Page 49 of Fraud
“Yes.”
“My dad was quite the adventure seeker. He loved to ski and jump out of planes, even fly them. I always loved to brag to my friends that my daddy was a pilot. We never flew far, just to the beach for the weekend or up to Seattle for the day. But it was something we did as a family.”
I remembered the little ice cream shop down the street from our house or sitting in the kitchen, making pasta with my mom. Every family had their traditions.
“Until you didn’t,” I said, knowing the pain she must have felt.
The pain she still felt every day.
“Exactly,” she replied. “No one really knows what happened, how the plane went down. The weather was clear, and it was an easy thirty-minute trip from our house to Portland. The only thing we can figure is, my father got sick, maybe a heart attack or something, and couldn’t land.”
“Is that why you never speak about your family?” I asked, watching her gaze down at her feet.
She nodded. “I’m not sure why I’m even talking about it now.”
“I take it, you never went to Spain?”
“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been on a plane since it happened. How’s that for issues?” A pained laugh broke free from her mouth.
“Join the club,” I said. “I’ve never been to my mother’s gravesite.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “In the beginning, I told myself I wasn’t ready. Total crap. Honestly, I think I’m mad at her.”
“For dying?”
I nodded.
“I get that,” she replied, turning to me.
“Really?”
“I went to a support group for children who’d lost a parent,” she began. “And, while a lot of it was just sitting around, listening to people cry, some of it was helpful. Not that helpful—obviously.” She laughed. “I’m still pretty messed up. But one of the things that stuck out for me was the idea that it was okay to be mad at the dead.”
“Go on.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice becoming more focused and clear. “Have you ever heard the saying,Dying is easy. It’s living that is hard?”
“Yes.”
“I think we all go through this period of grieving where we end up angry at our loved ones for leaving us. Especially when we’re faced with something difficult. For me, it was figuring out all the finances after they died. Having to sign documents I didn’t understand, become an executor of an estate I had no information on. I was furious at them for not preparing me.”
I nodded, completely understanding. “My mom was sick for a long time,” I said. “But she never lost hope. Even on her deathbed, she wouldn’t concede. I remember being so furious because she didn’t allow us the time for a proper good-bye. My final words to her were stupid and meaningless because she couldn’t give in to her fate.” I paused for a second before adding, “I’ve never said that out loud to anyone.”
“Felt good, didn’t it?” She smiled.
“It did. Thanks.”
“You know what else helps with grief?”
“Sex?” I answered, a large grin spreading across my face.
A laugh escaped her lungs. “Food!”
“Well, I guess that will have to do. For now,” I said, lifting my eyebrows in amusement.
I grabbed my keys and her hand as we made our way out for some dinner, no longer thinking about long-lost memories or career advancements.
