Love's Legacy

After months ambling through a fuzzy world, I was ready. I had to be ready.

Surprised that I wasn’t shaking, I stepped into the unit that had been my parents’ home for the past fifteen years. Mum had passed away several years ago and, from the sight of the unit, Dad had kept it a lot tidier than my sweet clutterbug mother ever had.

At least that would make this process a little easier. Despite his age, Dad had been robust and adventurous. Losing him so suddenly had wrecked my heart – I was still nursing a very fresh emotional scar that I doubted would ever heal over. No amount of imagining could breathe that possibility to life.

I failed at my attempt to avoid peeking in at the loungeroom, that neat-as-a-pin room furnished with only a small couch, television, and his decades-old recliner. Its lumpy, faded seat brought a smile to my face. A wistful smile, though, as I remembered this was where his neighbour had found him, peaceful and resting with Mum at last.

Heading for the bedroom, I reminded myself that I had only one job today… to find his paperwork and get stuck into the legal guff. A job that I had been putting off for weeks.

I found the boxes exactly where Dad said they would be. He had left a file on his computer desktop with my name on it, outlining what I would need to do when the time came, and where I would find all his impeccably filed paperwork.

Gratitude burst out of me with a chuckle. My father was brilliant even in death.

Three neat archive boxes were stacked on the top shelf in his wardrobe, each labelled – “Legal & Financial”, “Personal”, and “Heidi”. I tried not to burst into a sob as I realised he had kept a box of my childhood bits and pieces.

I noticed the fresh fingerprints interrupting the fine dust layer on the lid of the first box, as if he had only opened it days ago. I grabbed it, dropping it gently on the bed, my hand grazing my Mum’s favourite floral sage green doona. He had kept it all this time. I smiled, knowing that he had slid into that bed every night thinking of her.

Inside the box were all the things I would need, ready to take to the solicitor and the bank. It all felt unemotional, clinical, and a bit of relief washed over me at that. I had expected it to be more stirring. Any break from the onslaught of feelings was welcome now.

But that was the easy box…

The rest would be a lot more difficult. I contemplated leaving them for another day, but quickly changed my mind, knowing that it wouldn’t make things easier. Just harder in the long run.

For a moment, I caught the scent of Dad’s aftershave, as if on a phantom wind. Where it came from, I don’t know, but I let it bolster me. Going through these boxes was best done from that lumpy old recliner. The immersive experience.

If this didn’t jolt me out the emotional rut, I doubted anything would.

The seat springs were more uncomfortable than I could have imagined. Delightfully uncomfortable. My shaking fingers peeled the lid off the box.

Photos, certificates, letters, and gifts from family and dear friends were packed to the top. Again, filed to perfection. There were USB drives containing scanned copies of everything in the box, and more. The realness of it all drove home as I felt tears warm my cheeks and licked the salt lining my upper lip. It tasted like fresh pain, and whether I was ready for it or not, it was here and ready to tear my scarred heart open again.

I closed the box and pushed it aside, remembering that there would be plenty of time to plunge deeper into these memories later. There was still one more archive box to go, and I needed to hold myself together for just a little longer.

Unsteady fingers lingered on the lid of the box that Dad had set aside for me. Exhaling loudly and unevenly as I traced the lines and loops of my name, I admired his sweeping cursive. The black sharpie propelled me into our past, memories cascading and almost overlapping. I remembered random little notes on the corkboard in my bedroom, poorly masked writing in my childhood Santa letters, and whacky requests on the fridge shopping list that made Mum chuckle. There were so many memories attached to that label.

Leaning the lid against the coffee table, I sucked in a breath, pulling out one plastic pocket after another. One for every year of my life till now, filled with drawings and letters, stories and certificates. Some trophies and chunky items were wrapped and tucked down the side. A fresh batch of tears brewed, bubbling behind my eyes. It seemed there was a never-ending reservoir buried in there.

I was ready to replace the lid when I spotted it. A green envelope stared at me, looking forlorn with its faded spots and crumpled edges. It opened easily, revealing a little black book, no bigger than my hand.

This was clearly not mine – well, at least nothing I remembered owning. Wondering if Dad had accidentally dropped his old diary or address book into my archive, I took in the musty leather and paper smell as it drifted upwards.

