Instead, I was locked inside a juvenile detention center. Prison, for a minor.
I give up on getting her a phone. This time.
Between her bites of scrambled eggs and mushrooms, we talk about little things. I tell her I bought a new Jackson Pollock. She wrinkles her nose and says, “I could have made one for you—a couple gallons of white and gray house paint and a canvas to drip on. I’d only charge you twenty-five k.”
She’s so specific that I wonder if she’s been selling fake paintings again, but I don’t trust her to tell me the truth if I ask. So we move on to the weather, and the cherry blossoms that are nearing peak bloom, and a Japanese horror movie she says I’d love. I haven’t watched horror movies since before I went away.
When she’s finished her breakfast and I’ve paid the bill, I place both palms on the snow-white tablecloth. It’s time to negotiate details. “Two nights,” I say.
“A week.”
“Three. And you can order all the room service you want.”
“I need a car. I have a job interview.”
I shake my head. The kind of jobs Nutmeg takes don’t require interviews. “Three nights. Room service. And five hundred to spend in the spa.”
“I need clothes.”
“I’ll have Nilsson send over some things.”
“I can’t go around looking like I’m competing for the Finnish Biathlon Olympic team.”
“Swedish. And Nilsson has better taste than both of us combined.”
She wrinkles her nose. A calculator flashes behind her eyes as she measures how much more she can get out of me.
“I’m late for an important meeting,” I warn her. “Take it or leave it.”
She throws herself back in her chair like she’s still six years old, and something squeezes my heart hard enough to cut off my breath. She fiddles with her used silverware, working the knife between the tines of her fork. But eventually she says, “Fine. I’ll take it.”
“And a phone.”
She meets my gaze directly. “Force a phone on me, and I’ll sell it by midnight.”
She will, too.
Reluctantly, I hold up both hands. “Okay. No phone.”
She gives me a solemn nod.
“But you’ll check in once a month. Call me onmyphone.” I’ve kept the same number since I got out of prison. I don’t use it for business, but I’ve made sure Nut has it memorized.
“If I remember,” she says.
“Once a month.” I tap my black American Express card against the table, reminding her of all she has hanging on the hook.
She sighs like an exasperated teenager. “Yeah. Fine. You win. I’ll call once a month.”
I take her to the front desk then, and I arrange for her room. I keep an account here for clients, and the hotel is used to my sometimes-odd requests. The woman behind the counter doesn’t bat an eye when I lay down the restrictions on Nutmeg’s spending.
When I hug my sister, my heart gets another workout because she squeezes a lot tighter than I do. I’m halfway to Dulles before I call Nilsson and tell him to send over a couple of weeks’ worth of clothes. And I’m halfway to Boston before I check messages on my business phone.
A text came in while I was offline.
Kasimir062917
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