Until I Fall

by Claudia Burgoa

  “We have two days to find Garret, interrogate him, and pay someone to kill him.” I stare at my reflection. The spray lightens my hair color enough, the scars are in place, and my eyes are a dirty blue. “On day three we escape, make our way to Mexico and finish Amador.”

  “Escaping? Is Bradley erasing the charges afterward?”

  I take a deep breath. “Not this time.”

  “Fuck, we’re going back, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we’re going to ADX Florence.” He growls. That’s one of the best maximum-security prisons in the country, and he hates it. I close the computer after receiving the all clear from Bradley. “There are three stages to this mission, and the last one includes being captured.”

  “What the fuck?” He tosses his hands up in the air. “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe he’s setting something up to finish us for good.”

  “You’re fucking insane.” I can’t tell him what’s going to happen next. The end is between Bradley and me. Things might not work as I plan and Tiago won’t be on board. I don’t have enough time to convince him. Explaining to him what will happen only minutes before the execution will be my best bet. “Trust him, trust me.”

  “Always,” he reiterates.

  I press some of the temporary tattoos I carry with me on top of my ink to modify it. The armored clothing is already tucked inside the duffle bags we hid in the runaway vehicle along with fake documents and cash. The last box I open contains eight kilos of cocaine and a thousand pills we agreed to sell to a drug dealer in town. We’re handing over one of the big sellers in town while making our way into prison. “There’s a plan b in case I have to go back home, but we’ll go back to jail—together.”

  “How’s your Mom?”

  “Hanging in there.” I fake disregard. My problems can’t affect the mission, I can’t think of what’s happening over there.

  “If you have to leave, I have your back.”

  I nod, pressing my lips together, staring at the mirror in front of me. Not recognizing that man. This man walks a fine line between crime and justice. I do bad things for the so called “greater good.” But is that true or am I just justifying my sins? Will Aspen care about my sins? The guy she deserves is the opposite of who I am while I’m working.

  I stop as my mind seems to no longer be thinking straight. The selfish side of my heart doesn’t give a fuck about who I am and wants to drag Aspen into this world, while the other wants to protect her from me and what I do. I don’t know what to do. All I know is that I love her enough that I’m willing to sacrifice everything for her. I’ve fallen for the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Her flaws, her scars, her quirks, and her inner beauty—all of her is perfect. “We’re on our way to a mission. There’s no room in my head for her. Applying makeup doesn’t imply chatting as if we’re about to walk to a photo shoot.”

  “Whipped, she has you whipped.” He slaps my back. “Come on, man. Time for the show.”

  ASPEN

  “I WANT VIVID colors.” Sophia points at a bright Mardi Gras color scheme. “New Orleans is a beautiful city and their Carnival is so much fun. We could recreate it.”

  Pinterest is my best friend. It walked me through my father’s funeral and we are using it to create the best life celebration for Sophia. She’s creating her own boards and choosing her theme. She has chosen cremation, mass, and a big party.

  “Have you called your mother?” she suddenly asks. I shake my head, searching for souvenirs. “What if she’s trying to contact you because she’s sick?”

  Burning rage hisses through my body, I hold the iPad in my hands so tight that my knuckles turn white. Any other person would be upset or sad at the possibility of their mother being sick, but not me. It angers me that her insistence is because she needs me to care for her. Just like I had to do with my father. She left me alone in the hospice, and then shoved the funeral arrangements in my hands.

  In general, I’m easy going and well-organized—like Mom taught me. So I expected that between the two of us, we would be able to arrange the funeral in only a couple of days. Except my mother didn’t want to deal with that part of the affair, or anything else that involved Dad for that matter. Until now, I thought she was a grieving wife. After analyzing every conversation we’ve had, it hit me like a tidal wave. Mom delegated Dad to my care, from hospice all the way to the grave. Well, not grave. We’re cremating him. Therefore, we have to find a suitable place to rest his ashes.

  She’s moving away from Boston. My brother and I don’t live here. No one will visit Dad. Do we want to visit Dad? Organizing a funeral is almost as hard as holding a wedding.

  “Money isn’t a problem, Aspen,” Mom informed me after she said over the phone. “I guess there won’t be a final conversation with him. Let me know about the funeral once you’ve decided what to do.”

  Me, Aspen Winter Zimmerman, has to organize an entire funeral.

  I’d rather be resetting broken bones, reading x-rays, performing emergency surgeries, or delivering babies just as the mother is being unloaded from the ambulance. Can somebody take me back to my ER? Instead of trusting my steady hands to help a patient, I’m trusting multiple boards of Pinterest to give my father one last goodbye. Brooklyn and Scarlett have been helping me create my own board.

  “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.

  Dad, what did you do?

  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.

  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 lay
ing 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.