Sorry for stealing your coffee.
I hope you’ll forgive me. :(
- Brody
After reading the note, the only word I could think of was:sociopath. I’m not sure I can describe him in another way. He hasn’t texted me again, and I didn’t bother to thank him for the coffee. I’m still debating if it’s a necessary thing to do after he stole what I had left for the week.
I lock my door and head out back to the parking lot, finding a fresh layer of snow coating the world around me. I need a garage to park in. I think the same thought every time it snows, which is far too often in the winter.
The attorney’s office is about an hour away, and the drive is made up of snow-covered maple trees and the open road—a canvas designed for a wandering mind.
I turn up the music to drown my thoughts, losing myself in the poetic lyrics from Brent Smith, the lead singer of Shinedown, wondering the odds of satellite signals sending over the song, “State of My Head.” This song could have been written about my life.
Driving by some of the open fields gives me the urge to pull over and take out my camera, but I’ll be late if I stop. I hate this damn snow, but it’s a beautiful anomaly; nothing so cold should be eye-catching.
With a deep breath, I pull into the small parking lot of a once residential house that has been converted into a law office. I’m a few minutes early, but the lot is empty except for one SUV. I have to prepare myself to discuss this matter after being quiet about the topic for so long. Talking about losing Dad hurts, and if I don’t talk, I don’t hurt as much.
The office smells like Yankee Candle, mostly vanilla and lemon. The floors are fake wood and bounce slightly beneath each step. I sound like an elephant walking in with my clunky boots on.
“Ms. Quinn?” I hear before walking toward the open door on the left of the small waiting area.
A woman steps out from the door to greet me. She’s dressed in a tailored gray suit with a white blouse and heels that clack louder than my steps. Her hair is pulled back into a tight low ponytail. “Hi, Ms. Whitman?” I didn’t know what she looked like, so I’m assuming this is the attorney.
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. Come on in,” she says with a friendly smile.
“You have great reviews online,” I tell her. The last time I needed an attorney, there weren’t many reviews online for local professionals, which meant I had to take a shot in the dark at finding the right person. It’s not the best situation when trying to file for an annulment.
“I’m glad to hear,” she says, motioning toward the royal blue leather chair in front of her oversized mahogany desk. She doesn’t seem surprised or flattered by my comment, and I’m hoping it’s just a sign of being humble rather than hiding the truth that she had the reviews planted there. “Your email was very detailed, so I think I understand most of your concerns. Were you able to bring a copy of the will with you?”
“Yes, I have it right here.” I’m glad I don’t have to rehash my questions. I hand over the envelope with the will.
“Perfect. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea while I make a photocopy?” she asks.
“Oh, no, thank you,” I tell her.
“I’ll just be a minute.” She walks out of the office and closes me inside. It gives me a moment to breathe, but my stomach is twisting into a knot at the same time. I pull out the letter from my bag and unfold the soft paper, becoming worn from the number of times I have opened it and held it between my clenched hands.
I re-read the words Dad wrote: “Your life is for you. Don’t live it for me.” I just needed a reminder.
Ms. Whitman had clearly worked with people who are grieving. Her questions were emotionless and simple. She made everything very clear and easy for me to understand. The hour ride back home offered a sense of confidence with my final decision. Now, I have to share it with Mom and Melody. I don’t know what they are thinking regarding why I have been stalling for so long, but they have given me the time and space to decide.
“Call Mom,” I say, holding down the button on the steering wheel.
Mom has been checking on me daily, so she might get nervous that I’m calling her for a change, which speaks truly when she answers before the end of the first ring.
“Journey, are you okay?”
“Hi, Mom,” I reply, trying to sound amused rather than upset over her being so worried about me. “I’m fine. I’m not a ticking time bomb, you know.”
I hear her release a lungful of air. “Oh, I know you’re not, honey. I just worry about you sometimes. You know this. I’m your mother. I’m allowed to worry.”
“I know. I know. If I wasn’t okay, you would be the first to know,” I tell her, knowing I’m not being truthful. I haven’t been okay since Dad died, but I will not lay that on top of her burden and grief.
“Well, that’s why I get nervous when you call me. I usually call you.”
“I know. Well, I wanted to ask for a favor.”
“Anything. You name it.” Mom loves to feel needed. It keeps her moving, especially as of late.
