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She slides a stack of papers over to me. “We just need to fill out the paperwork to complete the transfer of the trust over to the beneficiary, which is you.”
I try to skim the form, but it’s chock-full of legal jargon and making my eyes cross, so I put it down among the others.
“That sounds… easy enough.” Or not that all.
The notary nods anyway. “Her other assets are what the state considers minimal, so they won’t be subject to probate court — isn’t that great?”
Great. Great? Every inch of my skin itches, and I want to peel it off, bleed out on the hardwood floor.
Àvia is dead. She was the last person who knew me, the last person who accepted me despite everything. The only one, since Mama died.
“Well, if you don’t have any questions, I best be going,” the notary says far too loud for it to be the first time she says it, again with that weary look in her eyes.
Lovely — fresh rumors spreading across the townies of Hazel Creek is just what I need.
I do my best to plaster a normal looking smile on my face. “I’m sorry. This is a lot to process for me.”
Her features soften. “Oh, yes, of course. You were close with your grandma, yes?”
I nod. “Very.”
“You didn’t visit much.”
Her words pierce through me, but I try not to let defensiveness seep into my tone. “We talked every day on the phone.”
It’s not my grandma’s fault this town carries out a witch-hunt against everyone different, but she also couldn’t singlehandedly keep me to stay. Except I’m back now, am I not?
Not for long, I tell myself. I’m here to settle her affairs and get the hell away, this time forever. I look around the small living room. The brown couch, wooden coffee table, and two matching damask green lounge chairs take up the vast majority of it. Under the bay window, the one looking out onto the camellia shrubs, is a bench seat with pillows upholstered of the same fabric as the chairs — Àvia did an embarrassing happy dance when she found it at the sewing store. On top of the fireplace is a giant mirror, not a TV, because television shrivels the brain according to my grandmother, and a bookshelf is carved into the wall by the window, full to the brim with romance novels and board games.
Nothing has changed since I left — it’s a blast from the past. From the black marker lines Mama had drawn on the doorframe as I grew taller to Àvia’s homemade wind chimes dancing on the kitchen windowsill, everything in this house is a memento to the women of my family. I clench my jaw and swallow hard. Settling my grandmother’s affairs would include putting the house up for sale, and the mere thought is so repulsive it makes me want to gag.
“My phone and email is on the card I left with the documents,” the notary says. “I’ll be in touch when there’s further updates, ok?”
I nod, wrapping my arms around my middle.
The woman gives me one last assessing look before making herself scarce. When I lock the front door behind her, it’s the silence that hits me like a gut punch.
Àvia’s house was never quiet. There was food cooking on the stove, bubbling and wafting smells of tomato and garlic and saffron through the whole floor. There was music — Àvia had an astounding collection of random cobla band recordings; sometimes, she’d pull me in a sardana, spinning us in a circle around the tight space of the living room.
And of course, there was talk. So much talk. Àvia had never met a silence she’d been comfortable with. She liked to fill every nook and cranny, to squeeze every ounce of conversation she could until there truly were no words left.
As a kid, I thought Àvia talked too much. Now, standing in her abysmally empty and quiet living room, I miss it something fierce.
And you think you can sell this damn place?
My head spins, and I pad around until my knees hit the wingback chair and I collapse against it. This house, the memories in it, are all I have left of the two people who’ve ever loved me. For the second time today, grief claws at my throat, and I do my best to smother it, but it kicks my breathing into overdrive.
Tomorrow. I will deal with next steps tomorrow. Sunlight ought to bring clarity to my foggy brain.
I drag myself from the chair to the couch, snatching the crochet blanket folded over the back and swaddling myself in it. It smells like orange blossoms, my grandma’s favorite hand cream, and fresh tears sting my eyes at the thought. But engulfed in the familiar scent, I at least settle down for the night.
chapter 5
CREEPERALDA
esmeralda
I had to battle my body to crawl out of bed this morning. Every muscle protested, begged me to stay tucked in, disappear from the world forever if possible. Alas, I had a meeting to get to, so I dragged myself out of the house.
