***
I rolled over and punched the alarm clock. Literally. Matthew always took care of turning it off. The ritualistic six o’clock buzzer was only another reminder that the love of my life was no longer lying beside me through the night, no longer pushing the button that stopped the insufferable beeping and then smothering me with wake-up kisses. He would never again surprise me by climbing into the shower with me in the morning.
“Shit!” I shouted as the clock fell to the floor. I picked it up and examined the small box that was dented and no longer showing any signs of life. “I always hated the damn thing anyway. Now I have a reason to get a new one.” I reached behind the nightstand and yanked the plug out of the wall socket. I tossed the device back on to the floor. I was lost. Lost in the morning, the day, and the night. I’d struggled to find a new routine without Matthew, but I didn’t seem to be able to find one that I could repeat every day other than the one where I was continually late for work.
By eight thirty, I was finally grabbing my keys and purse to leave, mumbling that if I didn’t pull myself together soon, I could lose my business. Before I could get out the door, my cell phone rang.
“Hello?
“Miss O’Reilly please?”
“This is she.”
“Miss O’Reilly, this is Mr. McIntosh with McIntosh, Bryer and Smith. We are representing the Shikman family.”
My heart sank—Matthew’s parents. When Matthew became sick, his parents wanted him to come home. He refused because he loved me and told me no matter what his parents thought, we were a couple, a family, and his place was in his home with his partner. But Matthew’s parents didn’t feel the same way, and they let me know it at the funeral and every day since. I hadn’t been allowed to sit up front with the family at Matthew’s service. I was looked upon as his friend, his roommate, but certainly not his family. It didn’t take his parents long after to show up at the apartment to claim Matthew’s belongings. I wouldn’t let them in, thus, the lawyer.
“What can I do for you Mr. McIntosh?”
“The Shikmans would like to discuss times they can collect their son’s belongings. They’ve waited long enough. If you cooperate, they won’t bring the authorities into the matter.”
“I haven’t finished packing everything yet.” That was a lie. I hadn’t packed anything.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, Matthew always told me he would take care of me.
He wouldn’t leave me in this predicament. Yet, here I was.
“We also need to discuss Matthew’s share in the property on the Saint Lawrence River and the rental property you’re residing in.”
“What is there to discuss?” I said angrily. “Those properties belonged to the both of us, and Matthew wanted me to have them, not his parents.”
“Do you have this in writing, a will perhaps? Do you have the mortgage papers and/or the deeds? You could send—”
I yelled into the phone, “I-I don’t know. I haven’t gone through everything yet. I told you that.”
“Miss O’Reilly…”
Oh God, I thought, here it comes again.
“You weren’t married, and you haven’t produced a will. I cannot hold off the Shikmans any longer. They would like to get this settled. They’ve drawn up an offer to buy out your half of the properties or for you to buy out Matthew’s half. Either way, if you decide against it, they will force you to sell.” He paused. “They also have a right to their son’s belongings—”
Before the lawyer could finish, I was once again screaming into the phone. “What about my rights? Those properties are my business, my home. I loved him. I loved him! We were married in our eyes and that’s all that matters so bring the damn authorities if you want to! I will get the stuff to them when I go through it, and I’ll get the papers to you when I’m good and ready. Good day, Mr. McIntosh!”
Infuriated, I threw my cell phone against the wall. Bending over to retrieve it, I noticed the battery came out of it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I picked up the phone and battery. I fumbled with the pieces, but my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the battery back into its compartment. I hurled the phone back on the floor.
Yielding to all of the emotions churning within me since Matthew died and the Shikmans began to torture me, I fell to my knees sobbing. “Fine, I’ll get another phone. In fact I’ll just get everything new—a new alarm clock too! I’ll leave this place and everything in it and start again. The damn Shikman family can have it all.”
I crawled over to where the phone lay and picked it up. I leaned against the wall as my body wretched with the pain and anger from Matthew leaving me in this situation, coupled with guilt for being mad at him. It wasn’t his fault he got cancer. He didn’t want to leave me. Deep down I knew that. Matthew wasn’t to blame because I couldn’t find any of the papers I needed to settle all of this, and it wasn’t his fault I couldn’t find a will. I didn’t know if he even made a will, but I was pretty sure he didn’t.
