“Bev, it’s me, Biba. I’m calling from India. Can you hear me, okay?”
“Biba? Oh, thank God,” she replied unsteadily. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Honey, you have to get on a plane right now and come home. Your dad’s been in a car accident. It looks bad, honey. Please hurry.”
The next few hours were a blur of panic and terror. I got to the airport as quickly as I could and sat on the standby list for two hours until a seat came open. I was crying as I watched India fall away from my plane window. Some part of me understood that I was leaving the last vestige of romance in my life. Cold, hard, brutal reality waited for me once the plane set down.
I called Bev as soon as I landed in Seattle. She was weeping. Dad had stopped breathing in the night.
I was in shock in the days that followed. First, there was the dismal funeral in the normal wetness of a city that lay between Mt. Rainier and the ocean. It was some fucked-up sense of humor old Captain Vancouver had had when he had named the volcano for his friend and not the climate as many believed.
Perhaps the only thing more fucked-up was that I never saw my dad again, not even his body. He was a good lawyer—always prepared. He’d signed a Do Not Resuscitate, tucking that in with the will that required his organs be harvested and then for him to be immediately cremated. His body had been incinerated by the time I had made it home—too late to do anything but empty the brass urn of his ashes into the Puget Sound. Nice and neat—just the way he liked it.
For weeks, I just wandered around the three-bedroom condo Dad had bought in Redmond. I won’t need so much space now that you’re leaving the nest, he’d said.
A big, fancy law partner’s house didn’t matter once Mom was gone. That had been part of Dad’s coping with the loss, getting rid of every extraneous possession besides a refrigerator and a bed. He also had updated his will, but it felt like the will of a man who didn’t expect to go a mere five years after his wife. Every asset—from his condo to his car to his fucking rare coin collection—was to be sold, the profits left in trust “for the exclusive use of my sole heir’s education, until such time as she graduates or becomes twenty-four years of age, whichever occurs earliest.”
No big deal, right? Of course not, unless—of course—you die suddenly in a freak car crash and your daughter has been waitlisted by Harvard, the only school she applied to. The outlook on that was grim, since last year, they only admitted one waitlisted student from a list of over five hundred.
So, for the time being, I was completely on my own. My inheritance was under lock and key for six years or until I found some university to start my education. That was okay. I was resourceful.
The will stipulated that all assets be sold within ninety days. I found an inexpensive storage locker. Everything went into it except a few pieces of my mother’s jewelry. I wanted them with me.
With all Dad’s worldly possessions hawked away, I decided to go to visit some family on the East Coast. Maybe I could beat the bushes, seeing if someone knew a Harvard trustee who could help my odds of getting off the waitlist. Maybe I could look for nearby colleges that had late admission. Maybe I could find a job and take a gap year.
Two days before I was due to leave, there was a knock at the door—a mail carrier held out a slip and a pencil. “I need your signature,” she said.
I looked at the return address, but it didn’t ring any bells. “Are you sure this is for me? The place has been on the market. Maybe it belongs to whoever bought it?”
Her finger underscored the addressee on the envelope. “That you?”
“Uh, yes, but…”
“Girlie, just go ahead and sign it, will you? I’ve got other deliveries today.”
I did as she asked. She handed me the envelope and tromped down the hall to the building’s elevators. She walked with precision, turning right angles sharply like a toy soldier. I watched her go and prayed I would never have to settle for a job where my life would be so throttled, forever at the whim of an employer who cares nothing for your wellbeing. I would do whatever it took to get into Harvard. I would do what it took to seize control of my life.
Closing the door, I leaned back against it and slid my only nail that hadn’t broken off yet beneath the flap to open the envelope.
The paper was expensive—finely milled and yet crisp at the same time. Opening the trifold, I saw a logo in small, Copperplate lettering centered at the top. Very old school. There was a sense of importance about the whole thing, so I went into the kitchen and sat on the last remaining chair.