by Amelia Wilde
“Creepy,” I mutter, their gazes move to me and I turn my laptop so I can show them the small silver souvenir. Scribbling no sharing ashes on my notebook. “Keychain size urns to give as a souvenir.”
Scarlett hands me her car keys. “Thank you for coming over, here is a piece of my father.” I curl my fingers letting the keys drop as I imagine those being ashes. “Sorry, babe, I didn’t want to ban it before I tried it.”
“Memorial garden seeds? We can have a beautiful poem and ask them to plant them in memory of your father,” Brooklyn suggests handing me her iPad.
“Dad wasn’t a flowers and chocolate kind of guy.” I click on a “how to plan a funeral” link. The first line adds another ten pounds of weight to my back. “Inform family, friends, and coworkers by calling or sending a short email. The second line says that most people will come around and offer to help if I accomplish step one.”
“We are here, aren’t we?” Brooklyn hands me her tablet. “Look, I suggest you go with the white carnations and roses arrangements, everyone likes roses.”
“Not me,” Scarlett protests.
“I anticipate that he won’t care.” Scarlett exhales loudly. Brynn and I glare at her. “Not even a smile? Wow. You people are a tough crowd to entertain. What else can we do to make this easier on you, Aspen?”
“Come with me to visit the funeral director?” Reclining my head against the chair, I close my eyes for a split second. “Mom should’ve told me from the beginning that she wasn’t going to help me. I don’t mind doing it, I resent that she blindsided me.”
“Why do you think she’s behaving like this?” Brooklyn peeks over my shoulder to look at my screen.
“She loves him so much that the thought of not having him around anymore is crashing her soul?” Once I hear myself, I understand my line is over the top, but I want to believe that much. Mom doesn’t show emotions. It’s hard to know what she’s thinking and what I should expect when it comes to Dad’s passing.
“Deep.” Brooklyn sighs. “That’s the kind of love I want to find, unconditional, endless, and fearless. A man who I want to be with.”
“Never need,” I recall a book we once read. “A man should be wanted, but a woman must be aware that she doesn’t need a man to survive.”
“Look, this is a nice way to set the biography.” Brynn points at the picture of a woman by the name of Aida LaGrange and her funeral program card. The journey of a woman who lived almost ninety-two years. From her first job to her marriage, children and when she met Jesus. “We can order it from Etsy, there’s a form we can fill out.”
Full name, place, and date of birth, job, if married the spouse along with the wedding date. If children, names. Optional: first job, hobbies, teams, education, favorite teams. The ‘optional’ overwhelms me. Fresh tears spill over with the realization that I have no idea how to fill out some of those spaces. Everything before Mom is unknown to me—except that he were from Boston and had a girlfriend named Helena who he loved. Where was his first job? Perhaps in the old grocery store, or maybe he didn’t work before going to college? When or how did he meet Mom? Sometime in New York City? My parent’s never shared their stories with us, I think. Did they?
The emptiness inside my heart intensifies.
I balance my head between both hands. What if he told us about them, but we never paid attention to those conversations? If I did or didn’t doesn’t matter anymore because we won’t have the chance to share another meal. Unable to fight back the onslaught of emotion, I release a guttural cry. He won’t be the first call on my birthday. We won’t spend future holidays together.
What if that letter he left has the answers I need? More tears roll down as my lungs stop functioning, I can’t imagine reading his last words. My heart isn’t ready to let Dad go. Scarlett fumbles for the tissue box on top of the table. I snatch one and blow my nose, then take a second one dabbing the corners of my eyes. Brooklyn and Scarlett hug me simultaneously, assuring me they have my back.
“Miss Zimmerman.” Dad’s lawyer enters the conference room. “Thank you for letting us know that you’d be a few minutes late. Now that we are all here, I will be explaining why I called you.”
“To read the will,” Mom offers. “Please continue.”