Matthew struggled with his love for me and his respect for his father. On many levels, I knew his father didn’t accept me as a prospective daughter-in-law, one reason being our differences in religion. He also didn’t approve of us “shacking up,” as Matthew often jokingly referred to our living situation. Matthew’s struggles with his morals and values were internal and he didn’t talk to me about it much. I was okay with that because I knew in my heart, when he was ready, he would.
Matthew’s illness had consumed us. It took everything we had to stay positive and deal with it, so the last thing on my mind was that he was going to die and I needed to protect myself. Then he was gone and so was the chance of talking to him about making a will or asking him where he kept all his papers.
Damn, it was my fault. I should have known those things. I should have asked. Now, all I knew was I didn’t want to lose my home and no matter what, I wouldn’t. This was the home Matthew and I owned and shared together. I was damned if anyone was going to take that away from me.
Several deep breaths later, I finally gained control. I glanced at my watch and saw it was nine o’clock. God, I thought, late again. This can’t be good. I slowly got up off of the floor and dragged myself to the living room. I plopped down on the couch and picked up the phone on the end table. My brain struggled to recall my assistant’s phone number even though I had called it hundreds of times. It took two tries before I dialed it correctly.
While I waited for Chaz to answer the phone, I thought about how having a gay assistant who was not only aware of my situation, but also had total sympathy for it, was a bonus. Discrimination was discrimination, and Chaz understood that completely. I didn’t think anyone cared much anymore what religion you were, but the Shikmans did and I didn’t totally understand that until Matthew died. Chaz had picked up the slack for me after Matthew passed. That guilt was also weighing on me because Chaz was left to deal with the bank that held my business loan. I knew if I didn’t show my ass to work soon, he would continue to take the brunt of it all and that just wasn’t fair to him.
“Good morning, O’Reilly’s Funeral Parlor. Chaz Metzger speaking. How can I help you?”
“Chaz, I’m sorry. I can’t make it in today.” Silence. “Look, I promise I’ll be in tomorrow—on time. I know I can’t keep this up.”
“Quinn, what is it?”
“I had another one of those nightmares and when I woke up, the lawyer for Matthew’s parents called.”
“Bastards.” Chaz understood how much I suffered from the loss of my partner, and how much harder it was to heal from that loss with the way Matthew’s family was treating me. “Look, honey, anything I can do, you name it. I know some people…” he said, only half-jokingly.
“Yeah. Sometimes there’s a small part of me that entertains that offer, and you and I both know Matthew would be laughing. Still, I can’t even begin to think that way.”
“Okay, okay. But honey, you have to get a hold of yourself.”
“
I know. I will, I promise.”
But my tormented soul wasn’t going to let that happen and I think Chaz sensed it because he said, “Quinn. I mean it this time. Mr. Abernathy from the bank has been relentless in his phone calls this week, and I can’t cover for you much longer. I can probably get it by this time, but honey, you have to get back to work. And not just physically.”
“Chaz?”
I believed he could sense the distress from the apprehension in my voice because he asked in a soothing tone, “What is it honey?”
“I heard those voices again, in that dream.”
“Quinn, did you call that grief counselor yet? You know, the one I gave you the number for weeks ago.” I actually felt the sarcasm in his tone.
“No. Every time I considered calling, I thought maybe I’d be okay, so I didn’t feel I needed to.”
“Listen to you. You’re not okay.” Quietly, he added, “And you know it.”
“I’ll call...today. I promise. And I’ll be in tomorrow. I promise that too.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing.”
“Thanks, Chaz. You’re my angel.”
“Oh, come now. Give me more,” he jested.
“My knight in shining armor.”
“Yes, yes, and I would look good in those tights.”
“You would. And Chaz?”
“What now?”
“Really. Thank-you.”
“No thanks needed, honey. Now, get off the phone and call the therapist. I’ll check in on you later.”
“Bye.” I reclined on the couch and within minutes I was sound asleep. The fatigue from the past months of trying to deal with my grief, the Shikmans’ continual onslaught, and the whispers that kept me awake at night was beginning to take its toll.