I’ve ever seen her that sick, but I’d definitely never seen her so happy.”
Aunt Jane passes me the photo. I hold it in both hands and try to imagine her story in real-life, one I apparently witnessed but can’t remember.
“Let’s get on out of this room,” she says. “Too many memories for me today.”
The lawyer, Kyle Meegan, has a dark, cozy office. I sink into one of the four leather armchairs facing his desk, while Aunt Jane and Pierce, Mom’s favorite cousin, take the other two. In the hallway, I hear Silas making small talk with Pierce’s twelve-year-old son. Aunt Jane passes me a tissue, and pretend to dab my eyes.
“Thank you all for coming,” the lawyer says. He clears his throat, slips on some thick glasses, and holds up a sheaf of paper. “Anna’s will is brief, but very specific. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything explained after I read through.” He looks at the papers and clears his throat again. I wonder if he’s got a cold, or if it’s a pathological thing.
“‘I, Anna Michelle St. James,’” he reads, “‘being of sound and disposing mind, and not actuated by duress, menace, fraud, mistake….’”
I let myself zone out a little while Mr. Meegan goes through his legal spiel. These are his words, not my mom’s.
Then, I hear my name.
“‘Being unmarried, I hereby leave any of my remaining estate to my only child, Erin St. James, excluding the bequeathments made in this document. If, at the time of my death, Erin is under eighteen years of age, my sister—Elizabeth Jane St. James, will serve as the executor of my estate in Erin’s place, and her legal guardian.’ Erin, you’re…twenty-one, yes?”
“Almost,” I mutter. Aunt Jane reaches for my hand and squeezes it, like I should be excited. Instead, I slump into my chair and shut my eyes.
An entire house I can’t afford, filled with memories of my mother I’m not sure I want, and a bank account that, for all I know, contains nothing. Fantastic.
“‘To my sister, Elizabeth Jane St. James, I bequeath my collection of porcelain thimbles, our grandmother’s dining room table, and our childhood photo albums, barring Erin does not wish to keep them.’”
Everyone looks at me. I shake my head.
“We’ll hammer out specifics later,” Mr. Meegan assures me, and continues. “‘To my cousin, Pierce Gregory Redmont, I bequeath my copy of our family tree, as well as our grandfather’s pocket watch, both located in the fire safe beneath my bed.’” He looks at me. “I’ve got instructions to give you the combination, Erin, so you can disperse the items.”
I nod dutifully, my mind still on the house.
“‘Finally, I bequeath my car, a 1999 Ford Tempo, to its first owner…Gordon Lyle Williams, if he survives me, and if the car is still in my possession at my time of death.’”
“What?” Jane sputters. “That no-good, dirty cheater? No, no, no—I’m sorry, Mr. Meegan, but that’s got to be a mistake.” She slaps her hands onto the desk. “Annie and Gordon broke up years ago.”
The lawyer clears his throat again, recoiling a little. “I’m sorry, Ms. St. James. Anna might not have updated her will when they ended the relationship, but the law is the law: if Mr. Williams is still alive…this will dictates that the automobile is now his.” He scans the room behind us, like he somehow missed an entire person. “Is Mr. Williams here today?”
“He hasn’t had the balls to
Aunt Jane passes me the photo. I hold it in both hands and try to imagine her story in real-life, one I apparently witnessed but can’t remember.
“Let’s get on out of this room,” she says. “Too many memories for me today.”
The lawyer, Kyle Meegan, has a dark, cozy office. I sink into one of the four leather armchairs facing his desk, while Aunt Jane and Pierce, Mom’s favorite cousin, take the other two. In the hallway, I hear Silas making small talk with Pierce’s twelve-year-old son. Aunt Jane passes me a tissue, and pretend to dab my eyes.
“Thank you all for coming,” the lawyer says. He clears his throat, slips on some thick glasses, and holds up a sheaf of paper. “Anna’s will is brief, but very specific. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything explained after I read through.” He looks at the papers and clears his throat again. I wonder if he’s got a cold, or if it’s a pathological thing.
“‘I, Anna Michelle St. James,’” he reads, “‘being of sound and disposing mind, and not actuated by duress, menace, fraud, mistake….’”
I let myself zone out a little while Mr. Meegan goes through his legal spiel. These are his words, not my mom’s.
Then, I hear my name.
“‘Being unmarried, I hereby leave any of my remaining estate to my only child, Erin St. James, excluding the bequeathments made in this document. If, at the time of my death, Erin is under eighteen years of age, my sister—Elizabeth Jane St. James, will serve as the executor of my estate in Erin’s place, and her legal guardian.’ Erin, you’re…twenty-one, yes?”
“Almost,” I mutter. Aunt Jane reaches for my hand and squeezes it, like I should be excited. Instead, I slump into my chair and shut my eyes.
An entire house I can’t afford, filled with memories of my mother I’m not sure I want, and a bank account that, for all I know, contains nothing. Fantastic.
“‘To my sister, Elizabeth Jane St. James, I bequeath my collection of porcelain thimbles, our grandmother’s dining room table, and our childhood photo albums, barring Erin does not wish to keep them.’”
Everyone looks at me. I shake my head.
“We’ll hammer out specifics later,” Mr. Meegan assures me, and continues. “‘To my cousin, Pierce Gregory Redmont, I bequeath my copy of our family tree, as well as our grandfather’s pocket watch, both located in the fire safe beneath my bed.’” He looks at me. “I’ve got instructions to give you the combination, Erin, so you can disperse the items.”
I nod dutifully, my mind still on the house.
“‘Finally, I bequeath my car, a 1999 Ford Tempo, to its first owner…Gordon Lyle Williams, if he survives me, and if the car is still in my possession at my time of death.’”
“What?” Jane sputters. “That no-good, dirty cheater? No, no, no—I’m sorry, Mr. Meegan, but that’s got to be a mistake.” She slaps her hands onto the desk. “Annie and Gordon broke up years ago.”
The lawyer clears his throat again, recoiling a little. “I’m sorry, Ms. St. James. Anna might not have updated her will when they ended the relationship, but the law is the law: if Mr. Williams is still alive…this will dictates that the automobile is now his.” He scans the room behind us, like he somehow missed an entire person. “Is Mr. Williams here today?”
“He hasn’t had the balls to
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