The Space Between Us(70)

“Thank you,” I mouthed at her, not trusting my voice to work. She squeezed my hand and it was the most comforting thing I’d felt in years.

“Your mother had a very good life insurance policy, Ms. McBride. When your father received the money, he never touched it. He put it into an account that had very generous interest rates and it’s been growing for the last twenty years. Your father also had a large life insurance policy. After his diagnosis he wasn’t able to add to it, understandably, but I am sure you will have enough to be comfortable for the rest of your life.” Mr. Libman moved some papers around, looking for something in particular. He found it and pinpointed it with his finger, reading the words to me. “The total estate left by Mr. Charles Anthony McBride to his only heir, a Ms. Charlie Anna McBride totals six million, five hundred and fifty-five thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe what he’d said. There was no way my father had that much money. He was a single father, a widower. He worked hard his whole life, never spent money on anything frivolous. He didn’t have money. “That can’t be right,” I added, completely astounded. “Six million dollars?”

“There are about five million dollars in liquid assets; money in bank accounts or invested in stocks that can be liquefied at any moment. Your father met with our personal accountant before he passed and I can assure you that the money invested is protected and smartly distributed. You are welcome and encouraged to meet with him. In fact, your father prepared for that too and any meetings you have with him have been prepaid. We are hoping you avail yourself to that privilege your father put in place for you.” He paused, again looking down at his paper. “The other one point five million dollars is in the house in Willow Falls, the 2004 Ford Focus that is currently on the property, and other smaller items that all add up to the figure I mentioned earlier.”

I sat in that chair, silent and stunned, listening to this man talk. Money wasn’t important to me, it never was. I was taught that by my father. So finding out that my father had five million dollars just sitting around was baffling. “How is all of this possible?” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.

“Your father was a planner, Charlie. He wanted to make sure you were taken care of. That you had everything you needed to be ok.”

That part I understood. New tears sprung to my eyes imagining my father putting everything in place before the cancer took him, preparing to die, making sure I would be set for life. All the while, he never told me he was sick. I would have done anything to be by his side during his last moments, to tell him that I loved him, to comfort him as he passed. As difficult as it would have been for me, I wished he hadn’t denied me that.

“Were you close with my father? Is that why you agreed to handle his affairs?”

Mr. Libman shifted in his chair and I saw his brain ticking away, obviously searching for an answer. “I met your father on a number of occasions. I have nothing but respect for him and know he was an upstanding man. But no, I didn’t handle his case myself.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Your father made it clear that you were to do whatever you wanted with the house in Willow Falls. Sell it or keep it, the choice is yours as it now belongs to you. Everything in the house now belongs to you as well. There is one last item.” He reached into his briefcase on the floor and pulled out an envelope. “This is a letter your father wrote about a month ago. He was very insistent that you receive it at the reading of the will and that you were not to open it until later.” He handed me the envelope over the table and my fingers reached for it, trembling. “I think he wanted you to wait a bit to read it,” he said softly. “He didn’t say when exactly. All he said was that you would know.”

That answer made me angry. This my father expected me to know. He wouldn’t tell me anything, kept me in the dark for months about his illness, his terminal illness, but he expected me to be able to read his posthumous mind and inherently know when to open a letter from him. I looked at the letter, with my father’s very clear penmanship across the front that read “Charlie Bear”, and tried to take deep breaths. I ran my finger over the words, trying not to think too hard about the fact that this was the last thing from my father I would ever receive; no more birthday cards, no more Christmas presents, no more silly Saturday comic strips cut out and mailed to me randomly. This would be it. The very last part of himself he gave to me. How could I possibly know when to open it? When would it feel right to use up this last little bit? I didn’t want to think about what the letter meant or how I would know when to open it. I put it in my purse and tried my best to seem like I was ok with everything. I’m sure the tear that ran down my face didn’t help my cause. I wiped it away and then coughed through a small cry. I needed this to be over.

“Is there anything else?”

“I just want to make sure you understand that if you need anything, anything at all, to come to us. We can help you with the sale of the house, if you choose to sell it. We can help answer any questions you have, legal or otherwise, please know that.”

I nodded, unable and unwilling to answer.

“The only piece left is your signature. Feel free to read the document and then just sign at the bottom of the last page.” He slid a packet of paper over to me, along with a pen. It looked huge and daunting. I would be kidding myself if I thought I was going to read through it all. I trusted my father and decided to just sign. I took the packet and my eyes were drawn to the top letterhead.