It was empty. The pages were a mottled mix of yellows, browns, and creams. While mostly disappointed, I was glad to not be confronted by some strange curveball. No wicked diarised life secrets, no little black book filled with lovers’ contact details. My fond memories of Dad remained intact. I closed the cover and moved to repack the book into the envelope.

It was then that I felt ridge on the back cover and realised that there was a piece of folded paper tucked into the leather dust jacket. Pulling the cover off gently so as not to rip the book, I eased the paper out. Even if it was blank, I knew there was a reason for it being here. Dad never did anything without a very good reason.

The paper was old but in good condition. A bank statement. An old bank statement for a savings account. It was thirty-four years old.

I was thirty-four years old…

And then I saw my name, jumping off the page and almost stealing the air from my lungs.

They must have opened the account after I was born. I flung myself into my memories, hoping to find one in which he mentioned the account, the bank. Nothing. It was then that I regretted refusing Auntie Celia’s offer to accompany me for this task.

I tried to calm my hands as I unlocked my mobile.

“Hey honey,” my aunt’s warm, aging voice flowed through the phone, soothing me.

“Hi Auntie Celia,” I replied.

“How are you, my sweet? Are you still at the house?”

Breathe… breathe… breathe… a reminder for each breath.

“I am. He was crazy organised. Everything will be so much easier than I thought.”

Breathe…

“I have one question, though. I found this little black book, and a bank statement in it. It looks like he set it up when I was born. My name is on the account. Did he ever mention this to you?”

A tinkly laugh rang through softly from the other end of the phone. “He told me about it just months ago. He rang me, panicking that he had lost that paperwork!”

Auntie Celia must have felt the shift as I froze.

“Heidi? Honey? How much did he put in there?”

“Five thousand dollars.” The words came out numb, and as easily as if I had said ten.

The pause felt like a lifetime, so I jumped back in with my request. This time I wasn’t going to go it alone.

“Auntie Celia, could you please come with me to the bank tomorrow?”

My vibrant aunt looked at me intently as we waited in the bank queue. The deep crinkles in her face met each other, the result of a lifetime of laughter, worry, and gardening.

I smiled at her in reassurance, trying to hide my nerves, clutching the folder that contained paperwork – every bit of ID I owned, my father’s death certificate, and everything else I considered the bank might ask for. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it all. The anticipation of waiting for much longer in this stuffy building threatened to drag me back down into the spiral I had escaped only days ago.

Slow, steady outbreaths were all I could muster as I felt what could have been breakfast tickling the top of my stomach. No butterflies here – bats, maybe? The sensation was overwhelming.

“Next!”

The voice sang brightly through the air as I realised it was directed at me. My folder landed on the teller’s desk, mysteriously, as if my hand had become invisible. Or even disconnected from my arm. A leaden air began settling over me. There were a hundred possibilities, and every single one of them was terrifying. What if the account had been lost, or closed? What if it was still active?

My parents had struggled financially at times. They had good jobs and were hard workers, but the recession thirty years ago, with ridiculously high interest rates, had led to unimaginable financial pressure. Memories of Mum crying on the phone to the electricity company while Dad served up baked bean toasties flitted through my mind. Surely, they could have – should have – used this money. My stomach turned with guilt at the prospect of them wracked with stress while money sat in savings… for me.

Chatting with the teller – Becca according to her name tag – eased my nerves. Her smile widened as she checked her screen, eyes darting between myself and Auntie Celia.

“Well, compound interest has been your friend, darling,” Becca said, as the printer whirred out a small receipt. She handed it over.

The floor. I needed to sit down, and the floor was a good enough place as any. The balance was too big for that tiny little piece of paper. Twenty thousand dollars.

I broke, it all broke. My voice, my eyes, my heart. Shattered. Sadness, joy, guilt, love, anger… my parents had done this and denied themselves freedom.

A slight arm looped under mine and helped me back up to my feet. Auntie Celia, so much stronger than she appeared, gave me a wondering stare, her hazel eyes liquid with tears. I laughed. Not sure how, but the giggle escaped, followed by a guffaw.

“My lovely little Heidi-ho,” Auntie Celia winked. “You deserve this. You made your mum and dad proud. Do something special with it... let their legacy live through you.”

And that’s exactly what I planned to do.