“Afraid that’s not how it works, ma’am,” the attorney says. His assistant hands each of us a package. “I’m here to name the executor and give each of you a copy of the will. There have been a couple of modifications throughout the years. You now have in your hands a copy of the last will and testament made by Jonathan Zimmerman.”
Last Will and Testament of Jonathan H. Zimmerman
I speed read through the beginning finding what Dad mentioned the last time we spoke.
Article 4
Executor and administrative powers
I nominate my daughter, Aspen Winters Zimmerman, to serve as Executor of my state.
Mom chuckles. “He loved to have the last word and humiliate me. This is such a Jonathan thing to do. Leaving his youngest child as the executor. Another way to remind me he didn’t love me.” She drops the papers on the table, her amber eyes focused on me. “I don’t need his money. I have my own. You can keep everything.”
Stunned, I rise from my seat taking my package and head to the door. Then, turning around I ask the only questions I need to for now. “After reading it, should I make sure every item is disbursed accordingly, and that’s all?”
“Exactly.” The lawyer nods.
“Any questions, I should contact you?”
He nods once more. His skeptical look matches my mother’s. “There’s a clause where he explains some letter he left. You should know where it is, and how to proceed.”
“Things can’t get any more fucked up, can they?”
“Aspen, language,” Mom chastises me.
“Mom, I came back home because you needed help, and for the past couple of weeks, I’ve overseen everything. You disappeared on me. My mother only shows up when I need to be reprimanded, like a child.” I wave the folder like a flag. “While you played victim at home, I sat by Dad’s deathbed. Do you care if I even slept during that time? No, you ordered me around. ‘Throw a funeral, Aspen, I can’t because…’ why couldn’t you? Was it because you were grieving, celebrating, or you just don’t give a fuckytifuck about the man who you were married to for thirty-six years?”
She stiffens, scrunches her nose and looks at Austin. “Would you mind taking me home, Son?”
They stand up, shake hands with the lawyer and walk toward me. “I gave that man forty years of my life, Aspen.” She tilts her chin slightly; her eyes meet mine. “Forty years, two children, and I still had to put up with him. The man you called Daddy wasn’t as perfect as you think.”
She brushes a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Why did I hand you the responsibility of your father? Because I knew you would handle his last days and his remains with love. In the end, even the honorable Jonathan Zimmerman deserved respect and someone who would show him love. The respect I couldn’t give him anymore.” Her hand lifts, caressing my jaw as if I were a little girl. “No one escaped from his tyranny. Jonathan hurt everyone he knew, and most of all the ones he loved. I learned after a while that just because he spent time nursing your wounds, it didn’t mean he’d hurt you unintentionally. Everything he did was premeditated. You’re strong, brave, and forgiven. I wonder what you’ll do when you find out each and every one of his lies.”
My lungs stop functioning. Dad asked me not to hate him when I found out, but what is it that he did?
“I am not the bad guy, baby girl. Giving you the responsibility was an act of kindness toward him.” She kisses my cheek and departs the office gracefully, leaving me cold.
“Aussie, what is she talking about?” He shrugs, kissing my cheek and leaving me behind.
I lean against the wall, squeezing my eyelids closed against the force of emotions threatening to break me at any moment. First Michael, now my father.
The big envelope I retrieved from his safety deposit box last week remains in my hotel room, tucked inside my luggage. I’m not ready to learn what Dad had to tell me.
Sophia’s looking at me, wondering what happened but also hinting that I might not have much time with my mother. Anderson said it too, “You have one parent left.”
Maybe he’s right. Why not try to rebuild the bridge? It’s not about who burnt it down, what matters is that you reach out to her. Whatever happened, it can be fixed.
Can it?
There’s so much resentment in my heart. Mom wasn’t the nurturing kind, not like Dad. In my eyes, it was her who failed to love my father the way he deserved. But the thing is that she’s not the only bridge in my life that’s damaged. Scarlett and I went from calling each other daily to a painful silence. I miss her.
