“Do you hear yourself when you talk?” I snapped.
“This relationship isn’t working out, Bre.” He turned away from me, gazing out across the lawn. “You have to choose me or her.”
I chose my family, and ironically, it was only a few days later that Nan passed to the great beyond. I was left with no one. My mom was on her second marriage, all the way down in Florida. My dad was still in California with me, but we weren’t close for obvious reasons. I planned the funeral all by myself, spending way too much time crying to worry about the details.
She had a church that she belonged to, and luckily, the pastor was there to help. He took care of everything except the casket and notifying Nan’s friends. I made a few phone calls, some that were uplifting and some that were depressing. I found a rolodex in her office that held the names of her longtime associates.
Two people were in nursing homes. I left word with their children. Two people were still in their homes and wanted to talk to me about Nan. We shared insights into her life, and I learned even more about the woman I called my friend. When I spoke to Dad, he only half listened.
“I have something I want to talk to you about,” he said.
“Not now.” I hung up, feeling like I had done my duty.
I was cleaning out the house so that we could sell it. Nan had lived there for forty years, and the amount of personal belongings was daunting. I had just been through her closet, sorting out clothes to donate, when the doorbell rang.
Opening it up, I found Dad on the front porch step. He didn’t even have the familiarity with his own mother to come right in. We got into a fight. I couldn’t believe that he had the nerve to thrust this news on me when I was in mourning. Couldn’t he wait for a few months?
I wanted to call Jessica, but I didn’t have the energy. It was as if the sky had opened up and rained tragedy down on me. I couldn’t take one more ounce of bad news. Burdened with the realization that I was completely alone, I kicked him out.
I wanted a drink. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stand on top of a mountain and scream. Instead, I climbed the stairs to Nan’s home office to continue sorting through her things. No one was there to help me. Every decision I made was my own. There were trash bags full of knickknacks and personal items lining the halls.
In the office, the floor was littered with boxes. I separated the books from the office supplies. She had a filing cabinet full of old bills that would need to be shredded. In the desk, I found photos of my dad when he was a kid. I tossed those in the trash, then picked them out and set them on the windowsill. I shouldn’t rush through this. Years from now, I would regret it if I tossed away family pictures.
Opening up the lowest drawer, I found a file containing official documentation from her childhood in Ireland. I sat down to go through it. I was determined not to rush the process. The sooner I could get the house on the market, the better it would be for both me and my dad. But at the time, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Poring through her history, I found her birth certificate and passport. Beneath those was a list of names and phone numbers. I wondered if these were more people who should be notified of her death. The numbers were all international with a 353 prefix.
I stared at the page for a long time, deliberating. Finally, I picked up my phone and dialed.
“Hello?” a voice with an Irish brogue answered.
“Hello?” I replied.
“Who is this?”
“This is…” I grappled with my feelings, forcing myself to get my head straight. “This is Breanna Murphy, I’m—”
“Oh yes.” The voice changed, becoming warmer. “You’re Erin’s granddaughter.”
“I am,” I replied, astounded that someone across the ocean would recognize my name.
“How is she?”
“I’m sorry,” I answered, my head hung low. “She passed on.”
“Oh, I see.” The voice fell an octave, its owner sharing in my sadness. “She will be missed.”
“Who is this?” I asked abruptly. “I mean, I’m sorry, who are you?”
“My name is Ciara Patrick. Your nan and I were old friends.” Ciara paused. “How did you get this number?”
“I found it in Nan’s desk drawer.”
“I see. Is there a locket?”
“A locket?” I repeated, rummaging through the drawer. To my astonishment, I found what I was looking for. Tucked away at the back was a heart shaped pendant on a silver chain. “Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you would be interested in a trip to Ireland?” Ciara asked presumptuously. “The locket is mine. I gave it to her when she left for America.”