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“I guess. Maddie and I held one when our mother died. I don’t know how I feel about having it here, though. Having them in my house.”
She obviously realizes who I mean by ‘them’. “Has your father been here before?”
“No.”
“It’s a gorgeous house, James. It makes you look successful and wealthy. It’s a chance to show him how well you’ve done for yourself.”
“He’ll just think it’s all down to him and the opportunities he gave me. He won’t see it as my success.” My voice drips with bitterness.
Her eyes spark. “Well, fuck him then. If you hold it here, it’s on your territory. Show him the cub’s ready to challenge the sire.”
I meet her eyes. She’s been here one day, and I think she already understands me and my relationship with my father better than Cassie did after nearly a year.
I sit up and pull my phone toward me. “I’m going to make some more calls.”
“Okay. I’ll make us some lunch at one.”
“You don’t have to. You’re Leia’s nanny, not my housekeeper.”
“I know. I want to help.”
I study her for a moment. Her cut-down jeans are tight, showing off the curve of her hips and shapely calves. She’s twisted her hair up and secured it with a butterfly clip, revealing her slender neck. I want to kiss the soft skin there, and feel her pulse against my lips.
She’s wearing a sleeveless, crew-neck, white tank top with a large flower on the front. Each petal of it is filled with a paisley-style colored pattern. Underneath it says, ‘Life is good.’
“Are you looking at my boobs?” she asks. Her smile suggests she’s teasing me.
I give her a wry look. “No. I was reading the words.”
“I know you’ve had a terrible loss,” she says softly, “and things seem dark at the moment. Just remember that feeling or showing grief doesn’t make you weak, whatever your father says.”
Her astuteness shocks me. I watch her go up to the door. “See you later,” she says. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She goes out, closing the door behind her.
The scent of her perfume—something light and flowery—remains in the air, stirring my senses. I purse my lips, leaning my chin on my hand, staring moodily at the door for a while. Then I sigh and turn back to my computer.
I Google ‘what needs to be done after a family member dies,’ and start making a list. Tell close family, friends, and work colleagues. Maddie worked as Director of Finance at a software development company, although she was on maternity leave. I spoke to the company CEO yesterday and told him what had happened, but I might call him again and keep him up to date. He’ll want to come to the funeral.
I’ll need to arrange for a death notice in the newspapers. Get a medical certificate or Coroner’s Authorization. Register her death. Contact the funeral director to organize the cremation, and sort out the wake.
I’m guessing the coroner will request a post-mortem as the cause of death isn’t clear. I wonder whether there’ll be a hearing or an inquest? I might not find that out for some time—it depends on what the post-mortem shows and what Blue says when they find him.
I continue with the list, remembering some of it from when our mother died: tell the Inland Revenue, her bank, cancel her passport at the Department of Internal Affairs, cancel her driving license at the Transport Agency. I’ll need to go through her house and sort out the contents. That’s not going to be easy. Then I’ll have to put it up for sale. Sell her car. See my lawyer about her estate and her will, if she had one. I presume everything will go to Leia. He’ll also be able to help with sorting out Leia’s future.
I’ll need to make an announcement about Maddie’s death on my social media, and maybe hers before closing all her accounts. I know she was active on Facebook and Instagram. I’m not sure what other sites she frequented.
It’s a lot to do, and I’m kept busy for the next few hours. It’s not easy work, either. I lose track of the number of times I explain what’s happened, and say thank you for the other person’s expressions of sorrow and best wishes. Many times it’s me comforting them rather than the other way around. At first it hurts every time I say it, but in the end I lock my grief away deep inside me, and it gradually becomes easier.
Around one o’clock, I get up and stretch. My head is thumping. I visit the bathroom and take some more pills, then wander out to the kitchen.
Aroha is in the process of making sandwiches. Leia sits in the carry seat on the counter. Her bright eyes turn to me, and she watches me, sucking contentedly on her dummy, as I sit on a stool and lean on the counter.
“Kia ora, Piri Paua,” I say, echoing Aroha’s first greeting to her.
Aroha smiles. “How are you feeling?”
“Rough as, actually. I’ve remembered why I don’t drink much.”
“How’s the head?”
