Who Do I Talk To? (43 page)

Later that night I sat on the foldout couch with Jodi, and we laughed and cried, remembering the stunned looks on my sisters' faces as Lucy shoveled dirt on top of my mom's casket and then handed the shovel to me. But in the end Celeste and Honor had shoveled, too, and not a soul left without taking a turn shoveling that good, brown earth on top of the metal-blue casket. Someone even started to sing a hymn, as if decorum was being buried, and we'd all relaxed, witnesses to the natural cycle of life.

“And I'll bet your mom was looking down from heaven, enjoying the whole thing,” Jodi murmured, pulling her knees up under Denny's extra-large Bulls T-shirt she usually slept in.

I giggled. “Yeah. Who ever thought we'd hear Lucy, of all people, preaching about the Incarnation!” Which set both of us off once more, laughing and crying.

But in fact, Lucy's little homily stayed with me all that night and into the next day, making me realize something I'd never really thought about before . . . just how much Jesus really
did
know about how I felt, because it all happened to Him—being rejected, scoffed at, homeless, no money, unappreciated . . .

For some reason I just wanted to sing and praise God the next morning, so while Jodi was making us all some breakfast, I got her gospel CDs out of the van and riffled through them. To my delight, I discovered she had the same CD her son, Josh, had given to me, the one with “my” song on it. I dusted off my mom's CD player—had she ever used the thing?—and turned up the volume.

Where do I go . . . when there's no one else to turn to?

Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen? . . .

I stood in the middle of Mom's living room, letting the words flow over me.
Yeah,
that's
why I can talk to God, because Jesus understands what I'm going through—
“Hey!” Lucy poked her head into the living room. “Howza body s'posed ta sleep when you makin' such a racket? 'Sides, Miz Jodi says it's time ta eat.”

My sisters and I barely had time to eat Jodi's breakfast, get dressed, and pile into their rental car for our appointment with Mom's lawyer. Aunt Mercy, who'd taken the day off from work, threw up her hands in relief when we walked in at two minutes past ten. “This man charges by the
minute
,” she hissed at us. “Get in there.”

We made Aunt Mercy come in too—she was family, after all—and we all sat across the table from the lean man with hawk-like eyes. He peered at us over a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, as if uncertain we were all related. “I'm Frank Putnam, senior partner of Putnam, Fields, and Pederson. Which one of you is Celeste? . . . Ah, all right. You've been named executor of the estate, as you probably know.”

In a rather perfunctory manner, Mr. Putnam read through the will, which, he said, was fairly routine. “Bottom line, all assets should be divided equally between you three siblings,
after
paying any remaining costs surrounding Mrs. Shepherd's last illness, outstanding bills, and funeral expenses. Which are . . . ?”

Aunt Mercy handed over statements from Mom's bank and a handful of bills that had come in the mail since Mom had been in Chicago. I had brought the death certificate and receipts from the funeral home in Chicago. “I don't have the doctor and hospital bills yet from the past two weeks.”

“All right . . .” The lawyer paged through a number of papers. “Your mother had Social Security and an annuity, both of which, of course, are cancelled at her death. But according to her bank statements, her checking and savings account amount to . . .” He punched numbers on his calculator. “. . . a few thousand dollars, which I recommend you leave in her account to cover any outstanding bills. As for the rest of her assets, there is, of course, the house—”

“How much do you think it's worth?” Celeste interrupted.

“Well, good news there. Your mother paid off the rest of the mortgage with your father's life insurance policy when he passed, which means you'll realize the full value of the house when it sells—minus any taxes and insurance due, of course. However, the real—”

“How much?” Honor's skinny, multicolored braids fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward. “Like, how much do houses sell for around here?”

Putnam shrugged. “I haven't seen your mother's home, but—”

“Your mother had it assessed not long ago,” Aunt Mercy broke in. “Similar houses in this area are going for anywhere from one-twenty-five to a hundred seventy-five thousand.”

The three of us sisters looked at one another with probably the same thought. We might realize a hundred fifty thousand from the house—fifty thousand each. My heart started to trip double-time.
That
would be a nice nest egg to enable me to start over again. Even rent that nice apartment in the Wrigleyville area. Except . . . how long would it take the house to sell? My heart started to sink again. Probably not soon enough to rent that apartment—or
any
apartment—before school started for my sons.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts, I didn't catch what the lawyer was saying until Honor gasped,
“What?!”

The lawyer did all but roll his eyes. “I
said
, after paying off the house, your mother used the rest of the money from your father's life insurance policy to buy a simple term life insurance policy—which, I told her at the time, wasn't the wisest thing. A cash value policy would have also given her cash to invest or use to enjoy her retirement, go on a cruise, visit the grandchildren whenever she wanted, but”—he shrugged—“she insisted. Small premiums for her, its only value a benefit to her survivors.”

Mr. Putnam handed a fat business envelope to Celeste. “Here it is—a term life insurance policy worth six hundred thousand dollars, to be divided equally between the three of you. With the death certificate, you should be able to cash it in fairly quickly. If you want, I can handle that for you and mail you each a check.”

Our mouths hung open. Six hundred thousand dollars? Six. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. Divided three ways? I couldn't breathe. That was two hundred thousand each . . .

No one spoke . . . until Honor screeched. “I—I could buy the house! With my share! And—and still have fifty grand left over!”

“Plus your third of the house sale,” the lawyer said. “If that's what you want to do.”

Celeste turned to her. “Do you want to? I mean really, Honor?”

“Yes! . . . I think.” Her forehead scrunched. She chewed on one of her skinny decorative braids. “Or maybe not. I mean, it's cold here in the winter. River and Ryan would probably refuse to leave California . . . oh, I don't know!”

