Others were fastened together with small clips.
At the very top was a green spiral notebook.
It looked inexpensive.
The kind sold in a dollar store.
Pam lifted it carefully.
"I kept records," she said.
She placed it in front of Rob.
"Everything I've paid for Mom since Dad died."
Rob opened the cover.
The handwriting was familiar.
Pam's.
Small, neat, and carefully organized.
The first entries went back four years.
March 2022.
Prescription purchases.
Groceries.
A repair to the house.
Rob turned another page.
April.
May.
June.
Every month had entries.
Every expense had a date and an amount.
I leaned closer.
I saw a payment for hearing-aid batteries.
Then money for fuel to take Mom to an eye appointment in Minot.
Another entry recorded a repair to the well pump.
There were grocery purchases, pharmacy bills, and small household expenses.
Some amounts were less than thirty dollars.
Others were several hundred.
Rob turned another page.
Then another.
The notebook continued.
Pam had written down everything.
Dean leaned over his shoulder.
I looked at the receipts scattered across the table.
There were more than I could count.
And suddenly, I understood that the conversation we had come to have was much larger than the propane account.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Green Notebook Held Four Years of Expenses, and the Number on Its Last Page Changed Everything I Thought I Knew About My Sister
I Thought My Mother Was Simply Sleeping Through Another North Dakota Winter, Until I Walked Into Her Living Room and Realized Something Was Terribly Wrong
Part 7 of 12
