They Left Us Everything (4 page)

After supper, we clear Victor’s dining-room table, pour extra wine, bring out the scotch, and hand around photocopies of the will. Victor and I have been named co-executors. We start the meeting with a prayer and a promise that we won’t let the will or anything else tear us apart. We agree that material possessions aren’t worth fighting over. But despite how much we’ve pulled together, we’re processing this event separately. Our memories are all different, our experiences unique.

Tonight I want an ashtray, which drives Chris crazy. He quit smoking years ago. He moves to the far end of the table and makes a big fuss about me having a cigarette “here … in such a small, enclosed space.” He’s the socialist in the family and likes to operate by consensus—which is too bad for him tonight because we’re all looking for comfort. Robin and Victor haul out cigars.

“Get over it,” says Victor. “Look, it’s a vaulted ceiling … I’ll open the front door.”

Chris raises his arms in surrender and Victor starts reading the will out loud. It’s only a formality, but it seems important to give this Sibling Supper some gravitas. We’ve been through wills before, on both sides of the family, and it’s astonishing what ill will can be generated from a sheaf of paper.

At least Mum’s will is straightforward. She never understood wills that showed favouritism—why bequeath a fight to the next generation? She believed that wills should treat all children equally, so everything is divided by four. Dad’s will was straightforward, too. He’d left all his assets to Mum, which is why we didn’t discover one small glitch until after Mum died: Victor found some old IOUs in Dad’s safety deposit box. Whenever we’d borrowed money in the past—to repay a
student loan, perhaps, or to finance a property—Mum wasn’t too bothered with accounting; we found notes she’d scribbled to herself on scraps of paper in her desk. But whenever we borrowed from Dad, he made us sign a formal IOU. Mum’s will generously stipulates that all debts to her are forgiven, but the lawyer has explained that debts to Dad are not Mum’s to forgive—she inherited his assets, not his debts. Debts to Dad should be deducted from our inheritance and repaid to the estate. Not everyone is happy. Obviously, in hindsight, Mum was the better bank.

Mum has also left each one of us a specific, treasured object. To me, she’s left the German music box that has been in her family since 1878. To Robin, she’s left the wooden prison ship, carved out of wood and fishbone by Dad’s great-great-grandfather during the Napoleonic Wars. To Chris, she’s left the elaborate sterling silver punch bowl passed down by our Irish ancestors. And to Victor, she’s left the silver water goblets that we always used on special family occasions. Each of the grandchildren has been left something, too. The girls get a piece of jewellery, and the boys one of Dad’s war medals.

When Victor has finished reading the slim document, he asks if one of us will act as secretary to record the minutes for the many items we need to discuss. Everyone looks at me, but I keep quiet for once. There’s an uncomfortable silence. Eventually Chris volunteers. Victor gives us an up-to-date summary of Mum’s financial affairs—how much is left in the bank and what debts are outstanding.

The most important decision we have to make tonight is what to do with the main asset: the house. Mum had always worried about this. She asked me repeatedly, “What will you children do with the house after I’m gone?” I didn’t want to
give her false hope, but I’d been trying for years to come up with a plan. Could we duplex it? Turn it into a B&B? Could I live over the garage and rent out the main part? We poll the table to find out if any of us wants to buy the others out. Everyone looks at me again—they know how much I love it— and I’m filled with feelings of inadequacy.

How could I be in such a position as to not be able to afford this house? It means I’m relatively poorer in middle age than my father was when he was only thirty-six. It underscores all the mistakes I’ve made. I allow myself to wallow in so many “if onlys.” If only I’d stayed married … if only I hadn’t sold my company … if only I’d invested in real estate … if only I’d been smarter … or luckier. I’d already bought a lottery ticket—the Stupid Man’s Tax—and not one of my numbers rolled out.

There’s only one possibility left: finding a treasure under the floorboards. Isn’t there something …
somewhere?
A priceless Roman coin, perhaps, or a dirty little Degas? I can’t bear to give up my dream of keeping this house in the family.

