by Sarah Denier
“Now? I can think of a million better times for you to have been there for me. Now is too late. Too late for all of it, Ben.” I emphasize his name with sarcasm.
“We have a lot to talk about Kimber and time to do it in.”
“I don’t want your time. But there’s something you probably want, right? You think you’d come here, play daddy and get while the gettin’ is good?”
“What?”
“Money!” I take a step towards him. Luke mimics my movement.
“No. Of course not!” My father replies defensively.
“I think it’s time to go, Mr. Knowl.”
Luke’s interference aggravates my father. He stands ridged and arrogant.
“Who do you think you are, that you can tell me when to go?”
“This memorial was by invitation only for friends and family.” Luke retorts not the least bit intimidated.
“I’m her father and Marie was my wife. Hell! I have more of a right to be here than you do son.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Tommy and Joel as they enter the room. They are ready to help Luke escort my father out if needed. As much as I would like Luke to knock my father’s lights out, I can’t allow it. I take hold of Luke’s arm and nudge him back a few steps. This is my fight not his.
“I’m the only family you have now Kimber. Like it or not. That’s how it is.”
I look at my father, bewildered by what a gift he thinks his DNA is.
“I’d rather not have family at all then. Besides, I have an aunt remember?”
“Lena? The one who is locked up in a psyche ward in New York because she claims she can see the future? That’s hardly family Kimber. You’ve never even met her?”
He is right. I never had the chance to meet my aunt but I will not allow him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“You’re wrong to assume you know anything about me.”
“I’m not I just doubt Marie would bring you to that type of environment.”
“None of this matters. I’m done. I want you out. Go back to where you came and never show your face to me again.”
“I’ve always cared, don’t think I haven’t.” My father pleads with me. His pleas fall ten years too late.
“I don’t care! Get out!”
By now I’ve drawn the rooms attention. Even people who are not in the room could hear me.
“You can’t deny me the right to say goodbye to my wife.”
“Ex-wife! And you denied yourself that right when you decided that the family thing was too much and like a chicken you turned your back on us and left!”
He looks at me, opens his mouth to speak but decides against it. With nothing more to say, he storms past Luke and makes his way to the door. I inhale deeply through my nose, close my eyes and try to forget my father’s face and our prominent resemblance, especially in his brown eyes.
“Are you ok sweetie?” Amber asks. I’m so sick of that question.
“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that. What a jerk.” Tiffany says as she and Amber embrace me.
I want to scream, yell and cry from the frustration my father has caused and forced me to relive by his appearance but I don’t. Today my tears will fall for no one else but my mother.
“You ready to get things started?” Tommy asks gesturing to the front of the room.
It’s in this moment I realize what this room really is. How I’ve dread the thought of standing in it. I feel forced to realize the life I once had and enjoyed is now all but a lost memory. Forced to see it for all it has become. All it will soon be. I feel as though time races past me. Tomorrow could be next year and all that will matter is this moment and the way this room looks, feels, smells. This place will always be the ending to every memory I have of my mother. Mentally my mind pleads with me to flee while my heart urges me to stay. Grief swells inside of me but through the surface breaks an incomplete feeling. A feeling of needing something more than the air I breathe. As bad as it hurts, I know it’s not just my mother my body feels the need to hold on to.
I avert my eyes back to the front of the room. A dozen wreaths made of colorful flowers wear sashes declaring sympathy and warm regards. Their aroma is the only comfort they truly bring. A small slender table similar to the one in the front entrance is draped in a white lace cloth. Several pictures of my mother throughout her life surround her white gold urn on the table. The sight of it, of her, of what is left, could have stolen my soul it leaves me so weak. I drag my feet down this beaten path to reality, searching for stability I will not find.
I take a seat in the first row. Luke and Amber sit on either side of me. I try to distract myself by recalling things that need to be done at home, whose birthday is next and if I had a puppy what would I name it. I try to focus on happy moments instead of the agonizing one I live in now. In the end, the grief will always find me and take hold.
My hands and legs start trembling, my jaw falls open, breathing stops. I grab my head as the top part of my body falls over onto my legs. “No. No.” I’m barely able to squeal as I rock back and forth. I sob uncontrollably taking in gasps of air when I remember to breathe. I feel hands on my shoulders and back. No one tries to comfort me. They know it’s useless.
A strong stabbing sensation in my chest feels as though my heart is being removed. I am hollow and empty. I could die right here, right now and not care.
“Kimber, I’m Father Preston.”
I raise my head enough to meet Father Preston’s eyes as he kneels in front of me. No matter how many times I blink my eyes the tears that fill them make Father Preston’s face a blurred water ball.
“You must remember child, the lord does not forsake us. Nor will he give us more then we can bear. I know your heart is full of torment and pain but find peace in knowing your mother will always be with you and love you.”
Lies! I scream in my head. I know nothing will comfort me now. I nod to Father Preston.
He places his hand on my head as he prays. “Father look over your child in her time of need. Bless her and save her. Keep her in your grace. Amen.” He stands and takes his place in the center of the room.
