When he says my name, Mom and the suited guy both stop speaking and swivel their heads to look at me. The man stands first, stepping toward me with a smile I think is meant to be reassuring and his hand outstretched. I look at him for a long moment before warily reaching out to shake his hand.
“You must be Chelsea,” he says warmly. When he smiles, his whole faces crinkles, and I notice that his hair is streaked with silvery-gray. It gives him a dignified air. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Terry Goldman.”
“Mr. Goldman is our lawyer,” Mom explains, rising to her feet and twisting her hands. “We thought it’d be a good idea for him to meet with you.”
Mr. Goldman relinquishes my hand and turns to her. “Why don’t I speak to Chelsea privately?”
Mom hesitates. “Is that necessary?” she asks.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Dad says from his place by the wall. He walks over to Mom and touches a hand to her back. “Come on. We’ll wait in the kitchen.”
Mr. Goldman waits until they’ve cleared the room to sit back down on the couch. He gestures to the spot next to him, and I slowly shrug out of my jacket and sit down. I don’t know what exactly this is all about, but I don’t have a good feeling about any of it.
“Here,” he says, handing me a yellow legal pad and a pen. Off of my confused look, he adds, “If you have any questions for me, you can write them down. Your parents told me about your…social experiment. They say you’ve gone over a month without speaking. That’s a pretty impressive feat.” He chuckles. “I have two daughters. They’re older than you, but I remember them at your age. Could talk your ear off. Still can, really, but back then, there were times I would’ve paid for just one day of blessed quiet.”
There’s something disarming about his tone, an easy warmth that puts me a little at ease despite myself. I glance over at the open manila folder and the papers inside it. I can’t read them from here, but they look like some sort of legal documents.