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Authors: Arianne Richmonde
Tags: Fiction
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“Oh yes?”
“Just . . . I understand. I lost my mom to cancer and . . . well . . . you’re doing the right thing going to see your dad.”
Ruth is a good person, however quirky, Sylvia mused. They both knew what it was like to lose a mother to that insidious disease. She thought about the tragedy of her dad, and prayed he would make it through. She reflected on the vulnerability of her relationship with Tommy, and how she was about to leave the most important person in her life: Grace.
Trusting her to someone outside the family.
AS SOON AS SHE landed, Sylvia could feel disaster thick like syrup. She knew something was wrong. It was confirmed in Melinda’s heavy, red-lidded eyes. Sylvia’s dad, she told her in a whisper, had just died.
Melinda shielded her with her plump arms as Sylvia’s lungs began to heave with disappointment. Why, oh why hadn’t her father had more strength? She ached for him—why hadn’t she been there sooner? Why hadn’t she read the signs? She cried for her mother, too, for the deep love her parents shared during their forty-year marriage. If Heaven came through and wasn’t just a myth, her dad would at least be reunited with the love of his life.
The drive from the airport felt surreal, as if everything was unraveling in slow motion—as if this were all happening to someone else. Melinda was babbling, words tumbling out of her mouth incoherently. She spoke several times about Aunt Marcy’s upcoming mole removal operation—which was precautionary, she explained, because the mole was benign—and the guilt she felt about not being able to be there for her. The older parents got, the more like children they seemed. Just vulnerable beings without all the answers who needed looking after.
They drove along for several miles, each in their own world, each suffering from the wound of loss. The fact that Sylvia’s father took his own life was a bludgeon to them both, not just Sylvia. It was Melinda who sat on her father’s knee when they were girls, Melinda whom he taught to play golf, Melinda who used to chat to him about the stock exchange.
“I just can’t believe dad didn’t wait,” Sylvia lamented, staring out of the car window, focusing on nothing, the blur of buildings flashing past her in a haze.
Melinda blinked away a deluge of tears. “I know, honey. Life can be so unfair sometimes.”
There was a long silence and then Melinda said, “Sylvie, I made a promise to your dad recently—something you and I need to discuss.”
“A promise?”
“We do need to talk about financial stuff—he worried about that—although now really isn’t the time, so remind me later.”
“Go on, then, spill it.”
Melinda swerved, the car nicking the curb. “Later. We can discuss this later. Just don’t let me forget, is all.”
“Whatever it is I need to deal with, I might as well know right now.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re feeling better,” Melinda croaked.
They drove on in more silence, until Sylvia blurted out—in order to break the pain of death—“Just tell me what I have to sort out already, and I’ll get it done.”
Tears trickled down Melinda’s round cheeks, her eyes on the road ahead, but she almost careened into the bumper of the car in front of her. “There’s a shit load of paperwork to deal with. Bonds et cetera, a lot to sort through.”
Sylvia blew her nose. Her head felt swollen as if she had the flu. She glugged down some water which she’d bought at the airport.
Melinda said, “The good news is that you’ve got that money in your joint account offshore.”
Sylvia looked blank.
“The account you have together in Guatemala. You remember? You must be getting bank statements every month and be able to go online and manage your money.”
“That’s right, I forgot, we have a joint account.” Sylvia remembered now. Her dad had been smart. He’d stashed his savings in an account with her name on it, too. Melinda was right; she
“Just . . . I understand. I lost my mom to cancer and . . . well . . . you’re doing the right thing going to see your dad.”
Ruth is a good person, however quirky, Sylvia mused. They both knew what it was like to lose a mother to that insidious disease. She thought about the tragedy of her dad, and prayed he would make it through. She reflected on the vulnerability of her relationship with Tommy, and how she was about to leave the most important person in her life: Grace.
Trusting her to someone outside the family.
AS SOON AS SHE landed, Sylvia could feel disaster thick like syrup. She knew something was wrong. It was confirmed in Melinda’s heavy, red-lidded eyes. Sylvia’s dad, she told her in a whisper, had just died.
Melinda shielded her with her plump arms as Sylvia’s lungs began to heave with disappointment. Why, oh why hadn’t her father had more strength? She ached for him—why hadn’t she been there sooner? Why hadn’t she read the signs? She cried for her mother, too, for the deep love her parents shared during their forty-year marriage. If Heaven came through and wasn’t just a myth, her dad would at least be reunited with the love of his life.
The drive from the airport felt surreal, as if everything was unraveling in slow motion—as if this were all happening to someone else. Melinda was babbling, words tumbling out of her mouth incoherently. She spoke several times about Aunt Marcy’s upcoming mole removal operation—which was precautionary, she explained, because the mole was benign—and the guilt she felt about not being able to be there for her. The older parents got, the more like children they seemed. Just vulnerable beings without all the answers who needed looking after.
They drove along for several miles, each in their own world, each suffering from the wound of loss. The fact that Sylvia’s father took his own life was a bludgeon to them both, not just Sylvia. It was Melinda who sat on her father’s knee when they were girls, Melinda whom he taught to play golf, Melinda who used to chat to him about the stock exchange.
“I just can’t believe dad didn’t wait,” Sylvia lamented, staring out of the car window, focusing on nothing, the blur of buildings flashing past her in a haze.
Melinda blinked away a deluge of tears. “I know, honey. Life can be so unfair sometimes.”
There was a long silence and then Melinda said, “Sylvie, I made a promise to your dad recently—something you and I need to discuss.”
“A promise?”
“We do need to talk about financial stuff—he worried about that—although now really isn’t the time, so remind me later.”
“Go on, then, spill it.”
Melinda swerved, the car nicking the curb. “Later. We can discuss this later. Just don’t let me forget, is all.”
“Whatever it is I need to deal with, I might as well know right now.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re feeling better,” Melinda croaked.
They drove on in more silence, until Sylvia blurted out—in order to break the pain of death—“Just tell me what I have to sort out already, and I’ll get it done.”
Tears trickled down Melinda’s round cheeks, her eyes on the road ahead, but she almost careened into the bumper of the car in front of her. “There’s a shit load of paperwork to deal with. Bonds et cetera, a lot to sort through.”
Sylvia blew her nose. Her head felt swollen as if she had the flu. She glugged down some water which she’d bought at the airport.
Melinda said, “The good news is that you’ve got that money in your joint account offshore.”
Sylvia looked blank.
“The account you have together in Guatemala. You remember? You must be getting bank statements every month and be able to go online and manage your money.”
“That’s right, I forgot, we have a joint account.” Sylvia remembered now. Her dad had been smart. He’d stashed his savings in an account with her name on it, too. Melinda was right; she
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