Predictably, immediately following Mum’s funeral we’d received several real estate inquiries, all disguised as sympathy notes. Some were from agents but most were from private buyers. They rambled on at some length about how they had met Mum, found her so fascinating, sat on her verandah, loved the view, etc., etc., as if they’d been Mum’s best friend for eons. We didn’t recognize any of the names. They all ended with “So, if you’re ever thinking of selling …” I’d wedged them into Mum’s letter holder in the kitchen—a gold metal dachshund shaped like a Slinky.

We discuss what to do with these letters: should we choose an agent or just start negotiating with one of the private buyers? As co-executors, Victor and I have a fiduciary responsibility
to get the best price. We know the house has dramatically increased in value—about three times what my Toronto home is worth because lakefront is so highly prized now—but we need to get it professionally appraised.

The exterior wooden clapboard needs painting, something Dad did faithfully every seven years, and it’s a costly and mammoth task. We pour more scotch and decide to have the house painted as soon as the weather’s warm enough.

We’ve told Pelmo and Tashi that they can continue to live in their apartment at the back of the house until they find new jobs, but they’re leaving for Tibet soon on a six-week holiday. We can’t leave the house empty; there are too many valuable things there, and, most importantly, there’s Mum’s dog, Sambo. He’s deaf and almost blind, but he knows his way around Mum’s house by heart. We all agree it would be cruel to board him.

“How would you like to inherit a dog?” Victor says to me.

“Very funny,” I say. “You’re the dog person, not me.”

He looks at everyone else. “I vote Plum moves to Oakville!”

“Splendid idea!” says Robin.

Chris laughs.

“Seriously,” says Victor. “It makes sense. You’ve always loved the house. Now’s your chance … have a holiday!”

“Why don’t
you
move out there?” I say.

“I have a business to run! Your kids have all moved out. It’ll only be for six weeks … just until Pelmo and Tashi get back.”

I feel like I’m getting railroaded, but Victor’s right: it does make sense. I’m in the middle of a freelance assignment and can take my computer with me. I can also begin the process of clearing out sixty years’ worth of clutter.

I think,
How hard can it be?

I know how to buy garbage bags.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been time-deprived— overextended with elderly parents, children, grandchildren, and my own career—so I can’t wait to empty Mum’s house and put the role of dutiful daughter behind me. I rise to the challenge of a six-week deadline.

“Okay, look,” I say, “if I move out there, the estate has to buy new mattresses.”

“New mattresses?!” says Victor.

“You’ll put the chiropractors out of business!” says Robin.

“The old mattress in the guest room is like sleeping on rocks in a hammock. Same with the one in my old bedroom,” I say. “I’m not going to ruin my back.”

“Okay … okay … we’ll buy you two new ones.”

“And a new toaster.” I’m just getting started.

“Toaster?” says Victor.

“Can’t you use the fireplace?” asks Robin.

“I’m not going to stand there holding down the lever every time I want a piece of toast! A new toaster or I don’t go.”

Victor sighs. “Anything else?”

I start ticking things off with my fingers. “Yeah, call display on the telephone … cable TV so I can watch the BBC … internet service for my computer … an espresso machine … and a bigger hot-water tank so I can wash my hair and take a bath on the same day.”

Victor explodes. “There is no way I’m putting in a bigger hot-water tank. It’s only going to be you there! How many baths do you need?”

Robin smiles. “Can’t you go down to the public pool and get free hot showers like Father did? I’m sure his old tickets are around somewhere.”

We’re all laughing, but I’m feeling empowered with leverage. If we can make the house livable, maybe it
could
feel like a holiday. Victor refuses to budge on the water tank, but the boys agree to everything else.

The last thing on our agenda is a method for fairly dividing the contents. We decide on the method Mum’s family had used at Rokeby, their family farm in Virginia. When Grandmother died, all her possessions were appraised and the value divided equally as “play money” amongst her many children. They took turns “buying” one thing at a time until they’d used up their portion. Before we can use the Rokeby Method, however, all of Mum and Dad’s possessions need to be appraised, photographed, and catalogued. I volunteer for this task, too.

I think,
How hard can it be?

I know how to take pictures.

