I never saw her as a sister in any sense of the word.
I suspect the feeling was mutual—except, of course, when she needed me to clean up one of her messes.
Early on, Errol took to her quickly. Though if I know my brother—and believe me, I do—he did it to spite me.
The two of us have been at odds for as long as I can remember, and the bastard saw an opportunity to make me feel excluded, and he took it. Errol and Larissa were inseparable, trading secrets and inside jokes, playing tennis, watching movies, and lounging by the pool listening to music.
Joke was on him though.
I never cared.
I still don’t.
Maybe I would if I could—but caring is a weakness, a gateway to self-destruction.
And I’m as indestructible as they come.
I crank the volume of the Chopin, sip my Scotch, and sink back into my seat. I’m seconds from closing my eyes and escaping to a world away when my phone vibrates on the coffee table.
“Hello?”
“Yes, is this Bennett Schoenbach?” There’s an older woman on the other end, her voice unfamiliar.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Jeannie Hanaway, and I work with the Department of Family and Social Services. Do you have a moment to speak to me in regards to Larissa Schoenbach?”
“No. I don’t. And I’m sorry to inform you, but Larissa passed away this week.”
My thumb readies over the red button and I’m about to end the call when the woman says, “I’m aware of her passing. That’s why I’m calling. This matter is in regards to that and it’s rather urgent.”
Settling into my chair, I clear my throat. “All right. What is it?”
“According to my paperwork, Larissa designated you as the sole guardian of her daughter in the event of her death.”
Silence perches between us.
I stand. “I don’t know what kind of sick and twisted stunt you’re trying to pull, but if you call me again with this nonsense, you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
“Ex … excuse … m—me?” Her stammer is nothing more than an act, I’m sure of it.
“Larissa never had a child.”
Paper rustles on the other end. “I can assure you she did. Her name is Honor and she lives here in town. She’s been in foster care the past several years as Ms. Schoenbach attempted to get herself on her feet. I guess I’m confused here. I thought—”
“Is this about money? Is this some bizarre attempt at extorting my family? Profiting from my sister’s death? Because if it is, you’re—”
“—no. Oh, God, no. Mr. Schoenbach, I understand this must come as a shock to you, but I can assure you this is not a joke or extortion or anything like that. As I said, my name is Jeannie Hanaway. You can find my contact information on the state’s Department of Family and Social Services website. I can give you my supervisor’s name if you’d like? I’d like to arrange a face-to-face meeting at your earliest convenience if you’d—”
I end the call.
I refuse to believe Larissa has a six-year-old daughter because if she did—she sure as hell wouldn’t have left her to me.
Seven
Astaire
* * *
My finger hovers over the ‘send’ button Saturday morning, and I re-read my email for the dozenth time.
This is insane.
Normal people don’t do this.
But ever since our chance encounter Thursday night, I can’t stop thinking about the man in the bar, his dead wife, and the mystery shrouding her obituary.
Not only that, but I keep wondering what Trevor would do if he were still here, what he’d say.
He had a heart the size of Texas—a heart which now beats in someone else’s body.
He was fluent in compassion and altruism, constantly going out of his way to help others. Holding doors for strangers no matter how late he was running. Rescuing stray animals and going out of his way to find no-kill shelters for them. Offering his spare change at every red kettle or gas station donation jug.
And those were just the little things.
This morning, over coffee and buttered toast, I decided to look up Bennett’s email address on his company’s website, create an anonymous email address for myself, and compose a heartfelt message in hopes that it might bring him comfort in this difficult time.
Sipping the remains of my lukewarm coffee, I give it one final read.
* * *
TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail
SUBJECT: Condolences
* * *
Dear Bennett,
You don’t know me, but recently I learned of your loss, and I wanted to express my deepest sympathies. I’m no stranger to loss myself. A year ago, my fiancé was involved in a car accident and unfortunately didn’t survive. No one can ever prepare you for something like this. One minute, you’re going along, living your day-to-day life, your future filled with hopes and dreams, and the next minute …
Well, I’m sure you know.
The first week or two, you’re going to have an outpouring of sympathies from those closest to you—and maybe even a few distant acquaintances who feel affected by this tragedy. But once the fanfare fades and everyone carries on with their life, you’ll be forced to carry on with yours as well.
It might seem impossible.
And it’ll be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.
But I’m here to tell you, you can do it.
And if you ever want to talk, vent, commiserate … I’m here.
Send me an email.
Or not.
It’s completely up to you.
I just wanted you to know you aren’t alone.
With sincerest sympathies,
An Anonymous Stranger
* * *
I hold my breath and press ‘send.’ A whooshing sound a second later confirms the message has gone through. There’s no taking it back now. No second-guessing whether or not I’m overstepping my boundaries.
I don’t expect a response, but sending this message wasn’t about that.
I want him to know he isn’t alone, that there’s someone else in this world who understands the devastating magnitude of his pain.
In my heart of hearts, I know Trevor would’ve done the same.
No …
Trevor would’ve sent a handwritten card. A flower arrangement, too.
But in this case, an email should suffice.
Closing my laptop lid, I place it aside and clear my breakfast dishes. The window over the kitchen sink showcases a grayscale morning with a hint of light breaking through the foggy atmosphere.
Larissa’s sunrise memorial should be starting any minute now.
I think of the stranger—Bennett, what he must be going through. I picture him dressing in his best suit, steeling his emotions, and putting on a brave face as he greets their friends and family.
I think of the stranger.
I think of him all morning.
Eight
Bennett