Page 33 of The Cabin
“I guess we’ll find out Friday.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m going to need a shower.”
“Bitch, you’re gonna need like four showers.”
“I don’t smell that bad.”
“Oh yeah? Sniff your pit.”
I do so. “Holy hell.” I cough at my own stench. “You might be right.”
“Why are you still here with me, Tess?”
“Because you’re my best friend. And you’d do the same for me. We made a pact, remember? When we were in that Gaia, Mother Earth phase? We did this whole thing involving period blood and herbs and that godawful wine we made ourselves?”
I can’t help but laugh. “God, I remember. That was so nuts.”
“I meant that shit, Nads. Ride or die.”
“I meant it too. I just…I guess I feel like I’ve really tested it, these last few weeks.”
“You haven’t tested anything, Nadia. There’s no such thing as testing it. You need me, so I’m here. No matter what.”
“What would I do without you?”
“You’ll never find out.”
A while of silence.
“You’ve been in here a week,” Tess says, eventually. “I could barely get you to eat or drink. I had to force-feed you electrolytes. I was really worried about you getting dehydrated.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve lost a shitload of weight, Nads. Like, a lot. You’re skin and bones.”
“I’m not okay. This feels like the eye of the storm. I don’t think I’m going to have another breakdown, but it’s going to come in waves. Just…so you’re aware. I’ll have more bad days.”
“I know.”
“You can take a break from me, you know.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Crazyhead.” She ruffles my hair like I’m a child.
“Try to rest.”
“’Kay.”
“Nadia?”
“Yeah.”
“Do I have to worry about you? For real.”
“Not like that.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good enough. Now rest.”
But rest doesn’t come, though. Now that I’ve begun the process of grieving, I’m inundated with memories of Adrian.30 days“I, Adrian Bell, being of sound mind and, obviously, failing body—”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, interrupting. “But can you just give me a copy to read on my own time, and give me the details as succinctly as possible?”
We’re in the law offices of Levine, Levine, and Anton, in a glittery high-rise in the heart of Atlanta. It was the first time I had left the house after the funeral, but I barely remember the trip in—Tess drove. The lawyer Adrian chose to execute his estate, whose name is Tomas Anton, resembles the evil food critic from Ratatouille: extraordinarily tall, but stooped, hunched at the shoulders, with a dour face, silvering dark hair cropped short and balding. He wears an expensive dark charcoal suit with light pinstripes, a somber maroon tie, and slick, polished Italian leather loafers. His voice is sonorous, stentorian.
“That is not how these things are ordinarily done,” he protests.
“I can’t—I just can’t handle this.” I close my eyes. Hearing Adrian’s words, read by someone else, is just too hard.
“Very well.” He clears his throat, and then spends a moment thinking. “The details are thus: his automobile, a 2017 BMW M4 convertible, has been sold for a cash value of forty-five thousand dollars, which funds are currently available in the joint checking account. There were many investments made over the years, upon the advice and urging of his financial advisor, one Lewis McCleary, and those have been largely cashed out, all appropriate taxes paid upon cash-out. The sum total of these comes to…let’s see…one million, seven hundred thousand, and forty-five dollars. And sixty-six cents, by way of precision.”
I gulp. “Wait, what? We had a million dollars in investments?”
“It seems so.”
I blink. “He told me he’d made some investments, but he made it sound like it was just…little stuff. Small amounts.”
“You would have to speak to Mr. McCleary for details. The only information I’m privy to is what is contained here.” He gestures with the will from which he is reading. “Shall I continue?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.” He scans the document rapidly. “Ah, here we are. Further to the topic of investments, he retained several of the, and I quote, ‘most stable, long-term investments,’ for the purposes of securing your future interests, but these can be managed at your convenience, as you see fit. The value of these investments currently totals just over one million dollars. Again, Mr. McCleary can provide you with all the information you require.”
“A million dollars in investments,” I repeat. “Adrian, you absolute shitshow. Why didn’t you tell me?” I clear my throat. “Is that all?”
“No, ma’am. Furthermore, he has a life insurance policy, purchased when you were first married, which he seems to have been aggressively funding. I’ve contacted them, and they are in the process of distributing the payout. Which totals, let’s see….” He consults a yellow legal pad on his desk in front of him, peering down his nose through his readers. “Five million dollars.”
I cough in shock. “What?”
“He specified payout terms. A lump sum of fifty percent, with the remainder paid as monthly installments. I can provide you with the breakdown, if you wish?”
