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Taryn
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Five years later
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Why did I have to do this alone? Oh yeah, because my one and only sibling is still in prison and my boyfriend of six months just dumped me.
Numb with grief, I turn away from my mother’s gravesite, where the attendants are lowering her casket inside, and walk woodenly to my car parked at the edge of the cemetery, along with everyone else’s.
My mind starts to whirl with stress and all the things that I have to do. All the affairs to put in order. Wills, bank accounts, life insurance policies, but I can’t bring myself to care. I unlock the door with the key fob and slide inside, start the engine, and drive without seeing back to my condo.
As soon as I’m inside, my cell rings. I glance at the screen: Unknown Number.
“Hello?” I answer.
A robotic female voice greets me. “This is a call from an inmate at the Colorado State Correctional Institution. Would you like to accept? Press one. If not press—”
I cut her off and press 1. I’ve done this a hundred times.
“Hi, Eric.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “How did it go?” he asks.
“As best as burying your mother could go,” I reply a little harshly. The last five years have molded me into somewhat of a bitter beast.
“I’m sorry,” he comes back. “I tried.”
“I know.” I throw my keys and purse onto my dining room table and kick off the uncomfortable black heels.
“They don’t grant escorted funeral trips to inmates with a history of violence.”
I already heard this. He applied for a funeral trip and was denied. Involuntary manslaughter is considered violence. I mean, he did kill a woman, even if he hadn’t meant to.
“Was it a nice service, at least?” he asks.
I shrug. “Gravesite, that’s it. She didn’t want a whole wake and memorial service and all that. We said our piece at the cemetery. I had Cousin Andy record it. You’ll see it when you get home.”
“How’s Andy doing?” he asks as I pad through my house into my bedroom, where I yank off my clip-on silver earrings and throw them into my jewelry box.
“He’s fine. I guess. The same.” I peel off my black dress and tights. I find my sweats and tee slung over the chaise and shrug them on while switching the phone to my other ear.
He’s quiet for a minute before he asks, “Did Carter show up?”
I purse my lips in annoyance as I make my way back to the kitchen to get some water. “No, he sent a card to Mom’s house.”
“Seriously?” Eric asks.
I use the foot lever to open the recycle bin lid and pull out his card from the top. I read robotically, “Eric and Taryn, I’m sorry about your mom. She was a wonderful lady and will be greatly missed. If you need anything, I’m only a phone call away. Carter.”
“He didn’t say why he didn’t show?” my brother asks. It’s noisy in the background with men’s voices shouting and laughing, and I just can’t wait for him to get out of there. I’m sick of these phone calls. I need to see him, hug him for real. Talk to him face to face. Cry with him. Just not in a crowded, smelly prison visiting room.
“No, he didn’t. Whatever.” Of course, I haven’t told Eric what happened the night of his sentencing. I haven’t admitted that Carter fucked me and took my virginity and I haven’t heard from or seen him since. The condolences card was the first contact he’s made.
“What about your boyfriend, what’s his name?” he asks.
I sigh. “Ex-boyfriend, Richie.”
“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
I was in no mood to explain my failed love life to my brother and how the asshole had dumped me two weeks ago to fuck a stripper he thought was his soulmate. “Just didn’t work out. Any—”
Beep.
“Shit, I have one minute left,” Eric says, sounding frustrated.
“Any news on your parole?” I ask, annoyed.
“Not really. I’ll email you. There’s a line of dudes waiting for the phones as usual. I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, sis.”
“Love you, too,” I reply as the call ends. I sigh and set my cell phone down.
After grabbing a drink of water, I stare down at the card and scowl. I’m annoyed Carter didn’t show—he grew up with us. My mom used to feed him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and then send him home with extras because his parents were neglectful assholes. He used to stay over every weekend and play sports in our driveway and my brother would give him rides to school in his beat-up Jeep.
Admittedly, I’d social-media stalked him over the years. After that night, when he’d left, I’d been so hurt. I wouldn’t contact him, though. I felt it was his responsibility to contact me. But he never did. Not a word. So after moping around my condo for a week, crying to my girlfriends over drinks that I’d finally lost my V-card at twenty-one to my brother’s best friend and he’d ghosted me, I got over it.
