AT NINE Wednesday morning, Dale arrives, briefcase in hand. We have an eleven thirty appointment with a lawyer—a friend of Sam’s who specializes in tax law and accounting.

Over the past few days, my brothers have come up with a game plan. Dale will spend every Wednesday helping me sort out the financial, legal and estate matters. Harry’s job will be to manage the home front.

“You’re a bit early, aren’t ya?” I say to Dale. I’m still in my pajamas.

“We don’t want to be late.”

“But it’s only…”

“And I thought we could pick up burgers for lunch on the way.”

This expedites my getting ready.

At the lawyer’s office, all three of us dig into burgers, fries and milkshakes. “It’s kinda weird,” the lawyer remarks, “but everything regarding Sam’s estate is working out perfectly.”

“How so?” Dale asks.

“Well, most of the assets are in Adri’s name while the debts are mainly in Sam’s name. This means that very little money will be transferred into Sam’s estate.”

Dale nods. I eat a fry.

“And since Adri is the sole executor, disbursing these funds should be very straightforward.”

“Will Sam’s will need to be probated?” Dale asks.

“Probably not. From a legal and tax perspective, this is an ideal situation.”

Two chairs swivel in my direction.

“Ya got me,” I say then take a sip of my milkshake.

IN THE evening, I return the call to my Vancouver friend who’d left me the Jesus-message last week.

“I got a bit of a strange message to call you,” I say, not mentioning the “He with a capital h” detail.

There’s a pause. “Adri, I know how swamped you are with phone calls these days, so to be honest I only called because you told me to. At Sam’s funeral, you asked me to phone you, so I did.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Well, you were talking to a lot of people…”

But off to the races trots my mind. Anthony had clearly written down the message as “He told her to call.” Anthony hadn’t written she, which would have been me. Unless He is me since I was the one who told her to call. But then wouldn’t that mean that... Oh shit, maybe I’m Jesus! What if I’m the long-awaited Second Coming of Christ, who just happens to have returned in female form? Wouldn’t that piss off the Christian fundamentalists? “We want a man!” they’ll cry, pounding spikes into my pedicured feet. “But I’m the Daughter of God,” I’ll whisper, my life ebbing away as some kind soul gently dabs vinegar, preferably balsamic, on my parched lips. But then the work involved in being the Saviour…saving the planet and rescuing humankind from its suicidal path. Mind you, I will be receiving a regular paycheque for the rest of my life—I suppose I should do something useful. And I don’t have a husband or kids. Still, that’s an awful lot of responsibility placed on one gal’s shoulders…

“Adri?”

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?” my friend on the phone asks. “It’s awfully quiet.”

“Oh sure,” I say, giving my don’t-you-worry-about-me wave to the nearest plant.

But lying in bed, I must confess to being a tad overwhelmed by my newfound fate—never mind the crushing weight of a massive ego.

WHEN I wake the next morning, I laugh out loud at my ridiculous thought.

“You OK in there?” Harry asks from the hallway.

“Yup.”

“Well, coffee’s on and breakfast will be ready in a sec.”

“Thanks!”

In the kitchen, I ask him what’s on for today.

“The registry office,” he replies.

I scrunch up my nose. “Um…what for again?”

Harry Raises his eyebrows. “Sam’s death certificate.”

“Right.” I snap my fingers. 

An hour later, we’re at the registry, waiting to pick up the documentation. I turn to Harry. “Do you remember how terrified of bears Sam was?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that—his fear of bears, I mean. And you know how the markets are pretty wonky right now?”

He nods. “They’ve certainly been in better shape.”

“Would you say we’re probably headed into a bear market?”

“I think it’s inevitable. What goes up must come down.”

“And did you know Sam was a Taurus?” I ask.

“Er…no.”

“And what is a Taurus,” I say, “but a bull.”

Harry shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “So?”

“So? So, what if Sam’s death marks the end of the bull market and the beginning of the bear one?”

Harry breathes in sharply, which I suspect is more a response to my state of mind than the state of the market. He’s about to reply when the registry lady calls my number.

“I’d just be very careful with your investing these days,” I say, wagging my finger at him as we walk up to the counter.

WHEN 9:00 a.m. on Wednesday rolls around again, Dale’s at my backdoor.

Our first stop today is the bank where our mortgage is held.

The banker offers me her condolences then opens up our file. “I just have a few papers for you to sign then we can discharge your mortgage.”

At thirty-two, my home is paid off. We only had the mortgage for three years.

During the drive to buy burgers, I ask Dale if he’s ever heard of Virginia Woolf.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve read her book, A Room of One’s Own, several times,” I say. “It’s about the importance of women having a secure income and a room of their own in order to write fiction well.”

He stops at a red light and turns to me. “What are you saying?”

I clear my throat. “That Sam’s death has not only given me a guaranteed income for the rest of my life, I just received an entire house in which to write.”

The light turns green and he resumes driving.

“Sam and I used to fight about that damn book,” I continue.

“You guys fought over a book?”

“Yeah. Sam figured the motivation to write had to come from within, whereas Virginia Woolf figured outside factors—like a secure income and a quiet space to work—were also necessary.”

“And what do you think?” Dale asks.

“That they’re probably both right.”

When we pull up to the drive-in, he turns to me. “Then I guess you know what you’d best be doing in that room of yours.”

AFTER LUNCH, we tackle most of the remaining debts. I write out a cheque to pay off our Visa bill. Paying off our car loan and my student loan follows. When Dale takes me home at the end of the day, I ask him why he’s so adamant that I deal with all the financial matters so quickly.

“Because they need to be dealt with and the sooner you do it the better,” he replies, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. “You’re gonna have a heck of a lot of other stuff to deal with.”

The I-am-Jesus thought pops into my head again. I nod, blushing.

“The only remaining debt now,” Dale continues, “is Sam’s federal student loan and I’ve already written the government for you. If I can get them to forgive that loan, that’d be my parting gift to Sam.”

I open the car door. “Oh, he’d be pretty pleased if you could pull that off.”