Robin offers to drive up frequently to help archive the documents and to catalogue the books. Victor will be dealing with the finances, the probate, and the ongoing maintenance of the house. Chris is careful not to volunteer for anything. He tells us he’s been in therapy for years, trying to divorce Mum, and I get the feeling that for him the house is radioactive. Maybe he’s washed his hands of the whole mess already or maybe he’s lived away for so long that he’s learned to detach. I can’t decide if I’m pissed off or jealous. Why didn’t he teach
me
how to set boundaries? Finally, Victor asks him if he’ll get quotes for painting the house. Chris shrugs. “Okay.”

We agree to sprinkle Mum’s ashes in warmer weather. Victor will order her bronze memorial plaque. Some of us think her ashes should be sprinkled under the tree at the corner of the garden, others think she should be sprinkled in St. Jude’s churchyard, others beside Sandy at St. Mary’s
Church in Virginia, so we’ll ask the funeral home to divide her into three separate plastic baggies, to make everyone happy.

I have an announcement to make. My daughter Virginia and her fiancé, Louis, have finally decided to get married. They’d like to use Mum’s house for their wedding in June, if we haven’t sold it by then. Victor has an announcement of his own. He and his girlfriend, Peni, have decided to get married too, and they’d like to use Mum’s house in September.

This is such great news after such a sad week! We whoop and holler. When Pelmo and Tashi return, we’ll ask if they can stay on a bit longer. We’ll postpone selling the house until October and enjoy one last summer.

“Two weddings and a funeral!” Victor says, laughing.

Mum used to have a
New Yorker
cartoon magnetized to her fridge. A middle-aged couple is seated on a sofa. The man looks at his wife and says, “Now we can finally relax … all our children are married, divorced, and remarried again.” Mum put it on the fridge when Chris got divorced and remarried. We’ve all been divorced now except Robin. Robin has always behaved eccentrically, as though he belonged in a previous century—formal in his manners, tipping his hat, ordering detachable wing-tip collars from a specialty shop in England, quoting Greek and Latin, and building a scriptorium where he can write his books with quill pens. When he was twenty-five he followed the eighteenth-century tradition of marrying his cousin in the country. Relatives on both sides of the family had disapproved, but Robin and Kitty are the only ones still together.

The
New Yorker
cartoon that’s been magnetized to my own fridge in Toronto is slightly different. It shows two women in Central Park, eyeing each other: they both have infant carriers
strapped to their backs, but while the younger woman’s carrier contains her baby, the carrier on the middle-aged woman contains her elderly mother.

I can laugh at the cartoon, but the person I’ve become has shocked me. It feels as though the last twenty years have leached out my patience, my empathy, my compassion—the best parts of me—until I feel unrecognizable, a person I don’t like very much. I didn’t much like Mum either. Her cranky, grievous war against aging and my inability to cope decimated our relationship. It’s possible this is what’s making the loss bearable for me now. If she’d died when I was younger, when I still remembered how wonderful she was, perhaps grief would be overwhelming me. But Mum had suffered enough losses already. Why had I made her suffer the early loss of me? When had I become so selfish?

Now I understood my friends who missed their mothers:
I’d give anything to have her back—even for one minute.

One minute.

How hard could that be?

I tell the boys I’ve been unable to sleep well these past few nights. Mum’s spirit has been hovering all around me. I can hear the steady ticking of her 8-mm movie camera grinding away in our childhood and see all the reels stored in their small, square yellow boxes. In my head, the grainy footage stutters out of Dad’s projector in the playroom. Mum left us an extensive historical record of our childhood, but since she was the one holding the camera, she’s rarely in the frame. Now she’s the only one I want to see. Dad rarely played with us, yet there he is, running to hide behind a tree, swinging a baseball bat, pushing a swing. Where’s the truth? In my dreams, scenes
of my own childhood slide back and forth and overlap like theatre backdrops.

What is happening to me?

Two months ago I couldn’t wait for Mum to go, and now I’m searching for evidence of her.

“Someone should write a book about Mum’s life,” I say.

“Careful,” says Chris. “Here you go again … doing Mum’s work for her.”

Hornet’s Nest