Mr. Putnam cleared his throat. “Uh, ladies. I have some papers here I need you to sign. You no doubt have some decisions to make, but I think we're done here. If you have any further questions, feel free to call my office. And, Ms. Shepherd”—he gave a short nod at Honor—“Putnam, Fields, and Pederson would be happy to handle the real estate transaction, if that's your decision.” He stood up and shook hands all around.

I walked out the office door with my stupefied sisters, my mouth dry. I could hardly think what this meant. Except I kept hearing Jodi Baxter's off-the-cuff remark as we were driving here in the van:
“God must have a better plan . . .”

I wanted to scream. Dance a jig and shout hallelujah! With two hundred fifty grand, I could afford an apartment! Get a real address! Bring my boys home! Maybe afford private school for them if I needed to!

Except . . . my heart twisted at the same time.
God, did my mother have to die for me to get back on my feet? Wish there'd been some other way.

chapter 44

Aunt Mercy had said little during our visit to the lawyer's office, but when we got out to the parking lot, she asked me to ride with her to the house. “Gabby, I want to tell you something, but I don't want Honor to know . . . yet, anyway. Let her make her decision about whether to buy the house. If she wants to buy it, fine, don't say anything about this. But . . .” She glanced at me as we followed my sister's compact Chevy rental back to the house. “Noble and I grew up in that house. It has sweet memories for me too. If Honor decides not to buy it, I'd like to. I'm only sixty-two; I've got a few years before I have to pack it in.” She grinned and turned her eyes back to the street.

“Oh, Aunt Mercy,” I breathed. “Could you do that?”

She nodded. “What else am I going to do with my money, an old maid like me! I've been doing the research. A hundred-fifty thousand would be a fair price. Actually, I was going to say something to you girls, once your mom's name came up on the list for assisted living. But now . . .” She reached out and patted my knee. “I'm so sorry you've lost your mom, Gabby. Sorry for everything that's happened to you the past few months. Please, I . . . I hope you'll let me be mama to you, whenever you need me. You and your sisters. You're all the family I've got.”

Both of us were blubbering by the time we got back to the house. I grabbed her arm before she got out of the car. “Aunt Mercy, I think you ought to tell Celeste and Honor that you'd be willing to buy the house if Honor chooses not to. Frankly, I don't think Honor really wants to move back to Minot. I just think she's grasping at something to hold on to, now that Mom is gone. But if we had a home to come home to sometimes, a place to be together . . .”

Which turned out to be exactly the case. We sat around the kitchen table, eating a chicken Caesar salad we'd picked up at Marketplace Foods and downing copious amounts of iced tea as we sorted out “what's next.” Honor was giddy with relief that the house could stay in the family, but that she didn't have to actually
buy
it and move back here. “Maybe in twenty years I'll be sick of California—or California will be sick of me—and I could buy it then,” she giggled . . . and then realized what she'd said. “Oh! Aunt Mercy, I didn't mean I want you to
die
or anything in twenty years. But if you want to move into a retirement home or something . . .” She actually turned red under that California tan of hers.

Aunt Mercy laughed. “Hey, missy, you'll be
my
age in twenty years . . .” She put her silver pixie-cut alongside Honor's long tresses. “What do you think, girls? Can you imagine Honor at sixty-two?”

Celeste and I cracked up. “Yeah, sure,” I gasped. “Spitting image—except she'll be sixty-two with that permanent dolphin tattoo.”

“Yeah, yeah. You laugh. But believe me, there are already a lot of sixty-somethings in California walking around with tattoos. But hey—what about Mom's Galaxy? I could use a car. Could drive it back now.”

As a matter of fact, I'd been thinking the same thing. I needed a car now, didn't I?

Celeste frowned. “What about your plane ticket? We got round-trip.”

“Goose. So I lose a few hundred. That's cheap for a car. Or . . . should I pay you guys for it or something?”

We all decided Honor should take the car. I had the van to drive back anyway. Aunt Mercy said she'd see Putnam about the title change.

A load seemed to have lifted off the pressure to get everything done that Monday afternoon. With Aunt Mercy buying the house, we decided to leave most of the furniture, since Aunt Mercy's condo was a lot smaller and wouldn't fill this house. “But if any of you girls want something down the road, and have a way to get it, just tell me,” Aunt Mercy said.

Celeste reached out a hand and gently untangled a few of my unruly curls. “What about you, Gabby? Aren't you going to need something to put in that apartment when you get it? Might as well take some of the family stuff now since you got that empty monster van out there in the driveway.
We
don't really need anything”—she nailed Honor with a look—“do we, Honor?”

“Ah . . . nope.” Honor shook her head. “Couldn't take it on the plane anyway. I'd like some of Mom's jewelry, though. That old-fashioned stuff is funky right now.”

I looked at my sisters—these virtual strangers Mom's death had catapulted back into my life. My oldest sister's gentle touch as she untangled my rebellious curls had conveyed more affection than I'd experienced from her in a long time. And their encouragement to take what I needed from our family home to fill an empty apartment somehow seemed so much more than that—a step toward filling my empty life with a promise to care for one another once again . . .

I started to weep. And suddenly Celeste and Honor and I were in each other's arms. Grief and loss, love and hope all mixed up in our tears.

A last round of hugs with promises to call at least once a week—Honor still didn't have e-mail—and my sisters set out early Tuesday morning, driving in caravan to Billings, Montana, where Celeste would catch her plane for Anchorage, and Honor would just keep going, driving the Galaxy to Los Angeles. It had cooled off during the night but promised to be another sky-blue scorcher.