Page 15 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

I almost addand little miss drug addict, but I stop myself.

“I put two thousand dollars in her account every month.” Michael’s voice is calm, making me, in contrast, look unhinged.

“That’s a lie!” I’m nearly standing because I’m so mad. “I went through her finances. I was paying for anything Social Security didn’t cover, which was practically everything. I was barely scraping by.”

“You’re both technically correct,” Craig says quietly. The whites of his eyes show like he’s anticipating one of us jumping down his throat.

“What?” I furrow my brow, slowly retaking my seat.

The lawyer flips through several pages. “Your mother had two checking accounts. One of them is what you’re familiar with, Elizabeth. That’s what she used to pay all of her bills... or some of them. The other was never touched. It has a balance of one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars.”

My eyes go wide, nearly splitting at the corners. Or at least that’s how it feels. I can’t believe it. I was struggling to cover my own bills and some of Mom’s, and she was sitting on all that cash. Why would she do that to me?

“So, where’s that money now?” Nicole asks.

“Your mother’s wish was to donate that money to the Missing Persons Foundation,” Craig says, glancing down at the will.

Michael balls up his fists and then stretches out his hands. His knuckles crack, and he groans. “I sent Mom that money to help her.”

“You know Mom didn’t take handouts, Michael,” Nicole says. “But maybe since you—well, Mom—donated so much, they’ll finally help us find Dad.” She leans forward in her chair.

Nicole and I tried getting MPF to take Dad’s case a few months after he disappeared. They told us his case didn’t fit their criteria, and I think it was because they didn’t believe he was missing. They thought he left on his own accord.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say. My mother’s final words echo in my head.Your father. He didn’t disappear.She wants us to find him, I’m sure of it. But why didn’t she donate that money before she passed, or at least... told me sooner? The rest of her words slither into my brain...Don’t trust. Perhaps that’s why. She was scared, but of what?

“Anything else?” Michael asks. He’s agitated, and I guess I would be too if I were him. But when you give someone a gift, it’s their choice as to what they do with it.

“There’s one more thing,” Craig says. He opens the manila envelope and removes three white letter-sized envelopes. They’re sealed. He slides one to each of us. Written on the front are our names. The letters are smooth and round, each flowing seamlessly into the next. My mom always prided herself in her handwriting, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d practiced calligraphy at some point in her life.

“Your mother wrote each of you a letter, but she asked that you not open them until after her funeral.”

Nicole holds her envelope up to the light, trying to see what’s inside. “Why can’t we open them now?” She sets it down in front of her and folds her noncasted arm in front of her chest. Her eyes dart between the lawyer and the envelope, and I can tell she’s trying to resist the urge to rip it open.

“It’s what she wanted,” Craig says, gathering his papers and sliding them back into his briefcase.

I glance at the envelope on the table in front of me and trace my name with my finger. What did she want to say that she couldn’t when she was alive? I flip it over. My skin tingles as I stare at the sealed flap.

“Any further questions?” the lawyer asks.

None of us say anything. He takes the silence as an answer and nods. Before closing his briefcase, he slides a business card to me. “Feel free to call with any questions. Otherwise, all remaining paperwork will be sent here within the next ten business days.” Craig starts toward the door, making for a quick exit.Of course.Mom has already paid him, and there’s no money left for him to make here. He’s like a leech in salt.

“What happens if we open our envelopes before her funeral?” Nicole asks.

The lawyer pauses his quick exit, turns back, and lets out a sigh. “Probably nothing, but you should always respect the wishes of the dead.”

His words send a chill down my spine, and I can’t pinpoint why they have that effect.

The screen door slaps against the frame, punctuating his departure. My eyes flick to each of our envelopes, wondering what they contain. Michael hasn’t even touched his. Maybe he knows what it says. Nicole looks at hers like it’s her next fix, something she craves but will leave her damaged in the end. I can’t imagine Mom had very nice parting words for her, given the hell she’s put us through over the years. Regardless, I don’t think her envelope will stay sealed for very long. But mine. I’m not sure I’ll ever open it. I’m not even sure if I want to know what’s inside. Final words make things final.

“Now what?” Nicole asks, never taking her eyes off her envelope. She presses the tips of her fingers together, some pressure to satisfy the urge to tamper with it.

I stand, sliding the key and Post-it Note into the front pocket of my jeans. I fold the envelope and slip it into my back pocket. “We do what Mom wanted.”

NINE

NICOLE

Beth places a cardboard box labeledMemorieson the living room floor beside me. I’m surrounded by my parents’ belongings—boxes and totes strewn around, stacked three or four high. Mom kept them all these years, so they must have meant something. The ceiling creaks. Michael’s up in the attic, carrying everything to the pull-down ladder that feeds into the hallway. He hands them to Beth, and she brings them to the living room. It’s an assembly line of sorts, Beth’s idea, thanks to working in a factory her entire adulthood. If I had two working arms, I’d be of more use, but instead I’ve been tasked with sorting everything into piles—garbage, donate, sell, and keep. I’m pretty sure my cast is more of a nuisance than it is helpful as I don’t feel any pain in my arm. It’s just my ribs and face that throb, but that wouldn’t stop me from carrying boxes if I could. I’m used to feeling uncomfortable, so it doesn’t faze me.

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