Letters For Emily

by Camron Wright

  Greg had worked at a brokerage firm in New York for several years but had recently taken a job in Boston. No question they would stay put on the East Coast. Everyone knew they were doing well financially, as Greg was sure to bring it up. He was a nice enough guy, just overly proud of what he had accomplished. Bob found it worked best to simply ignore his bragging.

  As the luncheon started to break up, Bob walked to the corner of the large church hall, where he noticed Michelle standing by herself. Growing up, they had always been close. Now that they stood alone together, he found surprisingly little to say.

  “It was a great service, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I will miss him.”

  He wished he could answer that he would miss Harry too. He hated admitting that he felt nothing at all. Instead, he listened quietly as she continued.

  “I mean, I can’t say we ever got along. He was always so obstinate. It’s funny though, when you called, telling me he’d passed away, I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.”

  “You get it from him.”

  “My emotion?”

  “No, your obstinacy.”

  She smiled at Bob’s quip. “Always a joker when emotions run high, aren’t you?”

  Bob shrugged. “It’s easy to joke. We’re talking about Harry here,” he responded.

  “I do remember quite a few good times, you know, before I left to get married. He wasn’t Father of the Year, but I think he did the best he could under the circumstances.”

  “Yeah, sure, I guess so,” Bob replied.

  “I don’t want to remember Dad as a grouchy old man. I’d rather think back to better times.”

  “There were better times?”

  She ignored his remark. “So, how are you and Laura doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t fib to your sister, would you?”

  He paused, watching her study his face. “No, not really. It looks like it’s over. It’s just not the same anymore.” She could see this time he was serious.

  “I’m sorry, Bob—really sorry. We’ve been through some rough times as well, Greg and I. In fact, you ought to see us get into a shouting match. It’s quite a sight. I’m not sure why, but for some reason, we seem to get through it. Are you sure there aren’t still times she takes your breath away?”

  “More like she sucks the life right out of me.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “I just feel emptiness most of the time. Like there’s nothing there anymore. Not like years ago.”

  “So, what’s changed?”

  “We’ve been trying to figure that out. So far no answers.”

  “We’ll, I’d lecture you, little brother, if I thought it would help.”

  Greg joined them. He reached over and put his arm around Bob as if they’d been good friends all of their lives. Michelle excused herself, leaving the men alone.

  “So sorry, Bob. My condolences,” Greg began.

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice service, though. Lots of people showed up.”

  “Yes, that’s important,” Bob replied. Greg didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Always a nice old man.”

  “Nice?”

  There was an obvious pause before Greg continued.

  “So, I guess you’ll have to get the house cleaned up in order to sell it?”

  Bob had guessed Greg would be the first to bring up Harry’s assets. Like he needed the money. And bringing it up at the funeral—what a callous jerk.

  “Yes, we do need to get the house cleaned out. I have to go back to San Diego, but I’ll be back next week. Perhaps it’s something we can get wrapped up then. Since Laura is an agent, at least we’ll save on the commission.” He expected that would brighten Greg’s day.

  “Hey, excellent idea. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I still need to find out if Harry had a will and then talk to my attorney about how to handle things. I haven’t had time yet, of course.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I understand you have to get back to work right away as well? Flight leaving tonight?”

  “Early in the morning. I’m telling you, Bob, at the rate companies are merging today, it’s surprising I get any sleep. We’re in the middle of preparing papers for two large banks. I can’t say which ones, but when it hits the news, it will be big. Billions of dollars changing hands. I just wish my tiny percentage was bigger. But hey, the broker always gets the short end of the stick. We’ve got one deal in the office now where . . .” Bob wanted to reach out and turn off the switch. If only there were one. Instead he nodded, pretending to listen, while his mind drifted to other things.

  Emily had endured the funeral well. Just a few tears. She was so adorable. He did need to get her out to San Diego for a visit, so they could spend some quality time together. Perhaps even before they sat her down and told her about the divorce, to prepare her just a bit for the news. She would love the beach. There was nothing better than a calm day at the beach in San Diego.

  “So, you’re still in San Diego?”

  They would spend the day there and then perhaps go out for Mexican food at La Casita. Best enchiladas this side of Mexico City.

  “You’re still in San Diego?” Greg had raised his voice so half the room could hear.

  Bob snapped out of his daydream.

  “Yes, Greg, I am.” Bob lowered his voice, hoping Greg would follow suit.

  “It’s a shame it isn’t working out with you and Laura.”

  “Yes, it is,” Bob whispered. “Well, I’d better see how Emily’s holding up.” With that, Bob excused himself and headed across the room toward Laura and his daughter.

  “Hey, babe, will you take me outside to get some fresh air? I sure need some.”

  “Sure, Daddy.” She reached up and took him by the hand.

  Laura rested quietly beside Emily on her bed until she was sure she was asleep. She then tiptoed from the room, moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of milk and sat at the table. She was exhausted physically, but her mind wouldn’t stop. While she pondered the day’s events, Bob stuck his head in the door.

