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“We are gathered heretoday in honor of the late and great Arthur Bailey,” the pastor says ominously to the crowd.
It’s a rainy Tuesday afternoon and I am huddled next to my mom under a tattered umbrella in a Seattle cemetery. She cries softly, leaning against me for support as her body trembles with sobs. I hand her my pack of tissues and she thanks me with her blue, tear-filled eyes. I just turned twenty-two last Saturday and this is the first time I have seen my mother cry. It was also the first time I celebrated a birthday without a call from my father, since he’s now six feet under.
The pastor begins his speech, but I don’t hear a word of it. My mind wanders with my eyes as I scan the large crowd before us.
Dad was an important man, rich, powerful and loved by many. Mostly because he never let his money or his power affect who he was as a person, which was a pretty great person. My parents divorced when I was young, but they still had love for each other and did the best to co-parent me. I spent my years in school living in Seattle with my mother and my summers on my dad's ranch in Montana.
He was born and raised a city man, but he loved animals and he loved farming. So when he graduated college, he started his own livestock production and eventually bought a large plot of land in Montana which grew to be the famous Bailey Ranch, one of the largest livestock sellers and producers in the nation. Mom grew tired of the country life, which took a toll on their marriage. After the divorce was finalized, she packed up our things and took my eleven-year-old self back to Seattle with her, leaving her heart on that ranch with my father.
I’m glad I still had my father even though his and my mom’s marriage didn’t work out. He was a loving man, and even though it killed him that he only got to see me in the summers, he never let that affect our bond. He called me every day and always made my birthdays special. Which is why this recent birthday was especially hard.
I got the call that morning. It was nearly six and my eyes were still crusty with sleep. Mom said there was a tragic accident on the road outside of his ranch. A trailer hit him head on and he died on impact. I didn’t cry right away. I was too stunned. I felt as if time itself had stopped and I was frozen altogether. To be honest, I still haven’t cried, because I still refuse to accept the fact that my father is gone.
“It is time for the family to pay their respects,” the pastor says loudly, breaking my dark thoughts.
I look over to my mom, who is still staring at my father’s closed casket with vacant eyes. I nudge her with my shoulder, but she doesn’t move.
“Mom, it’s time for us to go up there and say goodbye,” I say quietly in her ear.
She breaks her gaze and nods slowly, standing up with her hand wrapped in mine. We walk to the casket and she kisses the top of it, tears staining the expensive wood before she stands back. I let go of her hand and walk forward, placing a single, yellow rose on the top of my father’s casket.
They were always my favorite flower, and he made sure to plant numerous yellow rose bushes at the ranch for me so that I would be surrounded by them in the summers I spent with him.
My hand lingers on the casket for a while as I stare down at it. I try to picture his face. His crooked nose and hazel-green eyes that look exactly like mine. His graying beard and wispy hair. I wish I could see him now, but my mother and I both voted on keeping his casket closed as we wanted to preserve a positive memory of him.
I take a deep breath and say my goodbyes, stepping back to grab my mom's hand before we turn and walk through the crowd, my father’s casket lowering behind us.
“Until next time, Daddy,” I whisper into the cold, rainy air.
* * *
“What do you mean we can’t access his funds?! He's been dead for a month now and every insurance rep has said we should see them by now!” My mom shouts into the phone angrily as I sip my tea at the kitchen counter in her Seattle apartment.
We’ve been dealing with this issue for weeks. Meeting with insurance agent after insurance agent, then meeting with numerous bank managers that I didn’t even know existed. I knew my father had money and was a busy man, but I guess I didn’t really care about the details. Until now, when I’m supposed to be focusing on getting my first apartment and landing a job with my new literature degree. Instead, I’m meeting with old men that I don’t care about and that don’t have any answers for me.
Apparently, Dad left me a lot of money, which is great and all, if he would’ve left an instruction manual behind detailing how to access it as well. I don’t know how to navigate any of this. I went to school to read about old English literature and stories, not handle transactions and accounting issues. I can’t even see how much money he has, where his funds are or anything. He had a partner once, Jackson was his name, but he eventually quit and my dad handled everything. I have no one to go to for advice or anything. It’s just Mom and I constantly on the phone or in some random office.
She slams the phone down in anger, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down on her old couch in the living room. Mom’s apartment is nice, but modest. She didn’t take any of my dad’s money when they split and insisted on doing everything on her own. She’s a high school science teacher and has done well for herself.
I finish my tea, setting the glass down in the sink as I go sit next to her on the sofa. Her coffee smells strong and bitter and I hate it. I never liked coffee, no matter how much sugar I would try to add to it. I’m a tea girl. I’ll drink it any kind of way, cold, hot, sweet or unsweet. Just as long as it’s not the bitter crap that she has in her cup.
“Mom, look at me,” I say, pulling her hand in my lap and urging her to face me.
Her strawberry blond hair is starting to gray, short and cropped to frame her elegant face. I have her hair color, but my eyes and wild waves come from my dad. Our faces are similar, but that’s where mutual looks stop. She is slender, tall and elegant, and I am a short, petite thing with curves that never felt right.
My mom is a beautiful woman, but the sadness from my father’s death and stress of helping me pick up the pieces are beginning to wear her down and it breaks my heart. I can’t let her go through with this. I have to figure something out.
“I know you want to help me, Mama, but look at you. You’re tired and worn out. You don’t have to carry all of this heavy shit for me. I’m a grown woman and can figure it out on my own,” I say, and she scoffs.
“You can, but you won’t. I won’t allow it, Alison.” She’s also stern. I can’t remember the last time she called me by my full name, my whole life I’ve just been Ali.
“I will, Mom, and you will rest. Seriously. Just take the day off and get some sleep. Please,” I beg her, and she stares at me with blank, brown eyes before nodding slowly and laying down on her worn, blue couch.
I grab a knitted throw from a chair and gently lay it across her, kissing her head before walking down the small hallway and into my bedroom.
We’ve lived in this apartment since we moved back to Seattle when I was little. It is in the heart of downtown since my mom works for the city school district, but I’ve always loved that I could look out my window and see the city below. I’m a city girl through and through. I live for the hustle and bustle and busy streets. For the corner cafe and abundant shops. This is home to me, but I will still miss those special summers at the ranch with my father.