“I’ll call her later tonight,” I say out loud. I don’t know if I’m referring to Scarlett or my mother. Either way, one of them will get a call from me. “How about pens? Mugs?”
“No, you have to give away something that will last long.”
Searching through Pinterest, we continue deciding what to do with her house and her things. All her clothes should go to charity. Anderson should decide what to do with the furniture. He owns the house now. I refrain from asking why she's leaving the house to him and not dividing it in equal parts.
“Tomorrow let’s start sorting my thing,” she says. “Pictures, gradeschool artwork and everything I’ve collected throughout the years.”
Some will go to charity, others to Anderson or Carter, and a few for her grandchildren. Some lucky children who are already loved by one of the most perfect woman I’ve ever known. For a second, I think about them. The kids Anderson talked about having with “the right woman.” That was the first time baby fever disappeared within hours. Not because I didn’t want a baby or because I can’t see myself expecting Anderson’s baby. It’s the fear of how much I wished everything with him.
I loved Michael with all my heart. We were together for two years before we started talking about forever. With Anderson, it hasn’t taken long; and the way I love him is…it scares me how much I care for him. I panicked at the realization of being the mother of those children he wants. It’s too soon, too fast, and it feels like a betrayal to the man I promised to always love.
30
Aspen
Me: I love you. Sorry for disappearing on you.
Scarlett: I hate you.
Me: You don’t.
Scarlett: No, I don’t. You should hate me.
A knot forms in my throat, as my heart stops. Why could I possibly hate her? “What do you think, Hugo?” He’s laying on top of my bed. Anderson visited her ranch once already, what are the chances that he visited again and they…
Me: Why?
Scarlett: You lost him too. I’ve never let you mourn Michael. I was never there for you.
Me: That’s in the past.
Scarlett: It was wrong. All these years I’ve behaved as if I was the only one who should be in pain. I understand why you stopped talking to me.
Scarlett: That doesn’t mean that I like it.
Me: It’s not …
I stop typing the explanation of why I’ve avoided her for the past few weeks. It isn’t time to open the box and let all the thoughts inside out into the world. Not when I have to deal with Mom, and the loss of Sophia is so freaking close.
Me: Sorry, I won’t let it happen again. We need to talk but not now.
Scarlett: You’re not coming to the party, are you?
Me: No, sorry.
Scarlett: Mike would’ve made you his excuse to skip his own party. He did that a lot. I think that’s why Mom hates you.
Me: He adored you. You were his little sister, the best little sister he could’ve asked for.
Scarlett: Did he say that?
Me: Often, except when you were being a pain in the ass.
Scarlett: Thank you, I know he loved you too. Now can you tell me the other reason why you’re avoiding me?
Me: Soon. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.
Scarlett: I can live with that for now. Just know that for what Brynn says, he seems like a good guy.
Me: Who?
Scarlett: Anderson.
Me: I don’t want to talk about it.
Scarlett: I’ll be here when you’re ready.
Loving Anderson feels like a betrayal to everything I promised to Michael. It shouldn’t.
Me: TTYS, I’m calling Mom.
Scarlett: Are you dying?
Me: No, why?
Scarlett: Sounds like you’re trying to make amends before leaving for a long trip or…please don’t leave me.
Me: No, I just feel like it’s time to try to fix what’s broken in my life.
Scarlett: Good luck, babe. Call if you need me. I know how cold she can be.
Me: Thank you.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it, Hugo?”
“Woof!”
“I agree, boy. Time to call my mother.”
“You’ve reached Addison Zimmerman. At the moment I can’t come to the phone, but leave a message after the beep.”
“Mom, it’s me, Aspen.” My voice sounds childish, my heart is beating fast at the idea of my mother going through the same pain Dad did. What if I let things go too far? She did too. That’s not the point. Even when we both should’ve tried harder to have a better relationship, there’s no point in blaming each other. “I…I guess I’ll try back later. Please, let me know if you’re well. Like you’re not sick, or you know…just call me.”
