8. Beth

The floor creaks beneath my feet like the house is waking up with me. Michael's bedroom door is open, and his bed is made. Nicole's door is closed, so I know she's still asleep. She's always been the last to bed and the last to rise. There's a pot of freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen. Counters are wiped down and everything is put away and tidy—not how I left it last night. I peek out the window above the sink. Michael's car is gone, and I wonder... Gone for good? Just like Dad? I pour a cup of coffee and inhale the nutty smell before taking it out to the back deck to enjoy.

The sky is a muted gray, dimly lit by the climbing sun. Birds chirp and peep a dawn chorus, while squirrels frolic in the bird feeders hung from old box elder and maple trees. The property dips into a hillside covered in trees. A valley carved through it sits off to the right, leading down to a small cabin and fire pit. Beyond that, a grassy plain, more trees, a hidden cemetery for the pets we've loved, and the twisting, bubbling creek. There's a pasture to the left covered in dandelions that look like little yellow explosions. The landscape is green and vibrant, but soon the colors will change, and the leaves will fall, and those chirping birds will fly south. That's life. It's a cycle until it's not anymore.

I shoot a text to Michael, asking him if he's on a flight home.

He responds right away.

I went into town. Be back soon.

I'm not sure if I'm relieved or not to hear that he's coming back, but I suppose it's nice to have another person here to help clean up the mess and keep an eye on Nicole.

It's just after eight in the morning and for the first time in a long time, I don't know what to do with myself. If Mom were alive, I'd be making peanut butter toast and sitting down to watch The Price Is Right with her. But she's not. How do the living just keep living? I sip the hot coffee and clear my throat. It's much stronger than how I make it, almost like a thick bitter oil.

The roar of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. I make my way around the back of the house. As I turn a corner, I stumble into a tipped-over garbage can. Damn raccoons. I push the spilled contents back into the receptacle with my foot and stand it upright. A car nicer than mine but not as nice as Michael's rental is parked in front of the garage. The windows are darkly tinted, so I can't see who's in it. A man dressed in a gray suit steps out, lifts his chin, and waves.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"Are you Elizabeth Thomas?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Craig Davidson, your mother's attorney," he says, walking around the front of his vehicle.

His introduction puzzles me. Mom had a lawyer. I had no idea. She never mentioned it, and I didn't think she had the money for one, especially since I was covering whatever bills she couldn't.

He extends a hand. "I'm very sorry for your loss." The sympathy seems robotic. Overusing words or phrases dulls their significance, and it's clear from how he speaks that he's said those words a thousand times.

"Thanks," I say, shaking his hand weakly.

Craig clears his throat. "I'm here to go over her will."

I'm even more puzzled by the mention of a will. She never brought it up, never talked about anything that would happen after she passed. So, I assumed she didn't have one. But I'm also a little relieved because now I'll know exactly what she wanted.

* * *

Nicole sits at the end of the table, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, legs folded like a pretzel. Her hair is disheveled, and she switches between drinking water and coffee. I'm sure she's nursing a hangover because according to a Google search, she's not supposed to be consuming alcohol while on methadone treatments. And I'm sure she knows that too. But that's Nicole. She does what she wants when she wants. The lawyer, seated across from Michael and me, pulls a stack of folders from his briefcase. On top is a sealed manila envelope with the words Thomas Children written in black Sharpie. Michael taps his fingers against the table. His jaw is clenched and his eyes wander. He looks uncomfortable. But I'm sure we all do. There's nothing comforting about death.

Craig straightens out the papers. "Elizabeth, your mother has left most everything to you," he says, matter-of-factly.

My eyes flick to Nicole and then to Michael. His face is as tight as a drum. Hers is lax—a mix of disappointment and sadness, maybe something else.

I readjust myself in my seat. My fingers make their way to my teeth. I bite one nail before realizing that I'm biting it and quickly pull it away, folding my hands in my lap.

"What do you mean by most everything?" Nicole asks.

Craig scans the paper laid out in front of him. "The house and furniture go to Elizabeth, and so does this." He retrieves a small silver key and a Post-it Note. "The information for the lockbox is written down on the paper."

"What's in the box?" Michael asks. His eyes follow the key as it slides across the table toward me.

"Laura didn't say, so your guess is as good as mine," Craig explains.

I flip the key over and over in my hand. It's shiny and appears brand new. Is the lockbox also new? And what did Mom stow away? She's never had much, so I assume it contains little mementos that have no financial value but were treasures to her.

Craig drags his finger down the piece of paper. "Her car and journals go to Nicole," he says, flipping another page before continuing. "Your mother also kept most of your father's belongings. In here, she stipulates that Nicole and Elizabeth will have their choice of two of his items and the rest will go to Michael."

"Only two things?" Nicole groans.

"You can have whatever you want," Michael says with a shrug. I assume his generosity is because he has far more in life than me and Nicole will ever have.

"As far as your mother's personal belongings, they are to be divided between the three of you. Any questions?"

"How did you know my mother passed?" I ask.

Craig clears his throat. "I was alerted by her hospice nurse."

He rotates the paper toward us, clicks a pen, and places it on the table. "I'll need each of you to sign at the bottom. This just states that I went over everything."

Michael flicks his signature across it and slides it to me. I hesitate, the tip of the pen hovering an inch above the paper. It feels so uneventful. Your mom's dead. Divide up all of her possessions. Sign here. Now, go about your own life.

I force the pen to touch the paper and skid across it, leaving behind a blotchy signature that barely looks like mine. I pass it to Nicole, and she signs it without a thought.

The lawyer collects the paper, closes the folder, and opens another. "Your mother requests to be cremated, and she would like her ashes spread around the property." Craig looks to each of us to confirm our mom's wish will be honored.

Michael leans forward, tightening his eyes. "Seems a little disrespectful. This used to be farmland."

"It's not disrespectful. She wants to stay in the place she loved most," Nicole says.

The lawyer's gaze darts to me, "Is this going to be a problem?"

"No. That's what Mom wanted, so we'll carry out her wishes," I say with a nod. I'm relieved to know we're doing exactly what she asked for. Mom didn't get what she wanted in life, so the least I can do is give her what she wanted in death.

"Funerals aren't for the dead. They're for the living," Michael says. "Mom should be buried in a cemetery, so there's a place we can visit her."

"You didn't visit her when she was alive," I scoff.

"Beth!" Nicole scolds.

"What? I could say the same for you." I narrow my eyes at her.

"Just because you were here doesn't mean we didn't lose her too," Nicole argues. "She was just as much our mom as she was yours."

"Yeah, sure." I cock my head. "But I was the one that took care of her up until the moment she died. Where were you two?"

Michael shifts toward me. "Get off your high horse, Beth. You may have been here, but I was the one footing the bill for everything."

The lawyer quietly organizes his papers, trying to ignore the fight that's unfolding, but it's clear he's uncomfortable from the way his shoulders are pinned to his ears.

"No, you weren't," I practically yell. The rise in my own voice startles me.

"Oh great. So, we have Mr. Money Bags and Ms. I'm a Better Daughter Because I Watched Mom Die," Nicole says, rolling her eyes.

I almost add and 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."