November 26, 2007, Word Count 41066

October 22, 1999

When I stepped out of the rental car in front of the house, I shivered as if a cold breeze had blown past my open coat. In reality, it was a warm October – it was the memories that chilled me. Charlie walked around the car and took my arm. “Are you ready for this?” He asked with concern in his voice.

“I’m ready. Let’s go in.”

Cars lined the block on the street where my parents had lived for decades. Ever since he had retired from the Air Force, my father had worked at one of the largest independent airlines servicing the regional airport in Shreveport , and it would seem that everyone that ever worked with or for him had come to pay their respects. Their church had organized all the food, so I was quite certain that there would be a lot of the members there as well. I hadn’t set foot in this house in almost 15 years. I hadn’t seen my mother since I had left. My father and I had spoken here and there, and he had come to visit me when I was in Alabama, but it had been almost 3 years since I had seen him. He had looked pale and thin and weary. The years of unrelenting grief had taken their toll on him.

My mother hadn’t even called me when he died. His lawyer had done that for her. He had left me a small inheritance, or I’m sure she wouldn’t have allowed anyone to call at all. I had called them just before Charlie and I got married and after I told her the news she hung up the phone without a word. I sent a card with our address and phone on it, and my dad had called, but I never spoke to my mother again.

We entered the house together, two strangers in a house I had once called home. It looked exactly like I remembered it. The dining room was to the left, sparkling chandelier hanging over the heavy oak table. The table was covered with casserole dishes and crockpots – like Baptist offerings to the god of the dead. Photographs of Ray and me hung on the right of the entry door – school pictures from kindergarten to 12th grade. Ray’s senior picture was like a ghost – taken just a month before he had died. The spot for my senior picture was empty.

The living room opened up off the entry way, perfectly arranged furniture – spotless and worn. My mother had always kept a clean house, even while arranging funerals. Over the fireplace hung a large framed painting of the house in which she had grown up – a genteel and elegant home on a riverbank. The room was crowded with people dressed for mourning, crying softly in that corner and talking quietly in another. I looked out the French doors onto the patio behind the house and saw my mother sitting in the swing, surrounded by some of the ladies from the church. They appeared to be praying, but my mother was staring right back at me.

I grasped Charlie’s arm and breathed in sharply. He looked at me, concern filling his eyes, and said, “What is it, Annie?” “My mom,” I whispered. “She is outside on the patio. She just saw us come in.” I didn’t know what to do. I was rooted to the spot, but my mind was telling me to go to her. How could this woman still affect me so, after so many years? I was getting ready to flee when a tall, silver haired man approached us.

“Annie?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m Annie.” He offered his hand and I shook it.

“I’m Tom Sweeney, Annie. Peter was not only my client, but my friend. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sweeney, and thank you so much for calling me. This is my husband, Charles Bradford.” The two men shook hands and exchanged niceties, then Mr. Sweeney turned back to me.

“I have some papers for you to sign and a few other items to give to you. Can you come by my office later this afternoon?”

“Of course, but it’s Saturday, Mr. Sweeney, surely your office is closed?”

“Please call me Tom. And I can open the office on a Saturday. It’s just me. I know you are traveling and I wasn’t sure how long you were going to stay, so I thought we could get the legal stuff handled today for you and then you’d be free to do what you need to do here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Tom. Thank you.”

Tom looked at me, eyes full of sympathy. “Annie – don’t pay much attention to what your mother says. She’s hurting, and her words are likely to be harsh. But Nora has been through a lot the last few years and she doesn’t always think straight. Try not to take anything she might say to heart.” He gave me his card and asked us to come by the office around 3:00 pm.

As he walked away, I saw my mother walking in through the French doors, headed straight for me.