Hugo nuzzles my leg, my phone buzzes. Mom.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Aspen, sweetie,” she sighs in relief. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve been busy.” The excuse comes automatically without a question.
“I understand, that’s why I never call this phone. You’re a doctor.”
“What does that mean?” I didn’t intend to sound defensive, but I don’t understand. She never uses my cell phone because I am a doctor?
“I would hate to interrupt you in the middle of work, that’s what it means.” She exhales in frustration. “Sorry, I’m not your father. And I don’t know how to talk to you the way he did. I don’t mean to yell.”
“I know,” I speak in the smallest voice possible. A thirty-three-year-old woman still cowards at her mother’s loud voice.
“But I love you.”
“I know.”
“My family insisted that I should toughen you up; teach you to use your voice and stop you from hiding when things were scary for you.” She tried so hard to teach me her ways and I just couldn’t. “Instead, I should’ve learned how to protect you and how to speak softer—at least to you.”
“How are you, Mom?” I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated her and her family. Learning to deal with them helped me in the ER. Maybe it’s a conversation for another day. Tonight, I want to find out what is going on with her. “Are you sick?”
“No. I’m healthy as a horse. Why would you ask that?”
“You’ve been calling daily, Mom. That’s not something you do.”
“Well, I promised to be there for you when I healed,” she says, as we had agreed to meet after her two o’clock appointment. As if nothing had happened between us; as if she didn’t leave me alone while Dad was dying. “To apologize, I didn’t think about your loss. Things were so bad between your father and me that I just wanted to be away from him. So I dumped him on you.”
I remain silent, swallowing back the tears and the nasty words I’ve saved for her. If it hadn’t been for my best friends, my sisters—my family—I don’t know if I could’ve gotten through it. Walter, my godfather, tried his best. But like me, he had to deal with the stuff Dad left behind. My brother and my father had a terrible relationship. In a way, it was just Dad and me, and that’s how he departed this world. Apparently I was the only person who loved
him and remained by his side until the end.
“Yeah, well. It happened years ago.”
“Yes, and our relationship continues to deteriorate, Aspen. I don’t want that.” She laughs nervously in a way I don’t understand. “I adored you from the moment I conceived you, and knowing you were going to be a girl filled me with joy. It pained me that I couldn’t understand you, that your father was the only one who got through to you. Everything I tried pushed you further away from me. The link between us was your dad. And I hated him.”
She hated him? Since when and why stay for the sake of the children? “Why didn’t you divorce him?”
“It’s a long story, I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about us.”
“Mom, I love you. Even when I don’t get it, I love you,” I assert, thinking carefully about my next words. A few hours ago, I believed this was the best time to mend our relationship. Now, I can feel that our conversation is going to hit me emotionally on a level I can’t deal with. Not when I’m losing Sophia. The woman who I’ve leaned on for the last couple of years. “Right now isn’t the right time, not for me.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” I remain quiet. “Walter mentioned you’re planning on selling the house in Maine. Do you need money?”
“Brynn and I are planning on opening a private practice,” I explain, excited by our project. The money we can get from the sale of Maine will help a lot. We still need more, but that’s what loans are for. “It’s coming along.”
“Pediatrics?”
“Yes.”
She sighs, and I wonder if she feels that the conversation is strained and we’re avoiding subjects. Should we yell at each other? No, I couldn’t.
“What’s your news?” I ask her. “Austin said you had something going on.”
“A few things. We opened a restaurant, Latin America cuisine.” Who is we? Her and my grandparents? It doesn’t matter, at least she’s doing something with her life. I close my eyes and I can see it effortlessly. Mom in the middle of a kitchen ordering people around, mixing spices, stirring the sauce and serving a beautiful plate of picadillo. “It’s new. I’d love if you and Austin could come to visit. It’s been so long since the last time I saw you. Are you still single?”