“Helen also made it clear that the four of you be allowed to take whatever you like from the Connecticut house, preliquidation. There are only a few exceptions, things she has bequeathed to other people, and I have taken care of them already,” Harry explained.
I’d been in Aunt Helen’s house a million times and no corner of it was off limits to me, but still the idea of rummaging through her things seemed like a massive invasion of privacy.
“The items she left to you specifically have already been removed. I have these for you—” He took four different-colored pads of sticky notes out of his desk drawer and handed them to my father. “Mark anything you want, and I’ll have movers deliver them to you. No rush, of course. You’ll let me know when you’re finished.” He smiled broadly, or as broadly as somebody can smile who is still clearly grieving the loss of an old friend. “Are there any questions?” he asked after a minute, when it became clear that none of us were going to break the silence.
“I think we’ve got everything,” Mom said, sniffling. It seemed like we were all just taking turns. One of us would cry and then another would punch in to give them a little break. I wondered when the cycle would end.
“In that case, I just need a few signatures,” Harry said. We stood up and formed a crooked line to his desk, signing and initialing everywhere he pointed.
It was a lot of paperwork, dying.
“Thank you so much for this,” Dad said when it was his turn. He shook Harry’s hand and then hugged him. They patted each other on the back for a long time as the three of us tried to figure out some other place to look.
“Helen meant the world to me,” Harry said, pulling away finally, tearing up again. “The absolute world. And you all meant the world to her. So it’s nice to be able to help you along in this process. It’s the very least I can do.”
I watched Abe inching toward the door, probably anticipating more hugs. He held his cup of coffee in front of him, as if it could protect him.
In the parking lot we all stood around the car awkwardly, not wanting to get inside maybe, enjoying the spring air. It was April and dry so far, sunny and bright and clear.
I was still clutching the stack of letters. My family stood around, talking about where to get lunch, but their voices blended into the background, became unintelligible noise. In addition to my name, the top letter had a carefully printed number one. And underneath that, Open now!
“Lottie? Sandwiches?” Dad asked, the sound of my name snapping me out of my concentration.
“Can I have just a minute?” I asked.
“Take however long you need,” Mom said. The three of them got in the car, and I walked a few yards away, to a little metal bench.
I sat down and realized I was shaking. The letters were tied together with twine. Thick, creamy stationery. My aunt loved paper, pens, ink. My name was written on each envelope, with a number from one to twenty-four, in all shades of blues and greens and purples and golds. Fountain pens for every day of the month. She wrote the first drafts of her novels by hand.
Shaking still, I opened the first envelope.
My dearest Lottie,
I hope that wasn’t too bad. I told Harry to have coffee for you because I’ve never seen a family drink so much of it, and I wanted you to be as comfortable as possible. I hope you’re happy with everything I’ve left you. Fifty percent seems like a lot to donate to charity, but let’s be honest, I have a LOT a lot. So you’re still left with a lot.
This isn’t as easy as I’d hoped. I sat down over an hour ago to write this to you, and so far I’ve watered all the plants, hung my laundry out to dry, emptied the dishwasher, and rearranged one already perfectly organized bookshelf. And here I am. Two measly paragraphs written, and I haven’t said anything important at all.
All right. Here goes.
I think you’re the absolute ace, kid. I’ve watched you and your brother grow up from cute little babies to bright young adults before my eyes, and although I would stay and watch you continue to grow and learn forever, alas: that isn’t in the cards for me.
But maybe these letters can serve as a sort of standin for me, once I’m gone. It could be any day now, I know. I’m certainly not ready to leave you, and I imagine (if I may be so bold) that you’re not ready for me to leave either. So I hope these will ease you into it. You, who I imagine might need a gentle cushion the most. Your mother, your father, Abe: I’m not as worried about them. But I know things come a little harder for you, and that’s one of the reasons I hate to leave you the most—because I would have loved to stay and try to help you a little more. Help you overcome those old anxieties, those old nervous tics (that we both share, by the way).
Here’s how it will work. Open these letters in order. Do not open a letter until the task presented in the previous letter has been administered to absolute completion. Do not be overwhelmed by sadness. It won’t do you any good.
Eventually, I think something interesting will come out of all of these.
And by that I mean:
I’ve kept a secret for a very, very long time. And now (in death, as it were) it seems like the perfect time to loosen my grip on it a little bit.
For now: be okay. I imagine you’ve just left Harry’s office, you’re maybe even sitting outside reading this as you make your family wait in the car (in addition to our anxieties, we also share impatience!), but now you can go home, Lottie. Do something nice. Read a book. Tomorrow’s envelope will be a fun one, I promise.
Love, H.
(and p.s. kid, if I had any capacity for thought or emotion from THE GREAT BEYOND, I would miss the shit out of you right now.)
I wasn’t crying as I folded the letter up and replaced it carefully into its envelope, but my eyes were burning and my throat felt tight. Her words, always so three-dimensional, always so close to me, made it feel like she had been standing behind the bench, reading over my shoulder the entire time.
(No, Aunt Helen wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead. This was all some kind of weird joke, like the time she’d decorated her house for Christmas on Halloween.)
I walked back to the car, slid into the backseat next to my brother.
“Well?” Dad said immediately, and Mom nudged him in the ribs.
“Nothing to report,” I said quietly, and I watched my parents exchange the subtlest of looks, watched my mom nod pointedly, watched Abe almost imperceptibly sigh. “Maybe later,” I clarified. “I just need a little while.”
“It’s okay, honey. We get it,” Dad said.
It wasn’t okay, not even close. But I knew what he meant.
The house was empty. Margo could sense it immediately, by the way the door seemed to shut just a little bit heavier, by the way their footsteps echoed with a tiny bit more resonance through the foyer as Alvin threw his bag to the ground and called their parents’ names.
“Mom! Dad!”
“They aren’t here,” Margo said, but he didn’t hear her, and he bounded up the stairs as she followed after him, trying to catch her breath, to make him understand. Their parents were gone, and they weren’t safe here.