15.

AN HOUR INTO THE PAPERWORK on her grandmother’s dining room table, Rachel took a break. It was time to try to get caught up on her phone calls. It would be only a few days before the funeral. She pulled out her cell, but at the same time that she noticed it was dead, she realized that she had forgotten to bring her charger with her. She’d been doing too much forgetting lately. I need to be sharp now, she thought. Time to smarten up. She was about to pick up the house phone, an old dial-up model that Grandma had refused to give up in spite of Rachel’s protestations.

“But you can’t use any Touch Tone services with this phone, Grandma. What about when you’re calling the bank or something and have to deal with an automated system?”

“Then I wait Rachel, and eventually a real human being comes on the line and says hello. I’m not getting a new phone. There’s nothing wrong with this one. That’s that.”

In the morning, before she had started in on her paperwork, Rachel had left a message at the funeral home about coming in to sign the contract. She had wanted to get that done as soon as possible, before they found any other new charges to add on to the bill. The clunky old receiver was in her hand, and her finger ready for the workout of dialing, when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Rachel yelled, though she doubted Emma heard and didn’t know why she bothered anyway. She was always the first to the door. Old habits die hard. She looked through the peephole and saw a burly man in a black leather jacket standing outside with the screen door wedged open. He had on some sort of uniform that Rachel didn’t recognize, so she decided to shout through the door.

“Hello?”

“Delivery,” the man said, holding up a sealed white envelope in his hand.

The probability of being robbed in the middle of the afternoon, in full daylight, on a quiet downtown street in a nice neighbourhood was likely in the single digit percentile. Rachel opened the door. Without a word, the man handed her a clipboard to sign. Rachel glanced at the paper. It was a typical delivery receipt, nothing out of the ordinary. She signed, took the envelope, and the man turned and walked down the driveway.

As she closed the door, Rachel recognized the return address in the corner. It was from the estate attorney. She called him the day Grandma passed, while Emma was napping. George Robertson was his name. Rachel had met him already. He had helped with the paperwork that gave Rachel power of attorney when Grandma’s health started to go downhill. He had said it would be simple sorting out the estate – a straightforward allotment of assets. Rachel tore open the envelope as she walked down the hall to the bedroom.

Emma was lying on the bed in Grandma’s purple bathrobe. Rachel couldn’t see her face, but knew she was crying from the sound. Dear god, it had been less than an hour, and already Emma was crumbling. Rachel looked at the closet, expecting to see the rest of the clothes still hanging there. Instead, the hangers were empty, all except one, from which hung a plastic grocery bag. Rachel took the letter in her hand out of the envelope. Emma rolled over quickly, seemingly startled.

“What? Nothing,” she said, though Rachel hadn’t said anything. “I’m just resting my eyes a minute. I know. There’s more to do. I know. I just took a minute okay?” Emma wiped her eyes, and Rachel couldn’t help but feel for her for a moment. What would it be like to be so skinless? To walk around the world letting everything that happened touch you so deeply that you were left unable to function? Rachel had seen Emma cry at the oddest things. A sunset. The moon. What an existence. Really, it was to be pitied. Rachel vowed to try harder, at least in these early days, at least until after the funeral and garage sale. Then they would be done with each other for a while, and each could go back to their comfortable existence halfway across the country from each other.

Rachel sat down on the bed, and was about to read over the letter when Emma got up and bounded toward the closet.

“This is for you,” she said, handing over the plastic bag, on the side of which was written in black marker, for Rachel.

Rachel took the bag from Emma’s hand, and Emma took the letter from Rachel. As she opened it, Rachel smelled something escape with the air inside like an exhale. Before her brain made sense of it, her nose delivered the message: garage sale, goodbye, tuna-fish sandwich. Wonder Woman. As her mind brought the jumble of words and olfactory triggers together, her eyes delivered the final clues. Inside the bag was her grandmother’s sun visor, the white one with the green see-through brim. The poker player, wheeler-dealer, what you see is what we get, and that’s that visor. Rachel had looked for it a couple of times over the years – rummaged around in the basement to see if she could find it. She never thought to look in here. Never thought that her grandmother would have put it aside for her all these years.