With all the strength I can muster, I raise my head and rest it on Amber’s shoulder. Luke takes my left hand in his. As Father Preston starts his sermon the room becomes quiet. He speaks of how my mother was an activist against poverty and proudly walked with breast cancer survivors to support their cause. When he finishes he asks if I would like to say a few words on my mother’s behalf. Inhaling deeply I will my legs to support me as I stand. I dig as deep as I can but still I feel as though my body will betray me. I think of the confidence my mother emanated and tell myself, for her I can.
I’ve never been good at public speaking and now was no exception. So many eyes staring at me, waiting for what I will say. I clear my throat and look down at my hands as I fiddle with my nails. Hoping the strain in my voice will be less noticeable, I speak softly.
“My mother was everything to me. She’s was my hero, my inspiration, my rock. She never said never. She wasn’t afraid to look fear in the eye. She found a will for every way. She leaves behind a legacy impossible to live up to.” I pause having to fight the hysteria cramping my throat. “I’ll never get the time I’ve lost with her back. I’ll always have this emptiness. She is—was— my best friend. I love and miss her so much.” My body trembles beyond my control I cannot hold it together any longer. “Thank you.” I say ending my eulogy. I take a seat as everyone pays their last respects before exiting the room.
I do not stand at the entrance of the funeral home thanking people and hearing them say how sorry they are for me. I do not need the pity they wish to offer me. Their sympathy is useless to me. Instead, I stay sitting in the viewing room.
I cannot form a single thought as I stare aimlessly at the maroon carpet as though it offers me some kind of guidance. I feel like I have been sucked into nothingness. I hardly notice Tiffany’s presence when she sits next to me. I do not
have to look directly at her to see the silent tears that fall from her eyes.
“I could never be as strong as you. You spoke so beautifully.”
I know she offers comfort but I will not find it today. This I have already accepted.
“I didn’t want to come here today. I knew it would mean that everything wasn’t just a bad dream. Now I don’t want to leave.” I sigh. “I said goodbye to her that morning but this is different. This is the end of the road. Now what? Where am I supposed to go from here?”
I see how bad Tiffany wishes she could give a valid answer. It does not matter. No words could lift me from this dark place. I turn my eyes back down to the floor. “Can you just give me a minute?”
Tiffany hesitates but once she sees the insignificance in whatever she would have said she simply nods.
I keep no track of time while I sit alone in the room with my mother’s urn. I think back on the past four months. I’ve heard people say that with change comes growth. I try to think of what growth I could have accomplished in my insufferable change. What good comes from death? I think if anything, it hinders my growth. I feel comfortable and safe with living in the past. Everything I know and love is there. Why venture into an uncertain future that asks that I be open to sustain future loss and pain. I can be a skeptic. I can look at the world and not see its beauty. I can appreciate that heartache lasts longer than love. One thing that will never make sense to me is that we must find acceptance in the unacceptable. That when the ones we love die we are unable to bargain for their lives.
Hours could have passed. I know I can no longer stay here. Although I’m not truly ready, I stand letting the day I never wished to encounter finally have its end. I take my mother in my arms, hold her urn close to my chest and whisper to her softly, “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Three
IN THE WEEKS following my mother’s memorial, my friends make it a point to make sure I’m not alone. We spend the days by my pool, afternoon’s eating take out and the nights watching movies or playing board games. Even with all this, with life seemingly going somewhere, moving on does not seem like a realistic option.
Against my gut, I feel the need to make an honest attempt to enjoy myself. When Amber calls Friday morning to invite me to the beach I accept. But just as I’ve learned, every up becomes a push back. With an unexpected voicemail from a Robert Blake from Blake and Associates regarding my mother’s will, I cancel my plans. I schedule an immediate meeting with Mr. Blake at his Tampa office.
My mother was savvy and a planner. I do not know why I did not anticipate her having a legal will. To say I’m eager to get the meeting with Mr. Blake over and done with would be a huge understatement.
The drive to Mr. Blake’s office takes longer than the normal half an hour commute to Tampa. The clock in my car reads four fifty p.m. It’s the beginning of rush hour. Once over the Howard Franklin Bridge, which connects my home city of Saint Petersburg to Tampa, the traffic is lighter and thanks to my GPS, I find Mr. Blake’s office.
When I arrive, I park my black 335i BMW, that was a graduation present from my mother, around back. Nervous butterflies swarm in my stomach.
As I walk through the office entrance, the waiting room is empty. A young blond woman sits behind a tall desk with small fake plants on either side.
As I approach, I tell the blond woman, “I’m here to see Mr. Blake.”
“Your name, please.”
“Kimber Knowl.”
“One moment.” She smiles as she picks up the phone informing Mr. Blake of my arrival. “Ok. This way please.” Rising from behind her desk, she leads me down a long hallway toward two large wooden doors. She pushes the right one open and holds her hand out motioning for me to enter.
Mr. Blake’s office is set up to appear more as a large living room rather than an office. It’s furnished with a large beige couch with a matching loveseat, law books stacked neatly in bookcases, several diplomas hanging on the white walls, and a large bay window framed with long and plush creamy peach drapes. The comfortable warm feeling provided by the office atmosphere does not make the business taking place any less difficult.
