I closed the drawer and went over to the dresser. Now I was really invading Paul’s privacy. But what choice did I have? I opened the top drawer and peeked in: boxers and socks, all black and all neatly folded. The middle drawer held T-shirts on one side and pajamas and workout clothes on the other. The bottom drawer was filled with neatly folded jeans on one side. And on the other, a metal file box.
Something creaked behind me.
A rafter with a rope tied around it, a body swinging.
I turned, heart hammering. There was nothing. No one. Only bright winter sunlight streaming through the windows, chasing the ghosts away.
I hurriedly pulled out the file box, set it on the bed, and popped it open. Inside were neatly labeled files:TAXES, WILL AND ADVANCE CARE DIRECTIVE, FINANCIAL, MEDICAL.
I pulled out Paul’s will and advance care directive.
I skimmed the will, and saw the executor listed:I hereby appoint my nephew, Jack Coppage of Keeseville, Essex County, New York, as Executor.
Now we were getting somewhere. So much for not having any family.
I’d do some research on my computer back at home—with any luck, I’d be able to quickly locate this nephew. Telling him about Paul’s death was not something I looked forward to, but the idea of being able to pass on all of these responsibilities and decisions to an actual family member filled me with a sense of relief.
Scanning through the will and financial paperwork, I confirmed what I’d already suspected: Paul was quite wealthy. He owned an impressive portfolio of taxable stocks and bonds, and a hefty retirement account. It seemed he’d made a lot of money in cryptocurrency as well.
My mother had taken good care of him, paid him incredibly well, and he’d socked most of it away.
I put the important papers, including Paul’s will, into a folder and went back downstairs. I had what I’d come for. Time to go.
Back in the main room, I shoved the folder into my bag, dug out my keys. But something bothered me, reached for me with tendrils like fingers and wouldn’t let go.
I turned back to the desk. It resembled the scene of a robbery more than a coherent attempt to get things ready for an exhibition. It looked like Paul had been sifting through things in desperation. Searching. But for what?
I went back over to the desk and started sorting through the mess. I picked up a sketchbook and found my mother’s drawings of flowers and trees. Another had notes and drawings for a series of large paintings she’d done ten years ago calledThe Forest of Bones and Teeth.
All I found were old sketches of my mother’s. Copies of reviews of her work, interviews she’d done over the years. A syllabus left over from her brief stint teaching.
Then I picked up the red sketchbook at the front, next to Paul’s notepad.
Only when I opened it, I saw it wasn’t a sketchbook, but a journal.
My mother’s journal.
I turned to the first entry: October 4, 1984. It was not long after Bobbi had died. The entry was short:
It’s been almost three weeks and it still doesn’t feel real. I don’t think it ever will. I keep replaying our last conversation when she called the day before her accident. She sounded so upset.She wasn’t making any sense. Is there something I could have said or done? Something that might have stopped her from getting into her car the next day and driving over 100 miles an hour on that curvy little road? Something that might have kept her alive?
I suppressed a little shiver—these were the same questions I was asking myself now about Paul. It seemed a strange and terrible coincidence.
I flipped forward to the first page Paul had bookmarked with a sticky note. He’d written on it:First realization that she’s not herself. I swallowed down the hard knot in my throat and read the entry.
November 17, 1984
I have been experiencing moments of missing time. I wake up in strange places and find it’s hours, even days after the last thing I remember. I tried to talk to David about it, but he seems frightened of me. He’s always taking the children out, leaving me here alone. Maybe he’s trying to give me space to grieve.
This morning I woke up and found a brand-new painting in my studio. Another of Bobbi and the stone.
There was also a note in my writing that I didn’t remember making: Amanda Gould, Hydra Gallery, and a number in California. I called the number and spoke to Amanda, who was delighted I’d called back and said she’d been given the okay to double her offer for a new painting of Bobbi and the stone. The amount was enough to pay off the rest of our mortgage.
What is happening to me?
Some kind of shock?
Memory loss from trauma?
