“Yup,” I lie, it’s not like he can help me if I tell him the truth.
“That’s great, really great.”
“I would offer you a seat, but as you can see, everything got picked up after the auction.”
“Right,” he says, acknowledging the empty space with a nod. “We do need to sign some papers though.”
“The kitchen?” I gesture down the hall, figuring we can use one of the surfaces there.
We make our way through, and I have to blink a couple of times to stop tears from forming. They say the kitchen is the heart of the home, and in this house that was true. Memories of days spent baking with Mom flood my mind. Standing on a chair when I was too small to reach the countertop; her pretending not to see me licking the spoon clean of cake batter even after she’d told me not to; the time I dropped a bag of flour and it exploded all over me, turning me pure white and making me sneeze until my nose hurt, but we still couldn’t stop laughing.
The delicious scents from our creations used to fill this space. Now the room is empty and cold, the only smell is one of disinfectant from the cleaners who wiped away all traces of our happy life here.
“So today is the final paperwork for the sale of the house,” Mr. Moore says, laying sheets of paper across one of the units.
“Fine,” I say, “doyou have a pen?”
“Of course,” he says, taking one from his inner jacket pocket and handing it to me.
Shit, my dad used to have one just like this. When I was a child we called it his magic pen, he always said it was lucky and took it to all his business meetings, saying this pen was behind all the big deals he won. He told me once that the pen is mightier than the sword, so I used to imagine him using it like one, going into battle and winning. I scoff. Not so lucky after all…
“Is everything okay?” Mr. Moore asks.
Oops, I must have scoffed out loud.
“Yes, just clearing my throat.”
I smile, before turning my attention to the paperwork. I give everything a cursory glance but honestly don’t care what it says, it’s not as though they can fuck me over more than I already have been. I hand the papers back to him once they’re signed.
“Great,” he says, “once I’ve filed these with the relevant departments the sale will be final, and I’ll make sure the estate is all settled.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for his help, but deeply wishing I’d never needed it.
“There is still the matter of the outstanding bills—”
“I’m dealing with it,” I interrupt, I know it’s rude, but I don’t have the energy to discuss this with him.
“It’s a lot of money, Beth,” he says, “how are you going to—”
“I said I’m dealing with it.”
My raised voice clearly shocks him, and he focuses on closing his briefcase.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I just… I have it under control.”
“You don’t need to apologize, with everything you’ve been through, you’re allowed to lose it a bit.”
Honestly, I’d love to fucking lose it. Half of me wants to break down and cry, cry for the loss of my parents, or cry from pure exhaustion. The other half of me is pissed off and wants to scream and break stuff. But there’s nothing left here to break, everything is gone.
“I’ll be fine.”
The lie is getting easier every time I say it. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to tell people recently that ‘I’ll be fine’.
“Are you sure?” he asks, “You don’t have to do this all by yourself, there are people who can help you.”
People who can help me… I almost want to gesture to the empty house and ask him where the fuck all the people are who can supposedly help me. Shouldn’t they have come around by now? Shouldn’t they have been here already? No, our fall from grace made us social pariahs, outcasts. Nobody is coming.
“Really, I’ll be okay,” I reassure him.