Rachel wanted to put the bag to her nose and get more of it, but she resisted. She’d wait till she was alone. She wished she were alone now, instead of with Emma, who just stood there, watching Rachel with an expression of concern. Rachel didn’t have the energy to explain. She closed her eyes. If Emma tried to hug her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Likely nothing, but it would take effort to overcome the urge to either laugh or slug her. Rachel felt the weight of her sister as she sat on the bed next to her. She knew she should open her eyes. Get up, go to the bathroom, and splash some cold water on her face. Just a moment of privacy, Rachel thought, and she’d be fine.

“Oh wow,” Emma said and Rachel’s eyes flew open to look at her sister, who now held the letter open in her hand. Her face had gone white, or at least a paler shade of brown. Oh wow, what? What now, for god’s sakes?

Emma handed the letter over to Rachel, who read it while the other hand held the visor pinned down to the bed.

Wanda. It was about Wanda. There had been an earlier version of the will. Of course there had. Wanda had been included in that one, listed as an heir to the house. According to the letter, the house wasn’t covered in the new will at all. Yes, the insurance, and the bank accounts, the Florida apartment, and even the beat-up old furniture had been mentioned. Oversight, the letter read, as if that were a sufficient explanation for Mr. Robertson’s obvious ineptitude. How could he have not noticed? So now, the house could not be settled without Wanda’s consent.

“It looks like we’re going to have to find her, Rachel.” Emma was using her soft, empathetic voice. Like she was talking to a baby or a kitten.

Rachel stood up, and brushed off her lap as if it were full of crumbs. “This is bullshit,” she said. “I’ll get him on the phone. Sort it out. How the hell can we wait till Wanda shows up? It’s been thirty-five years. Who knows where she is, or even if she’s alive at all anymore? No. I’ll get Mr. Robertson on the phone. Sort it out. He just doesn’t understand the situation. It’ll be fine.” Rachel turned away, feeling Emma’s eyes on her back as she walked to the door.

“I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Emma said. Rachel turned back

“You’ve heard from her?”

“No. Well yes, sort of. I thought I saw her in Gastown once. But it could have been someone else.” Rachel waited. “No. I haven’t heard from her. Not really.” Emma’s face went blank. Rachel knew better than to press the issue. Any sentence of Emma’s that began with both “yes” and “no” would always end with confusion and a baffling lack of both clarity and facts. Rachel shook her head, and left Emma without asking her to explain further.

Back in the dining room, Rachel picked up the phone again, and dialed the number for the law office. The dial mechanism took forever to click through the numbers. How did people have the patience for this back in the day? Finally the line connected, but it was an automated answering machine. Press one for this, two for that. Rachel waited for the message to end, and for the operator to come on to direct her call. Nobody. Nothing. Just an option to repeat the message, then dead air.

Rachel could hear Emma in the kitchen. Maybe she had a cell on her? Emma never had a cell phone that Rachel knew of, but it was worth a try.

She walked to the kitchen, but stopped short in the doorway. Emma was staring at the list on the fridge. Rachel took a step back, out of sight. She wanted Emma to finish reading before she came in the room. She waited, but Emma continued to stand and stare. The handwriting was legible enough. What was taking her so long?

Rachel watched as Emma’s legs buckled and she collapsed on the floor. This is a put on, Rachel thought, another episode of the The Emma Show. But Emma hadn’t known she was being watched, so what was the point? Emma was down on her knees in front of the fridge, as if she was praying to a monolithic stainless steel God.

“Emma!” Rachel hadn’t meant for her voice to be so sharp when it left her, but once outside her head, she knew it sounded like a bark.

Emma snapped her head around towards the doorway. Her eyes were streaming. She looked like she wasn’t right in the head. Grief is one thing, but –

Emma used the refrigerator handle to pull herself up.

“Don’t say anything, okay?” Emma used her own stern voice now. “Not a word. I’m not a robot, Rachel. It’s normal. Happens to people all the time. Emotions get too heavy and pull you down. Legs go out all of a sudden. Whoopdy-do for you that you can hold it together. I don’t think it’s healthy, but it’s your business. Just no commentary, okay? To each her own.”

Rachel left it alone. At least her moment of rebellion had brought Emma’s backbone out. Hopefully, it would help keep her standing.

“So the basement then?” Emma asked.

“What?”

“The basement. It’s the next item on your list. I’m done with the closet, so the basement is next. Let’s box up the basement,” Emma said, this time leaving Rachel standing in the middle of the kitchen as she headed toward the stairs.