by Maggie Thom
Donna Saunders
Born January 5, 1952
Deceased April 21, 2012
Bailey read the information one more time, wondering when life would again make sense. She looked up from the pamphlet clutched in her hand. "What do you mean, it's all paid for?"
"Look, Miss Saunders, I know this is a trying time for you." Mr. Summervold, the funeral director, patted her hand. "I am sorry for your loss."
Annoyed at his patronizing tone, Bailey sat back in her chair, effectively removing her hand and herself from any contact with him. It was either that or lean forward and punch him. She definitely had the urge to hit something.
She eyed him critically. His narrow jaw would crumple and his sleek nose would either lie over on his cheek or flatten like squished potatoes. She dropped her head into her open palms, allowing exhaustion to drag her toward the dark hole of sleep. The sound of a chair rolling on the hardwood floor yanked her back to reality. Her head jerked up and she thrust out her hand like a traffic cop. "I'm fine. Just give me some answers."
Long and lean, Mr. Sommervold awkwardly paused in his position of being half way standing up, before he sat back down. "The funeral is paid in full. You don't have to worry about any of that. The ceremony will take place here at the gravesite tomorrow, Thursday, April 23. Everything is arranged. It's all in there." He waved a languid hand at the paper in her lap.
Bailey's hand shook as she looked at the picture of her mom, whose dyed red hair stood out like a beacon. Her ruby red lipstick was in complete contrast to the dye job. Her face was pale and her aqua eyes pinched, as though full of pain. It's not the picture she would have chosen of her mom but then there weren't many to choose from. Her mom refused to let others take her picture. For Bailey's graduation, she'd made an exception. Her present had been a picture of her mom in the backyard. She'd been happy, one of those rare moments. That's the picture Bailey would have chosen.
"Everything really has been taken care of."
"Where did this photo come from?"
"You really should talk to Mr. Lund, your mom's lawyer. He made all the arrangements."
Mr. Sommervold stood, his immaculate charcoal grey suit crisp as though he'd just put it on. But she knew he'd been in it for several hours already. The lady who'd met Bailey at the door had stated Mr. Sommervold started at 6:00 a.m. and was there most days until 6:00 p.m. Funeral directors didn't get a day off. Death was always at their door.
"But how?" Bailey got to her feet, stared at her clothes and brushed her hands down her wrinkled emerald-green dress. When did I put this on? She rubbed her finger over the faux silk material. Her mom had bought it for her four or five years before. I choose to wear it for the first time when you can't see it? She rubbed her forehead, squeezing hard to push away the headache pounding her skull.
Everything that hadn't been right between them came rushing to the surface. Stopping the flow of memories took some effort. The tears that filled her eyes took her by surprise. Where had they come from? She'd cried enough over the last two days to fill a dam. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Not now. Not now. Not now. Just let me get through this.
"Are you all right?"
Stupid question, if I laugh, will he think I've cracked up? She felt like she was. The 2:00 a.m. phone call she'd received about forty-eight hours before hadn't been what she'd expected. Her mom saying their fight had gone far enough and Bailey should grow up and let it go...yes. She was all right with that. Being told her mom was dead?no. She'd caught the first flight out of Victoria and landed in Calgary, rented a car and headed to Foothills Hospital where she'd learned her mom's heart had given out. The doctors had done everything they could but couldn't explain how that could happen to a woman at age sixty. It just sometimes did. That she'd had heart problems for several months hadn't helped.
Bailey wasn't sure what had hit her harder-her mom being dead, or her mom having health problems and not sharing that with her.
Straightening, she squared her shoulders. "Just tell me who put out the money to pay for my mom's funeral. Who organized it? It doesn't make any sense." The problem was that her mom had no friends, just Bailey.
Mr. Sommervold pushed up his round wire-rimmed glasses. She'd already noticed that they had a tendency to slide down his nose.
"I'm not leaving without answers."
The door opened, his assistant, a stunning auburn-haired woman, poked her head in. "Mr. Sommervold, the Greenings are here. They have a few things they'd like to discuss with you before the funeral this afternoon."
Solemn-faced, he nodded then turned to face Bailey. "I don't know who paid for it. Mr. Lund sent me a letter requesting all that she wanted for a funeral. He also provided a second letter." He opened the folder in front of him, pulled out an envelope, closed the file and dropped it into the bottom drawer of his desk. After a short hesitation, he slid the envelope across to Bailey.
She stared at him for a full minute before reaching out and picking it up. Her name was scrawled across it in her mother's handwriting. She pressed it between her palms.
"I'm sure this will answer some of your questions. For any others you have, you'll need to talk to Mr. Lund. Here's his business card."
Bailey stared at the envelope. Would it give her the answers she needed?
"Now if you'll excuse me. I have other clients I need to see."
She jerked up her head. Mr. Sommervold was standing in the open doorway, obviously waiting for her to leave. A bit dazed, she stood and walked past him to the main foyer, where she stopped.
Everything seemed surreal. Even the rich, immaculate oak entranceway was too perfect, too daunting. Soft hymn music drifted through the building. Quiet voices, whispered, reverent tones heard only at solemn times, drifted to her. They made everything more unreal.
She felt like a character in dream. A bad one. An unexpected shiver shook her out of her reverie.
She strode out of the building to her rented Hyundai. Once inside she stared at the paper clenched in her left hand. There were designs and pictures all over the back of the envelope. Many would dismiss them as doodles but Bailey knew better. She just wasn't prepared to decipher what her mom couldn't tell her straight out. Tracing her finger absently over the heart that had three stick figures within it made her pause, for it looked like a family.
Are you saying you'd wished Dad had been in my life? Whoever he was.
Realizing that she wasn't in any space to deal with what that could mean, she shook off those thoughts. Sliding her finger under the edge she worked her way across the top, ripping it open. She pulled out the slim, folded piece of paper inside.
Bailey, I know you have a lot of questions. That's just the way you are. You deserve the answers but I can only give you some. I planned my own funeral so that it would be one less worry for you. Just go back to the life you had. Keep helping the poor families. I am very proud of you, Bailey. I'm sorry for all the misunderstandings between us. They're all my fault. Not yours. You're a good girl, one any family would be proud of. It's a miracle that you came into my life. I love you? although I don't really have the right.
Mom
Bailey crumpled the paper in one hand as her tears obscured her vision. Why had she never cleared up that lie about her career?
CHAPTER THREE