  “Guess I’ll go to bed. Good-night, Laura.”

  “Why don’t you love me anymore, Bob?” she asked vacantly.

  “Laura, don’t. It’s been an emotional day for everyone. Let’s just leave it there for now.”

  “I know it’s over. I accept that now. I just don’t want to go through life guessing, always wondering, so why, Bob? What is it? Is there someone else?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “What, then?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to continue but feeling obligated to try.“I don’t think I can explain it. I just don’t feel anything there anymore. It’s not like it was. I don’t know why or how, and you’re not to blame. I just know I need to move forward.” She looked puzzled so he continued. “Have you ever been somewhere and sat for so long that your legs got all jittery—but there were people around and you couldn’t get up—and so you sat there going crazy, thinking you were going to scream, until finally it got so bad you just had to stand up and move around and shake your legs, no matter who was watching or what was going on around you? Well, that’s how I feel.”

  Laura stared blankly. “You’re leaving ’cause your legs are jittery?”

  “Laura, I’m trying to explain.”

  “I’m trying to understand. I don’t. When are we going to tell Emily?”

  “We better wait until the next time I come to town or the time after, whatever you think is best.”

  “It’s going to break her heart, Bob.”

  “Laura, don’t you think I realize that? It breaks mine just thinking about her. It’s just something I need to do.”

  She was too tired and confused to try to understand. He was about to leave when she spoke again.

  “Don’t you find it peculiar that he died, Bob, the day before we were supposed to mov
e him to WestRidge?”

  “What are you saying? That he willed himself to die?”

  “You saw how he acted the day we took him there. Think about it. He’s lived in the same house for fifty-something years. He could have moved, but never wanted to. He built the house himself and yes, I think he wanted to die there. I don’t understand how, it just seems like too much of a coincidence to be anything else.”

  Bob doubted what she was saying, but it seemed pointless to discuss it. It simply didn’t matter. The easiest thing to do was change the subject.

  “Greg was wondering about the house. Can you believe him? I told him we’d get to it next week. I know Harry got his social security check each month. I guess he must have some other money saved as well.”

  “It strikes me as funny, how very little you seem to know about your father.”

  “Remember, we weren’t exactly buddies. I wonder what happens if there’s no will? I have no idea how to take care ofhis affairs. I’ll need to call my attorney and ask.” The words my attorney grated on Laura, but she stayed silent as he continued. “I fly back to San Diego tomorrow afternoon, but I can come out for a few days the week after to clean out his house. Let’s run over there in the morning and see how much work it will take to get it ready to sell, so we have an idea. Let’s go that far, then we’ll sit down and decide what to tell Emily. What do you say?”

  There was no hug, no quick squeeze of the hand, no glance. Laura nodded, then both mouthed the words goodnight as they wandered to their own beds. As she tried to sleep, cold and alone with Bob downstairs, Laura couldn’t get the thought out of her head. Can a person really will himself to die?

  AFTER EMILY LEFT TO CATCH THE SCHOOL BUS, BOB AND Laura headed to Harry’s house. It felt eerie. She kept expecting to see Cara or Harry come around the corner. Neither did. Bob went downstairs to look through the old wooden filing cabinets, while Laura wandered around upstairs. The furniture was still in great shape, but it was old. They could try to sell it in the classifieds, but she doubted they’d get much for it. It was odd to find the house so cold and empty. Harry was a hard man to understand, sometimes contemptible, often difficult, but he had his moments. It was sad to know he was gone; Emily’s visits with him had become such a big part of their lives.

  She wandered into the back bedroom where Harry had slept. On the floor by the desk, where he kept his computer, sat an open cardboard box. As she peered inside, Lauracould see three large books stacked neatly on top of each other. Inquisitive, she pulled out the one on top and began to examine it closely. The pages were large, about the size of letter paper. They had been printed on just one side, and most appeared to have come from Harry’s laser printer. The pages had holes punched in the left margins and were tied together with string, forming a book. The front and back covers were hard, apparently cut from wood and covered with an ivory-and-gold fabric. Twine held them together, creating a binding. Though the book was homemade, the workmanship was excellent. The title on the front cover had been penned in black ink. In the old man’s familiar hand it read, “Poems of Life” by Harry Whitney.

  She pulled the other two books out of the box and found them to be identical; each one containing poems and stories that Harry had apparently written.

  As she opened a book and began to read the words more carefully, Bob’s voice interrupted. “Laura, can you come down here? I found a will.” Laura hurried down the steps, book in hand, to find Bob sitting in a chair next to the old cabinets. File drawers were open with folders spread on the floor. Bob was scanning several stapled pages he held in his hand. “Harry had a will all right. You’re not going to believe this, but Harry left the house to Emily.”

  “To Emily?”

  “That’s what this says.” He waved the papers in his hand. “This looks like it was written a year and a half ago. Boy, is Greg going to love this,” he added with a mischievous grin.

  “What else does it say?”

