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FRACTURED SOULS.
TONY
Dick has called a meeting today to go over Mom’s estate since she died without writing a will. The room is heavy with tension as we gather for what should be a family meeting, but it feels more like a battleground. Dick, Jenny, Lola, and I are supposed to discuss the practicalities of dealing with Mom's passing, but unspoken grievances linger in the air.
We start innocently enough, talking about the logistics of handling Mom's affairs. However, the conversation takes an unexpected turn when Jenny suggests selling the family home to cover expenses. Lola opposes the idea vehemently, clinging to the memories embedded in these walls.
“How could you even possibly think about selling this house, Jenny? This is our home. This house holds all our memories.”
I try to mediate, proposing a compromise, but it only fans the flames. I can't help but speak up. "Lola, you need to face reality.Holding onto this house won't bring Mom back. We need to think practically," I assert.
“The truth of the matter is, Lola, we can’t afford to keep it when nobody is using it. Before you know it, there’ll be squatters living here, and it won’t be our home anymore. Not the way you remember it.” Jenny reaffirms her position.
“I’m with Lola on this one. Selling it just feels wrong to me,” Dick says. “Plus, this is the wrong market for selling.
It looks like we are a house divided bang in the middle, once again. Two for two.
“If we were to sell it, what would that entail?” I ask tentatively. It is an old house and very dated. If we sell it As-Is, we will definitely be giving it away as if Mom and Dad’s investment, hard-earned money and sweat means nothing, but to spruce it up and bring it up to date will cost money I know most of us don’t have. Among us all, Dick is the only “rich” one, even though he will never admit to it. I suppose when it comes to money, “rich” is a very subjective term.
“Well, I have no idea what it would entail, but I would guess nothing short of fifty to seventy thousand dollars if we want top dollar for it.”
“And who among us do you see with that kind of money apart from you, Dick? I am barely hanging on, Tony has no job, and Lola is in school. Where the hell do you expect us to get that kind of money?” Jenny fumes, still miffed that her brilliant idea did not go smoothly. I could be wrong, but it looks to me that Jenny is in some kind of financial trouble and could do with her inheritance now . . . like right now.
Dick's anger flares and a heated exchange ensues. Accusations and frustrations spill out from every corner, each of us pointing fingers wherever the fingers will go.
Amid the argument, my emotions reach a breaking point, triggered by something Dick just said, and I lose my cool andenter a red-hot rage. I have no idea what has taken over the command center of my emotions, but I am going after Dick like the heavens are falling.
Now I know why Mama used to say that you should always keep your mouth shut when you are angry. Sometimes, when you are angry, words come out of your mouth that you would really want to swallow back, but how do you swallow back words you have released to the winds, and they have floated into someone else’s ears? You cannot unring a bell, just like I cannot take back these words even though they have been my truth ever since Mom died, and I let Dick have them. I scream,
"Mom died because of you. If we'd been in Zurich when she started feeling bad, we'd have taken her back to the clinic. Dr. Schneider would have known what to do. Liam might have killed our father, but you killed our mother," I accuse, my voice trembling with pure anger and rage.
Dick, shocked by the accusation, struggles to respond, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a bitter truth none of us wants to confront. Dr. Schneider wanted Mom to stay in Zurich for three months, I begged him to let us stay, but he bullied us all into coming back to Miami, even coughing the money for a private plane on a soft loan he now holds over our heads . . . money I’m sure he will want back as soon as Mom’s estate is liquidated.
Unable to bear the intensity of the confrontation any longer, I abruptly stand up, and storm out of the house, leaving my siblings in stunned silence.
I get in my car, tears of rage and frustration flowing unabated, and I do not stop driving until I hear my empty gas tank warning: I need to stop and get some gas.
As I stand there at the Mobil station pumping gas, it finally hit me. I have nowhere else to go. I have no family in this State, nofriends, not even an acquaintance. I only had my mother, and now she is dead . . . I am all alone.
I get my phone and Google the nearest Motel, find one and head there. Alone in my hotel room, I wrestle with the aftermath of the explosive argument I left behind. The realization that our family bonds have fractured under the strain of grief weighs heavily on me, and I question whether we can ever find a way to heal.
Chapter thirty-eight
THE POINT OF INFLECTION.
TONY
It is twelve past midnight, and sleep still won’t come, the constant whirring of the mini fridge an annoying disruption. What do I have to do to get some sleep here? I toss and turn, fighting sheets that are now firmly twisted around my legs like a restless serpent, a cotton coil that's far too tight, chasing an elusive dream that keeps slipping through my grasp. REM sleep is the only time I get to see my Mom lately, and today, there’s just no sleep happening.
Pissed and upset, I kick off the offending sheets in frustration and sit up, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting ghoulish shadows across the room as if ghosts of past travelers are still trapped in here, enjoying my misery.
My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat echoing the argument I had with Dick earlier, his words still burning in my ears, but they're becoming distant now, drowned out by the silence of this unfamiliar hotel room.
I rub my eyes, heavy from the sleep that won't come, the back of my lids feeling like they are made of sandpaper—I am in the ninth circle of hell. The empty space next to me in bed feels colder than usual, and I wonder why . . . it’s not as if I’m used to sleeping in a bed that has that spot occupied on a regular basis. Not having a regular boyfriend means I have not developed an expectation or addiction to having the left side of my bed occupied.
Since sleep won’t come, I choose to get up and do some stretch yoga as I clear my brain of cobwebs, but that doesn’t work either. Frustrated, I do the only thing left to do—just this once . . . I raid the “good stuff” in the mini-fridge.
Sitting back on the creaky bed with a thud, nestling my Vodka and ginger ale, I lay back on the pillow and force my brain to work. I have to sign out of here by eleven AM if I don’t want to be charged another day, the clerk had said, so by ten-thirty latest, I need to have a plan.
