Something More

“I shouldn’t be here,” I stammered hanging my head, focusing on the frayed edges of my sweater I continued to unravel. “I really need to be heading to work.”

“Well, it’s just standard procedure really. I won’t keep you long,” The claims adjuster assured me as she lowered herself into the squeaking desk chair. After a bit of paper shuffling and squirming around on the vinyl cushion, she began to spread out an intimidating stack of documents, all of which had a yellow sticky arrow indicating where I would need to sign.

“I’m sorry Ms. Banks, I really don’t-"

The older woman paused and looked up to meet my eyes, “Please call me Moira. I’m here to get a few signatures, make sure you have all your appropriate documents and I will send you on your way.”

I shoved my hands under my thighs and relented to her request. “So, I want to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss. My deepest sympathies. Never easy losing a loved one, especially a parent.”

“Well, we weren’t really close.” I coldly replied. I shimmied my hips firmly into the chair, took a deep breath and pulled back my shoulders. Years ago, I formed the habit of stiffening my posture in board meetings when I sensed the professionalism leaving the room, back when I lived life feigning importance.

“Based on my years of experience, I believe it takes great loss to really put those strained relationships in perspective. God always forgives, as should we.”

Moira had the best of intentions in offering her spiritual guidance. The bright overhead lights and soft, whirring white noise was making my skin crawl with familiarity. There would be no expediting things with this woman without being absolutely rude.

“I appreciate the sentiment Moira, but I really need to hurry this along. I can’t be late for work.” I knew good and well I could show up to work whenever I pleased and it would have no bearing on my employment. However, the longer I fidgeted, dancing around personal questions, the more I wanted to just flip her table over and disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“Oh,” She eagerly persisted, “What do you do?”

“I’m a bartender.” I flatly stated, the lack of inflection in my tone the last subtle hint I'd be able to drop.

“That must be so fun! Exciting late nights, new people every night...” She handed me the first stack of documents. I furiously flipped through each page hoping that my signature bared some resemblance to handwriting.

“It’s not actually. I have no social life, I rely on tips from drunk strangers who are essentially babies, and men are absolutely gross when completely uninhibited by reason and logic.”

Chalking my rudeness up to my grieving emotional state, Moira began to neatly collect the stack of papers she had previously fanned out in front of me.

“You know, most of this is just boiler plate language. You seem more than capable of reading through this. I can just send it all with you and you can call me with questions.” The benevolent optimism sucked out of her voice. “You can just drop everything off tomorrow morning. I just need a blank, voided, check for the deposit. “

My head still lowered, but now with attentive ears, “I’m sorry, what deposit?”

“Your father had a life insurance policy. Albeit, it wasn’t very large as he has borrowed against it over the years, but in the event of accidental death, you stand to inherit $20,000.00 in addition to the Smyrna Property and a 1977 dodge pickup.” The exhausted Moira now matched my impatient attitude.

“I'll bring this back to you first thing in the morning.” I sighed, stood up and shoved the folder of documents into my backpack before hurriedly exiting her office. My back seized up as she saw me out with a, “Have a blessed day.”

I stood at the bus stop staring blankly into the traffic focusing on keeping warm on this rainy winter day. It’s rare for our winters to be this cold, but I should know by now to bundle up. The rain and sleet made my bones ache and we never had the luxury of a fluffy white snowfall. My intrusive thoughts of the cold are interrupted by the hissing of the bus’s hydraulics lowering it to the curb. I sit behind the driver listening to the windshield wipers slap against the rain. Luckily the bar is close by; in summer, it would be my favorite part of the day, walking the neighborhood streets admiring all of the well-manicured lawns of the suburbanites. Today, though, the idea of walking in this weather made my body recoil.

I walk into the back entrance, a narrow hallway lined on either side with empty kegs. One soft overhead light illuminates the office entrance where I see the door cracked open. I lightly tap my fingernails against the door in hopes that Sam would be working. I sigh in relief, leaning my shoulders into the door frame when I hear her raspy voice mumble, “Entrée.”

“How did it go?” Sam pauses and looks up from the ledger that had her full concentration.

