“Monday?”
I almost laughed.
“I haven’t even looked through her things.”
“You can do it this weekend.”
He shrugged.
“Take whatever you want. The rest is junk. Dad’s tools. Old boxes. That freezer. Everything.”
The freezer.
Mom’s voice came back instantly.
Don’t let anybody throw away my soup.
“Why are you rushing?”
For half a second, Greg’s expression hardened.
Then his familiar smile returned.
“I’m trying to save you six months of driving back and forth from Pittsburgh. Let me take care of it. That’s what executors do.”
His phone buzzed.
He checked the screen.
His entire expression changed.
Fear.
It disappeared almost immediately.
“I need to take this.”
He walked away quickly.
When I turned around, Vanessa was standing behind me.
She had heard everything.
“Beth?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you for something?”
“Of course.”
“The freezer.”
I frowned.
“What about it?”
“Please don’t let them remove it.”
I almost smiled.
“Vanessa, that thing is twenty years old. The motor sounds like an airplane.”
“I know.”
“The lid barely opens.”
“I know.”
“It’s probably worth fifty dollars.”
“I still want it.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the staircase where Greg had disappeared.
“Because your mother’s soup is inside. The kids love it. I want them to have whatever is left.”
That explanation almost made sense.
“Okay. I’ll tell Greg.”
“No.”
Her answer came too fast.
“Don’t tell Greg.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Just make sure nobody takes it. Please.”
Then she walked away.
The next morning, she called me about the freezer again.
Thursday, she asked again.
Friday morning, again.
Each time, she sounded more anxious.
The children wanted Grandma’s soup.
She didn’t want it wasted.
Mom would have wanted them to keep it.
On Thursday afternoon, I went to Mom’s house.
Greg was upstairs going through her bedroom drawers.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped.
“Nothing.”
He quickly corrected himself.
“Looking for estate documents. Bank statements.”
“In her sock drawer?”
He forced a grin.
“You know Mom. She hid things everywhere.”
That part was true.
Mom once kept emergency cash inside an empty coffee can.
She once stored her passport in the freezer for reasons no one understood.
But Greg’s hands were trembling.
And when he walked past me, I smelled stale cigarette smoke.
Greg had quit smoking twelve years ago.
Friday night, I was lying awake at the hotel when Vanessa sent me a text.
Whatever you do, don’t unplug it.
That was the entire message.
I wrote back.
The freezer? Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Then nothing.
Vanessa, what’s going on?
No answer.
I barely slept.
I kept hearing Mom’s voice.
The freezer is full, Bethie.
Whatever happens, don’t let anybody throw away my soup.
Saturday morning, I drove to the house before seven.
The sky was gray.
The roses Mom had been trimming when she died were still half-finished beside the house.
Her gardening gloves remained near the flower bed.
I picked them up and put them in my coat pocket.
Inside, the house smelled exactly like her.
Lavender.
Coffee.
Soup.
I stood in the hallway for a moment before walking downstairs.
The freezer hummed beneath the basement light.
I pulled open the sticky lid.
Cold mist rose around me.
Inside were rows upon rows of plastic containers.
Chicken noodle.
Beef barley.
Split pea.
Minestrone.
Green beans.
Pork chops.
Popsicles for the grandchildren.
I found one labeled:
CHICKEN NOODLE – FOR BETH.
I held it for a moment.
Then something caught my attention.
The freezer looked too shallow.
I had reached into that freezer hundreds of times.
Normally, I could almost put my whole arm inside before touching the bottom.
Now my hand reached it easily.
The floor of the freezer appeared six inches higher.
I began taking everything out.
Soup.
Vegetables.
Meat.
Every frozen container.
Soon the concrete floor around me was covered.
When the freezer was finally empty, I leaned inside.
There was a seam running around the white plastic bottom.
I pressed down.
The panel moved.
There was something beneath it.
A hidden compartment.
My heart began hammering.
I walked to Dad’s old workbench and took a flathead screwdriver from the pegboard.
Then I slid it underneath the false panel.
“Don’t.”
I spun around.
Vanessa stood at the bottom of the stairs.
She wore jeans, an oversized gray sweatshirt, and no makeup.
She looked exhausted.
Terrified.
“How did you know I was here?”
She ignored the question.
Her eyes moved from the soup containers to the screwdriver.
“Please step away from the freezer.”
“What’s underneath it?”
She swallowed.
“Something your mother asked me to protect.”
“From whom?”
Vanessa stared toward the basement window.
Then whispered,
“Your brother.”
I stared at her.
“Your husband?”
“I know.”
Before I could ask anything else, the front door opened upstairs.
Heavy footsteps crossed the house.
Vanessa froze.
“Did you tell Greg you were coming?”
“No.”
The footsteps moved toward the basement.
Vanessa slammed the freezer lid shut.
Then she grabbed one of the containers and shoved it into my hands.
CHICKEN NOODLE – FOR BETH.
“Hold on to this.”
“What?”
“Whatever happens, don’t give it up.”
The basement door opened.
“Beth?”
Greg.
He slowly came downstairs.
Unshaven.
Red eyes.
Work jacket.
Dust on his jeans.
He stopped when he saw the food scattered everywhere.
Then he noticed Vanessa.
His face hardened.
“What are you doing here?”
Vanessa stayed calm.
“I dropped the kids at Mom’s. Then I came to help Beth.”
“At seven in the morning?”
“She called.”
Greg looked at me.
I didn’t contradict her.
“We’re cleaning the freezer,” I said.
He walked toward it.
Opened the lid.
Stared inside.
For several seconds, he looked at the white bottom panel.
My heart nearly stopped.
Then he closed it.
“That’s a lot of soup.”
“Mom made it every week.”
Greg looked at me carefully.
“Did Mom ever tell you anything about money?”
“What money?”
“Cash. Savings.”
He rubbed his neck.
“I’ve been going through her accounts. There’s less money than there should be. A lot less.”
“How much?”
“Maybe sixty thousand.”
I stared at him.
“She could have spent it.”
“No.”
His eyes moved around the basement.