Mostly.
Do you ever truly get over your first? I suppose I should be grateful it was a “nice” first. From the horror stories of my friends, it could have been so much worse.
Usually, after work, I go for a run to clear my head. Outside around my neighborhood if the weather’s decent, or on the treadmill at the gym. Tonight, I’m not doing shit. I’m still numb from my mother’s sudden heart attack and I don’t want to do anything but drink wine and pass out in front of Netflix.
***
“Why are you back so soon?” my boss, lead Attorney Melinda Mills, asks as I enter the office of Mills & Graves, Attorneys at Law, a piping hot coffee in one hand and handbag in the other.
I shrug and head to my desk. “I don’t need two weeks of bereavement leave. It’s not doing me any good. I need to work.”
I’d been moping around my condo for the past week, taking care of all the technical stuff and dwelling on my life. I’m sad about my mom dying and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, but I was starting to drop into a depression that I did not like or think is healthy. I don’t want to spiral. I have to get back into my routine.
She places a hand on my arm and looks down at me with motherly concern. Melinda’s in her fifties and complains nonstop about her unruly and smelly teen boys and how she and her husband can’t wait to retire early and buy a boat to sail in the Keys. “It’s not even been a week. Are you sure?”
I nod and set my coffee down. “Yes, I’m sure. I was going crazy at home. I’ve gotten most of everything taken care of. Mom didn’t have much. The funeral’s done. I have to cope in my own way and working will help.”
“Well, if you need anything, you know I’m here. We all are.”
I look behind her to see people popping their heads out of cubicles and waving to me. I smile weakly and give my boss my thanks.
“Melinda, phone!” her secretary calls out from the door of her office.
She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes before walking away.
I sip my coffee as I wait for the computer to boot up.
Movement to my right catches my attention. My coworker-turned-best friend Christa Alvarez stands there looking smart in her fitted purple pencil skirt and tight black V-neck tee. I don’t know how she puts such odd combinations together but they always work when paired with eclectic jewelry and her colorful sleeve of tattoos.
“How are you?” she asks, pulling up a chair and setting a bagel down on my desk. “Really?”
“I’m okay,” I reply, lifting the pink bagel, Strawberry, my favorite. “Thanks.”
“You know I got you. Comfort carbs.”
I rip off a piece and put it in my mouth. “So good.”
She chuckles. “I’m glad you like it. So, what can I help you with today?”
I glance at my computer to see 46 new help tickets. Geez, how much shit broke while I was gone? “Nothing you can help with. Just a bunch of IT stuff.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Print them all out and I’ll organize them by priority.”
“Christa, you’re a paralegal, not a secretary. It’s okay, really.”
“I insist. I’m here to make your job easier and keep your mind off of things.”
I take a sip of coffee to wash the dense bread down. “I’m good, I promise. If I organize these, then it’ll keep my mind busy. Preoccupied.”
“If you insist,” she replies, standing. “I’ll be in my office, hon.”
“Appreciate you,” I reply.
Christa hadn’t come to Mom’s funeral. She’d offered but I knew I had to do it alone. Without Eric around, it was up to me. I love Christa but she definitely likes to take charge and take over. Which isn’t a bad trait when it comes to things like girls’ night out, or weekend trips, but I knew I had to do the funeral myself.
I just wasn’t prepared for the grief. It hit me so hard. I’d never lost anyone close to me before. When our childhood dog, Sam, died, I was seventeen and I thought I would never recover. That was nothing compared to this deep, soul-crushing grief of losing the woman who gave me life. I wonder if I would be this sad at losing my father, but alas, I never knew him.
Well, I met him a few times, apparently when I was young. After divorcing Eric’s dad, Mom had hooked up with my father—albeit, briefly. Mom said he didn’t want to be a father and she never got anything from him.
“Blah. Focus, Taryn.”
I print out all the help tickets and prioritize them by importance, like Christa was going to do, and set off about my day, fixing people’s computers, redownloading programs, and getting rid of viruses and bugs.
My happy place.