Gone for Good (13 page)

I arrived right on time for my four-thirty appointment with the lawyer. The school day had passed uneventfully. I faced my class and told them once again that I didn't have their essays graded. They grumbled a little, and I realized that the shelf life of students giving their teacher a break because the teacher's mother had been murdered was getting shorter and shorter. Moving on with the estate business and putting everything to rest would be good, for my own psyche and for my professional career. I couldn't do much of anything about Ronnie, but I could take care of the things I still had some measure of control over.

Mr Allison's elderly secretary, her hair pulled into a tight bun, told me to wait, so I sat in an uncomfortable leather chair. I didn't read any of the magazines or play with my phone. Instead, I watched the secretary at her desk. She looked to be my mother's age or older, and I silently questioned the universe, asking it why this woman lived while my mother was gone. My anger grew – a slow churning in my chest – and I knew I had started down an unproductive and hurtful mental path. Just to distract myself, I picked up the first magazine I could reach, a copy of
Sports Illustrated
with a hulking football player on the cover. I flipped through it, past ads to help men with erectile
dysfunction and high cholesterol. The phone on the secretary's desk buzzed, and she stood up and asked me to follow her.

I had never met Mom's lawyer. I knew that when Dad died everything had gone to Mom. It wasn't much. The house, the car, and a life insurance policy. Mom kept information about her finances to herself, so I never knew how much the life insurance policy paid out. Mom certainly didn't change her lifestyle once Dad was gone, so I assumed that the money sat in a bank account somewhere accumulating a safe, steady return.

Frank Allison waited for me just inside his office door. He had a broad face and thinning white hair, which he combed back. His cheeks were a little ruddy, as if he'd just been out in a cold wind, and he wore a white shirt, dark tie, and suspenders. He shook my hand when I came in and offered his condolences while he guided me to a seat. He was over six feet tall and built solidly, and when he sat down behind the desk he let out a little grunt as though the very act of returning his butt to the chair required a lot of effort. The secretary closed the door when she left.

‘I know this is a difficult time,' Frank Allison said. ‘But you're smart to get the ball rolling on this.' He pulled out a pair of rimless glasses and set them on the end of his nose. ‘This death business can be a little like getting nibbled to death by ducks, but my job is to help you get through it.'

‘Thanks.'

‘We'll get this all square for you in a couple of shakes.'

Before I'd entered his office, I wouldn't have believed folksiness could be a cure for anything, but just a few
minutes in the presence of Frank Allison, and I started to calm down. It didn't hurt that the wall behind him was covered with pictures of his children and grandchildren and even one of Mr Allison himself in a Santa suit, the beard pulled down to reveal his smiling face.

‘I have a copy of the will,' I said. ‘It was in among Mom's personal effects when she died.'

‘Your mother was very practical,' he said, spreading some papers out on his desk. ‘She didn't want to burden her children with anything, so she tried to make it easy. You have the death certificate, right?'

I handed it over. Mr Allison studied it, his lips pressed together. He shook his head.

‘I just don't know where we're headed when these kinds of things happen,' he said, tapping the certificate with a big finger. ‘Your mother was a nice lady, very warm.'

He looked up at me and smiled, his lips spreading across his broad face.

‘Thank you,' I said. No one had ever described my mother as warm, but I knew he was trying to be nice, so I accepted it. Superficial comments were welcome, even encouraged.

Mr Allison lifted a packet of papers backed by a light blue piece of cardboard. ‘Here's the will,' he said, handing it over to me. ‘It's all pretty cut-and-dried. I'll give you a moment to look it over if you'd like.'

‘I already have one,' I said, holding up the papers.

‘Oh, that's right. You did say that.' He adjusted his glasses. ‘Well, you don't have to doubt those were her most recent wishes. If you look at the last page, you'll see she updated the will just about a month ago.'

I
froze. ‘She did?'

‘Indeed,' he said.

‘Did she change things?' I flipped through the copy sitting in my lap and checked the date on the last page. It was old. ‘This one is from two years ago,' I said.

‘You don't say,' Mr Allison said. He chuckled a little. ‘Well, maybe your mother has a surprise or two inside of her. Can I see that?'

‘She changed it a month ago?' I asked. The volume of my voice had dropped. When I handed the copy of the will – the old will – over to Mr Allison, my hand shook ever so slightly. It felt as if those few pages of white legal paper weighed twenty-five pounds.

‘That's right.'

A month. Right after our fight. Mr Allison had possession of the last words my mother would ever speak to me in the form of her bequests, and I had no idea what she might have to say – if anything. Would I finally find out what she really thought about my refusal to care for Ronnie? Would she cut me out entirely?

‘Is it changed a lot?' I asked.

‘Oh, she rearranged the furniture a little.' He must have noticed my shakiness, because he pointed to a copy of the will on his desk, then said, ‘Would you like me to explain what all this means?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘All righty,' he said, adjusting the glasses again. He took the old will, the one I had brought, and tossed it onto the table behind him. ‘We don't need that.' He picked up the new one and handed it over to me. ‘The first page there just says all the typical gobbledygook that we have to say.
Your mom's of sound mind and body and a resident of this county and that this will supersedes any previous will she might have made. That's how we know this one will stand up. The latest one signed by the person is the one that counts. Everything else is null and void.'

‘Okay,' I said. I took the copy of the new will and scanned the first page. The words all ran together and meant nothing to me.