  “It looks pretty standard from what I can tell. He leaves the house in a trust to Emily and the money in his savings account to Michelle’s kids. There might be more recentbank statements in his desk upstairs, but from those filed down here, it looks like he has about fourteen thousand dollars in his savings. Yep, they’re gonna be mad all right.”

  “Do you think it’s legal?” Laura wondered.

  “It’s written by a lawyer, so I imagine it is. I don’t know if a copy was ever filed with the state, but I’ll take one to my attorney and have him check it out. We better not call Michelle and Greg until we know for sure.”

  “You aren’t going to believe what I found either,” Laura chimed in, handing her prize to Bob.

  “What’s this?” he replied, taking the book from her hand.

  “Your dad wrote it, and then must have bound it himself. He was a pretty good craftsman in his time. It looks like poems and stories he’s written over the years. Look at how well it’s made.”

  Bob examined the book, surprised Harry could have done such a thing.

  “Interesting. I’ll have to read through it later.” He set the book down on the desk next to the stacks of files.

  “Bob, there are three of them, all exactly the same. I think we should take one to Emily. We can send the last one to Michelle and Greg.”

  “Sure, that sounds like a good idea,” Bob replied, as he turned his attention back to the papers on the desk.

  She left him to continue sifting through the files while she moved back upstairs. She found a chair to sit on, picked up one of Harry’s books, and began to read. The poems were sometimes whimsical, sometimes serious; some made no sense at all. It’s a shame what Alzheimer’s will do to your mind and body, she thought. It’s just so sad to watch people get sick as they grow old.

  When Bob came up the stairs, he was carrying a box fullof file folders. “I found statements from a money market account that show another twenty-two thousand dollars. There’s also some stock in his retirement account worth another twelve thousand plus. That’s a total of forty-eight thousand, but it still doesn’t come close to the value of the house. It’s interesting though; as I read the will, I found out the house is left to a trust in Emily’s name. If I’m reading it correctly, the house can’t be sold until she’s eighteen. I’ll get a legal opinion, just to be sure.”

  “Really? Why would he have done that?” she wondered.

  “Who knows?” Bob raised his eyebrows. “Who could ever figure the old man out.”

  “Do you have your book?”

  “Oh, I left it downstairs. Just a second.” Retracing his steps, Bob grabbed Harry’s book of poems. He took it upstairs, placed it on top of the box of files, and carried them to the trunk of the car.

  Laura told Grant Midgley that she had an appointment to show a house, but instead she drove to the city library. She was not sure where to start, so she approached the librarian at the information counter. “Hi, I’m doing some research into—well—death, and I’m wondering where to find books on that subject.”“Could you be a little more specific?”

  Laura attempted a smile. “Okay, I’m wondering if a person can will himself to die?” She expected the woman to look at her as if she were crazy. Instead, the librarian turned warm and friendly.

  “My brother died suddenly, so I understand. Let’s see— the first place to start would be—” She punched several keys on the computer and then jotted down the references. “Check these titles in the religion and philosophy sections, and then these in the medical reference area.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “Not at all. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Laura headed to the religion and philosophy section first. There were two full aisles of books. She had hoped to find quick answers, but forty-five minutes later she found herself buried in a mountain of information about strange existential experiences. The second aisle contained scores of books about life after death, but nothing that addressed her question specifically. She was running s
hort on time, so she headed to the medical reference area. She browsed rapidly, hoping to narrow her search, but most of the material seemed clinical. Just as she was about to give up, a section in one of the books caught her attention.

  “Alzheimer’s, Also Known as AD—Attacking the Elderly.” She turned to the chapter and began to scan the information curiously.

  “Alzheimer’s disease is a progressive, neurodegenerative disease characterized by memory loss, language deterioration, poor judgement, and indifferent attitude. Appearing first as memory decline, over several years it destroys cognition, personality, and the ability to function. People with AD are eventually unable to care for themselves. The early symptoms of AD can easily be missed as they resemble natural signs of aging. Often similar symptoms can result from fatigue, grief, depression, illness, vision loss, and the use of alcohol.

  The exact cause of AD is still unknown. Researchers believe it is due to a combination of genetic factors, the aging process, and the environment. An estimated four million people in the United States suffer from AD.”

  It was peculiar. It was known that Harry had AD, yet, according to this article, his symptoms didn’t quite fit. If it was a progressive disease, with conditions getting worse, why did Harry seem normal at times? Even up until the day they visited the rest home, there were moments, small moments, when he appeared to be coherent. As she scanned the article again, one particular sentence seemed to glare. “Similar symptoms can result from fatigue, grief, depression, illness. . . .” Was it possible Harry had had something besides Alzheimer’s?

  She copied the article on the machine and replaced the book on the shelf. Then, picking up her cell phone, she dialed Cara.

  “Cara, hi, it’s Laura.”

  “Hey, honey, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks so much for coming to the funeral.”

  “Don’t thank me for that. I had to say good-bye.”

  “You’re priceless. I need to ask you a question.”