“Well, Moira is a chatty one.” I reply as I pull my hair up into a loose bun.

“Who is Moira?” Sam laughs as she tips her cup in my direction, offering me a sip of her coffee.

“Sorry, just the Jesus freak claims adjuster.” I plop down on the empty keg next to her, dismissing her offer and starting to fiddle with the random office supplies scattered around her desk.

“Ah, I take you were subjected to some unpleasant small talk.” Sam said in a knowing fashion. It irritated me how well she could read my mood, but it was also a comfort knowing she could always read my mood.

“He left me money. Like a life insurance policy. Oh, and the house in Smyrna.” I revealed.

“SHIT NATALIE, HOW MUCH!?” She shouts; then a backtrack of, “Sorry, that was in poor taste."

“Twenty- grand,” I croak, ignoring her apology. My tongue feels dry and I have a lump the size of my fist in my throat trying to get that number to come out with any confidence.

“So… you are here to quit right? It better be to rage quit!” Her indignance is overshadowed by her humor. I could sense a serious lecture brewing in her head, and my silence clearly getting under her skin.

Sam had for so long been such a passionate defender of my happiness. From the day I met her, the aggressive approach in which she made me love myself made her one of the most important people in my life. I could never disappoint or lie to her. She was just an awkward, beaming, freckled bundle of happiness who saw only the beauty in the world. Optimism can be just as contagious as a negative attitude.

“It’s not in my account yet.” I sarcastically respond, hoping to drop the conversation.

“Natalie you’re always saying you just wish that-" her serious voice always started very harsh, but then drifted off into a very nurturing whisper.

“Stop right there, my father just died, I don’t want to be implicated,” I joke.

Sam firmly cups my face in her hands and forces me to make eye contact. “I’m being serious, Nat. We left really, really good paying jobs that we destroyed ourselves for six years in college to get, just so we could do work with meaning. Instead we came back to bartend at the same bar we've been sneaking into since high school. I mean this with all the love in my heart, but LEAVE. Go somewhere. Write your stupid play, or Eat Pray Love your way through Asia or whatever, but for once, go live your life. I’m your only family left and that’s sad in so many ways. Go be happy.”

“Little orphan Natalie.” I mock in exhaustion. “There is something else.” I drop on her.

“What? Did a prince propose on the bus ride here?” She was joyful in her disbelief of my new-found good fortune.

“I went by the house in Smyrna and I found this.” I hold the little black book firmly in both hands and pull the open page closer to my face to begin reading in a shaky voice:

“Natalie,

I can never apologize for being a bad father. I never wanted to be one. Probably another thing a parent isn’t supposed to say to their kid. I was a bad husband and a bad father and I can’t blame any one but myself. I’m sitting here alone in this house I should have never occupied. This is your house; your home where you grew into the terrifyingly powerful woman you are.

I took from you because I felt you and your mother owed me for my life not being what I wanted it to be. I want you to enjoy your years you didn’t get to when your mom was sick. You can start living life, you don’t have to just survive it anymore.

Your sorry excuse for a father,

Benjamin Watts

Sam's face scrunches inward in disbelief. “Is this your notice?” Sam whimpers gleefully in an attempt to hide her doubt.

The bar was a little brighter that night and bursting with warmth. Throughout the night, I laughed and danced with so many customers. Before I knew it, we were counting our tips and sipping on our mocktails.

“It’s not sad you know?” I pause from my counting, “You said you being my only family is sad. It’s not. I was able to pick you. And you picked me, you picked me when I was at absolute bottom. So, it’s not sad, it’s probably all that has kept me going.”

In the time I'd been friends with Sam, she always had a sarcastic quip ready in her holster against any real human emotion. Tonight, she just looked up at me with watery eyes and smiled as we counted our fortunes in silence.

I let her believe that letter was what he wrote to me. Mostly, I wanted to believe those were his final words to me. I wanted her to keep believing that people are good and the world is just and fair and balanced. I knew that taking that from her would bring me one step closer to being like him.

I found the little black notebook on the kitchen table with the keys and title to the car. His last words to me were, “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Here ‘s your house back. -Ben"