Behind a mahogany desk stands Mr. Blake waiting to greet me. He is short for a man and a little on the heavy side. His face is pudgy, his nose is stumpy and pig like. His green eyes are large and slightly too big for his face. He appears to be in his late fifties and missing the majority of his hair on the top of his head.
“Kimber, I’m very sorry for your loss. I wish we weren’t meeting so soon.” He says in a raspy broken voice. The kind of voice you immediately associate with too many years spent smoking cigarettes or perhaps cigars in his case.
Forcing a smile, I shake his hand. Mr. Blake gestures for me to take a seat in one of his brown leather chairs. I do.
Mr. Blake wastes no time in getting to the point of our meeting. “There’s quite a lot to go over. Such as stocks, bonds, CD’s, an IRA, things like that. I took the liberty of printing out the different percentages of the inheritance. It’ll be divided as your mother wished. These numbers are final unless you decide to sell the house.”
“Why would I sell my home?”
“I’m not suggesting you do. Your mother planned for every scenario. In this circumstance, she thought perhaps you’d downsize to something smaller and more comfortable, affordable. She had it appraised last year. With the prime location and condition the home is in, along with the neighborhood, it was valued at three hundred and fifty four thousand.”
“What?” I ask utterly dumbfounded. I was never good at numbers. My low C average in Algebra spoke for itself. Even though I know how large the number is, I can’t picture it in my mind.
“It could be more. I’m not sure. The real estate market is always fluctuating.” Mr. Blake continues while I try to keep up with him. He talks about percentages, accounts, and a million other things while pointing at the sheets of paper that sit in front of me. I have no idea what any of it means. Although I act as if I do, shaking my head and adding in an “ok” and “ah ha” every other word. It’s not until the end that he really catches my attention. “All in all you stand to inherit all of your mother’s personal belongings and two point six million dollars. This includes any residuals from the Defense Attorney’s office.”
I swallow hard. That cannot be right.
“I’m sorry; did you say two point six million? How is that possible?”
Mr. Blake smiles widely. His teeth are straight but tarnished. “Your mother had a very well known reputation. Marie was a heavy hitter. When you are at the top of your game, they pay big. I know it’s a lot of money for an eighteen year old but as thorough as your mother was, the money should last quite a while. Now, I’ve made sure to dot every I and cross every T so if you would just sign, date and initial where the tabs are I can put all this in motion and have it settled within a week or two.”
Mr. Blake passes the official papers to me. Thankfully, my mother taught me a thing or two when it came to signing my name on anything legally binding. “No matter who or what it is Kimber always read every line before you sign your name.” I heed my mother’s advice. Mr. Blake waits impatiently, shifting in his seat and shuffling through papers on his desk. When I am satisfied everything is in place, although I don’t really understand all the legal mumbo jumbo, I sign my name next to my mothers on all the X’s marked with tabs. As I slid the papers back over to Mr. Blake, he pulls an envelope from his desk drawer.
“She left this for you so you’d have some money for the next few days while the paper work is processed.”
I take the enveloped card from Mr. Blake and unfold the check inside. It’s blank. Attached to the right corner is a small post-it that reads, “Use wisely, no shoes. Love ya kiddo.”
My throat tightens as tears form in my eyes. I stare at the words in my mother’s handwriting. I close my eyes and clear my throat hoping the tightness will loosen as I try to speak. “Thank you.” I stand and hurry from the office
to my car.
Chapter Four
I LAY IN my bed later that night. I can’t get what Mr. Blake said out of my head. Two point six million. All the number does is remind me of the hours and cases taken on by her that accumulated that much money. All those minutes and hours that added up to years is what that money has already cost me. I know my mother had a plan for me, I just wish I could see it.
As the dream starts taking shape in my mind, it feels too vivid. Almost as though I’m not asleep at all. I stand alone in an unfamiliar place that I cannot make out. I think I stand in a room but it’s too distorted and blurred maybe by my own vision. I pick one area to focus on but nothing, no matter how hard I try, will appear clear. I feel like clouds have formed in my eyes.
As I stand there, I’m overcome with a strange sensation. As if someone’s energy pulsates against my back. At first I feel the urge to be frightened, though I do not feel threatened. I turn slowly seeing in the distance what looks to be a tall man walking towards me. There is something about him I cannot place but I feel safe knowing he is here.
As he approaches, I stay very still. Once he reaches me, we stand facing one another. I realize that my eyes are not the reason for the fogginess. It’s him. Everything about and around him is a blurred, like I’m looking through a plastic bag. I try so hard to make out the form of his face. Not one detail is clear. Strangely, I find myself drawn to him. My heart flutters as he reaches his hand out toward me. I try to take it but without warning, he starts to pull away. I continue to reach for him as he threatens to leave. It’s no use. Within seconds he fades away into nothing.
As I wake in the morning, the dream is fresh on my mind. Had it not seemed so strange I would be convinced it actually happened. The more I think of it the less sense it makes.