‘Then, on the second page there, you see that your mom directed that all of her property and assets, including any insurance policies she might have, be divided into three equal shares. Again, all pretty standard. If you go to the next page …'

But I wasn't listening to him any more. My eyes were stuck on the second page and the section where it named the recipients of the equal shares of Mom's estate.

‘Hold on,' I said, raising my index finger.

‘What is it?' Mr Allison asked.

‘Who is this person?' I asked.

He looked up from his copy of the will. ‘Which person?'

I saw three names listed. Mine, Ronnie's, and one more. I was relieved to see my name listed. I hadn't been cut out. But someone else was included. Added, I should say. A name that wasn't in the will Mom had in her drawer at home, the one I found the night she died.

‘This,' I said. ‘Elizabeth Yarbrough. Who's that and why is she in Mom's will?'

‘You don't know who she is?' he asked.

I sat back in my chair and tried to think. I ran through the names of every relative I could think of – and there weren't that many. Dad was an only child. My grandparents
were dead. And then there was Paul and Ronnie and me. As far as friends … I think every single one of them was at the funeral, and I didn't remember that name – Elizabeth Yarbrough – although it could have slipped past me.

‘Is she a friend of my mother's?' I asked.

Mr Allison frowned a little. He dug around on his desk and pulled out a manila folder. ‘You know what I do now that I'm getting older? I take notes whenever I talk with a client, just in case something like this comes up.' He flipped the folder open. ‘Here we go.' He read over something in the folder. ‘It just says here your mom came in and made this change to her will, adding this Elizabeth Yarbrough woman as one of her beneficiaries.'

‘Did my mom say why?' I asked.

‘No, ma'am. It says here that I asked your mom who this Yarbrough woman was. A friend or a relative. Your mom just said she was somebody close to the family, and I let it go at that.' He closed the folder. ‘You know, I've handled your parents' wills and things since you were born. Neither one of them was very rash or impulsive. If your mom said she wanted to make a change like this, I figured she meant it. I try not to argue with women who know their minds.'

‘Doesn't she have to tell you who she's leaving money to?' I asked. ‘You're the lawyer drawing it up.'

‘She's under no obligation to tell me anything, even if I am her lawyer. It's a family will. It's not the Magna Carta. Now, if someone wants to contest it, that's another matter.'

‘No, no,' I said. ‘I'm not saying that.' I stared down at the paper again, at that name. My first name too. My chest
felt hollow. Here was something else I apparently didn't know about Mom.

Mr Allison said, ‘It says right there Elizabeth Yarbrough of Reston Point, Ohio. That's about an hour from here. Does your mom have any people there?'

‘No,' I said. ‘She's from Haxton.'

‘That's the other way,' Mr Allison said. He scratched his chin. ‘You know what I'm thinking, don't you?'

‘That Elizabeth Yarbrough is the person who called you on the phone the other day?'

‘Exactly,' he said. ‘She must have known, or suspected, that she was going to be named here. Your mother must have told her about that, and she must have known your mother had died. Of course, anyone could find that information out.'

I remembered the phone call, the one that had come on the day of Mom's funeral. The woman said she was just getting to know Mom but couldn't make it to the service. She didn't give her name.

‘I guess we'll hear from her again,' I said.

He tapped the will with his index finger. ‘Do you want to look at the next page? There's a provision for custody and care of your brother, who I believe has some special needs.' I turned the page, and he said, ‘As you can see, your mother named you guardian of your brother and placed his share of the estate in trust to be managed and controlled by you. A little farther down, you'll see she named you as executrix as well. She certainly had a lot of faith in you, and I bet that gave her a lot of peace.'

‘But –' I stopped myself. I knew Mom didn't have much faith in me, which is why she needed to beg for my
promise to care for Ronnie. In the end, it didn't matter. She had given that responsibility to me whether I wanted it, or even felt up to it. ‘This is a change as well. My uncle was supposed to be Ronnie's guardian. That's how it was in the other will.'

Mr Allison opened the folder again. He read off the paper, his lips moving ever so slightly as he did so. ‘It is,' he said. ‘Your mom transferred the guardianship from your uncle to you. And your mom was pretty clear about that, according to my notes. She said she felt her brother was getting on in years, and she wanted the peace of mind of knowing someone would always be around for your brother. So that's you.'

‘You know my uncle, right?'

‘Paul? I do. He's a good man. Schoolteacher, right?'

‘Retired.'

‘I guess he's about that age. What about him?'

‘I don't … I guess I need to talk to him about all this.'

‘You don't
have
to,' he said. ‘He's not named anywhere in this document. Of course, you're welcome to explain things to anyone in the family if you so desire. But like I said, your mom knew her mind.'

‘My mom didn't tell me she was naming me Ronnie's guardian,' I said. ‘Why didn't I have to sign anything or fill out any forms? Wouldn't I have to do something like that?'

‘I figured she told you,' he said. ‘Usually the person making the will hashes that out with the guardian before coming in here. Besides, you're his sister, right? There's just you and your uncle. Who else would be taking care of him?'

‘Right.
I've even thought about how I could make it work. I'm in school full-time. Graduate school. It's going to require some juggling.'

‘Most things do.' He scratched his chin again. ‘Your brother is over eighteen. He's an adult. A disabled adult, but an adult. He doesn't have to live with you. You don't have to be his full-time caretaker. There are homes where folks like your brother live pretty independently.'

‘I know. I'm aware of that.'

‘All I'm saying is that you have options. Part of the reason you didn't have to sign anything or write your name down in blood is because your brother is an adult. This isn't like someone left an infant on your doorstep.'