He knew how to fix it. He'd known within 10 minutes of looking at the photos. The question was whether he could do it alone or whether this was the job that finally required him to bring in help, which meant paying someone, which changed the math, which required a different kind of conversation with Charles Whitfield than the one they'd had on the phone. He was working through the numbers when his phone rang. Not Amelia.
Not Whitfield. It was a number he recognized with the particular sinking clarity of a bill that had been quiet long enough to start believing it had forgotten about him, County Medical. The hospital where Sandra had died. Where he still had a balance from the final two months of her treatment. A balance that had been in a payment plan for 4 years.
A plan he'd been making work barely every single month, $60 at a time, which felt like throwing a cup of water at a fire, but was the only cup he had. He answered, "Mr. Brooks, this is Patricia Henley calling from the billing department at County Medical. " Her voice was professionally neutral in the way of someone who made calls like this all day and had learned to leave their own feelings about it in the parking lot. "I'm reaching out because we have a gap in your payment plan. We haven't received the October payment. " Isaiah closed his eyes for 1 second, then opened them.
"I know. I'm sorry. It's been a difficult month. I can get it in by end of week. " "I appreciate that. I do want to let you know that three consecutive missed payments triggers a review of the plan, and if the plan is reviewed "I know what happens if the plan is reviewed. " He said quietly, without sharpness.
A pause. Patricia Henley's professional neutrality softened slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Brooks. I'll note that you're expecting payment by Friday. " "Thank you. " He put the phone down and sat there for a moment.
He thought about Sandra in that hospital. He thought about what it cost to fight for someone's life and lose anyway, and then to spend the next 4 years paying for the cost of the fight. He thought about the specific American cruelty of that. The way the system extracted from you, even after it had failed you methodically, relentlessly, $60 at a time. He thought about Ethan, who was at school right now doing his multiplication tables and his reading comprehension, and kicking a soccer ball at recess, and not knowing about County Medical, because some things a 10-year-old should not be carrying.
He opened the Murfreesboro folder again. He picked up the phone and called Charles Whitfield. Isaiah Whitfield answered warmly. Thursday still work for the site visit? Thursday works, Isaiah said.
I've been looking at the photos you sent. I want to talk about scope before I come down. Of course. The framing modification on the south wall, whoever did that in the '80s used dimensional lumber that's been sistered to the original in a way that's created a moisture trap. The original timber is probably compromised behind it, which means we're not looking at a surface repair on that section.
We're looking at opening it up and assessing from the inside before I can give you an accurate number. Whitfield was quiet for a moment. That sounds more involved than we were thinking. It might be exactly what you were thinking and I'm wrong. But I'd rather tell you that up front than get down there Thursday and surprise you with it.
I appreciate that. A pause. Amelia told me you were the kind of contractor who told you what you needed to hear instead of what you wanted to hear. I try to be. She also said Whitfield continued and his tone shifted slightly, became more deliberate.
That you were the kind of man whose word meant something, which in this industry He let that sit. I wanted you to know that I know that she's going through something difficult right now. And I wanted you to know that what she said about you was said before any of the current situation when she had no reason to be building goodwill with contractors. Isaiah sat with that for a moment. I appreciate you telling me.
Thursday, Whitfield said. 9:00. I'll be there. He put the phone down and sat in the quiet kitchen and felt the weight of the week arrange itself differently. Not lighter, more structured.
Like pieces that had been scattered were starting to know where they went, even if they weren't there yet. He was still at the table 2 hours later when Amelia called. It was 11:14. He knew because he looked at the clock when the phone rang, the way he always did when calls came in at unexpected times. A habit from the hospital years when the time of a call could tell you things before the words did.
"Thomas Grant called me this morning. " She said. Isaiah straightened. "What did he say? " "He wanted to meet. Today. " "In person? " A pause. "He said he'd been doing research on the company's original performance metrics, and he had some questions he wanted to ask me directly, not through board channels. " "Did you meet him? " "I met him an hour ago at a coffee shop in Millbrook. " Her voice was carefully even, the way it got when she was managing something significant.
"Isaiah, he's not with David's faction. He was He was never solidly with them. " "He told me that Patricia O'Shea reached out to him 3 weeks ago and presented a picture of the company's performance that he now believes was selectively edited. " "He said some of the data she showed him came from an analysis prepared by a consulting group that David Mercer's company has used before. " Isaiah was very still. "David paid for analysis that supported his own takeover bid. " "Through a firm with no visible connection to him, yes. " She paused. "Thomas figured it out because he's a forensic accountant by background. " "He recognized the firm's methodology from a previous corporate dispute he'd worked on. He didn't say anything to the board because he wasn't sure, and he didn't want to make accusations without being certain. " "Is he certain now? " "He's sharing what he found with the board chair today. " Isaiah exhaled slowly.
"What does that mean for the vote? " "It means" She stopped. He could hear her collecting herself, the way she did that particular a pause where she was pulling everything back to center before she spoke again. "It means the takeover may be built on fabricated evidence, which is a different fight than the one I've been preparing for. Your attorney needs to know this today," Isaiah said. "He already does.
I called him from the parking lot of the coffee shop. " Another pause. "Isai- This could be over. Not just the board vote. The custody filing, too. David used the anticipated board outcome as part of his argument in family court.
If the outcome changes, the argument collapses. " He sat with that. The speed of it. The way things that had felt immovable could suddenly shift when the thing holding them in place turned out to be built on something false. "Don't count anything before it's counted," he said. "I know.
Call me when you know more. " "I will. " A beat. "How are you doing? " The question surprised him. Not because it was strange. It was a reasonable question, a human question. But because in six days of working on her property, through everything that had happened between them and around them, she hadn't asked it directly.
And now she was asking it, and he felt the sincerity of it like something landing. "I'm working on it," he said. She understood what he meant by that. He could tell by the quality of the silence. "Thank you," she said, and meant it for more things than she listed.
He drove to pick up Ethan at 3:15 and told him nothing, which was fine because Ethan spent the drive talking about a kid in his class named Darius, who had done something extraordinarily funny at lunch involving a grape and a ceiling tile. The details of which Isaiah allowed himself to be fully present for, because that was exactly the kind of story a 10-year-old should be telling his father, and that a father should be hearing. They stopped at the grocery store on the way home. Isaiah had $38 in the account after the materials return credit and what was left of Amelia's payment after bills. He bought pasta, ground beef, a can of tomatoes, two apples, and a box of the cereal Ethan liked.
Ethan pushed the cart without being asked, which he'd been doing since he was about seven, because he'd noticed Isaiah always had his hands full, and he just started doing it one day without announcing it. Isaiah had never pointed it out because pointing it out would have made it smaller than it was at the checkout. Ethan put the items on the belt one by one and then looked up at Isaiah and said seriously, "Dad, when things get better, can we get the name brand cereal? " Isaiah handed the cashier the card. "When things get better, we can get name brand anything you want. " "I don't actually want much," Ethan said. "I just want to stop worrying about the cereal. " The card cleared.
Isaiah picked up the bags. "Then cereal it is. " That night, after dinner, after homework, after the dishes, and the reading, and the lights out conversation about whether a hot dog had evolved since their last discussion on the matter. It had not. Isaiah sat at the kitchen table with the notebook and the receipts and did the thing he did every evening. Counted what he had.