Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,29

spot where the brass marker rested, one corner covered by a patch of thick grass that had grown up and over the marble base.

Mud had been caked onto the engraved poem and the date of Emma’s birth.

I swallowed, frozen to the spot.

Mom dropped to her knees, reaching back for the water jug, but I didn’t hand it over. Instead I dropped to my knees beside her, and reached for the scrub brush.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll get it.”

But tears swam in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to mine. “It’s not okay.”

I remembered calling my parents’ house after Ryan and I had gotten home from the hospital. I’d never forget the pain in my father’s voice when I’d told him Emma was gone, much like the anguish that spread across my mother’s face now.

I studied her features, the pain and love so blatant in her eyes.

I wasn’t the only one who’d lost Emma. Ryan had lost her. Dad had lost her. Mom had lost her. I wasn’t alone in my sorrow. I wasn’t alone in my life.

Suddenly, I had no idea why I hadn’t picked up the phone to call Mom the moment Ryan walked out.

“Ryan left me,” I said.

Mom nodded, her eyes still moist with unshed tears.

“You knew?” I leaned toward her, staring intently into her dark eyes. They softened as she looked at me, as she reached for my cheek.

“I’m your mother.”

The emotion of the moment grabbed me by the throat and held tight.

Why hadn’t I told her sooner? She was my mother, and she’d do anything for me. Much like my argument with Diane, that realization made me realize the time had come to do some things for myself.

Mom patted my cheek and reached for the scrub brush, but I covered her hand with mine. “I can do this.”

“I know you can.” Her tone lost its soft edge, growing sharp and determined.

When her eyes met mine this time, I knew she wasn’t talking about scrubbing Emma’s marker.

She was talking about life. My life.

I only hoped she was right.

o0o

On Sunday afternoon, I knew the time had come to face the paperwork I’d promised to handle for my mother.

I thought about Mark working on Mom’s car and my vow to face life head on. I stared at the piles I’d spread across my coffee table.

I’d separated the papers and notes into categories. Retirement account. Life insurance. Banking. Pension. Health insurance. Utilities. Homeowner’s insurance. Car insurance.

The manila envelope holding my father’s death certificates sat farther away than anything else. I’d shoved it to the end of the table as if it were a cobra waiting to pierce my heart with its lethal bite, yet my gaze continued to land on the words I’d scribbled in handwriting I’d never recognize as my own if I didn’t know better.

Death certificates.

The enormity of the task threatened to swallow me whole. I couldn’t help but wonder if this wouldn’t have been easier before my shock and denial wore off. Now that I’d become aware and determined, my heart ached as if an elephant sat on my chest.

This to-do list would be emotionally devastating if the paperwork had been for anyone, let alone for my dad.

I understood life ceased at the moment the heart stopped beating, but as far as the rest of the world was concerned, life stopped at the moment they received a completed form, a properly worded letter and an official copy of the death certificate.

My gaze traveled again to the manila envelope and froze there. The contents all but dared me to peek inside, to see if this time I’d be strong enough to study them without dissolving into a puddle of tears.

I traced a finger along the edge of the envelope then released the clip that held the flap closed. I reached inside, sliding the neat stack of ten notarized certificates from within. I swallowed, a vain attempt to fend off the sob mercilessly snaking its way up my throat.

I skimmed the words typed onto each page. Name. Social security number. Time of death. Cause of death.

The words blurred and I wiped at my cheeks before the tears tumbling from my eyes could drip and mar the pristine pages--pages that screamed what my heart knew but still wanted to deny.

Dad was dead.

And at that particular moment in my life, that one fact--that one morsel of understanding--seemed almost more than I could bear, yet I refused to quit.

I pushed the envelope away and fell flat on my back, staring up at