Capítulo 2: Postcard
I am aware that Jayson's mouth is moving, explaining the content of my sister's last will, but none of this is registering in my head.
He said that she died in a boating accident last April, and she gave me all of her assets, turning me into a billionaire. Nine Zeros. That's how much money my sister has - had - not to mention her properties all over the world. Not just in California, but all over the world.
"I…" Jayson stopped mid-sentence to tell me how many properties my sister has in Asia.
I had to swallow hard. Even swallowing my own saliva proved to be a tough job for my body to do. Each gulp only made my throat tighten. "I… I cannot accept this, Jayson."
Magdalena's lawyer still wore a passive look that was starting to annoy me. "I understand that you are in a state of shock with the news of your sister's death…" he pondered for the right words. "You haven't properly grieved-"
"Wait," I raised my hand, stopping his words. "Shocked? Yes. Properly grieve? No. How can I possibly grieve or mourn someone who is technically a stranger to me?" His eyelids fluttered as though he caught something in them. "I can't accept this," I shoved the folder in his hand. "Because she's no one to me."
Fifteen years. Even my memories of her are as vague as a breathes' fog in winter. I don't know how she looks, how she speaks. I know death. The pain, the emptiness that remains at the thought of never seeing someone you value the most, I'm familiar with it. I have that hollow feeling in my chest with Aunt Sandra's passing.
Yes, I know I have a sister. I know her name, but I don't know her at all.
When Jayson remained tongue-tied, I dropped the purple folder in front of him and stood up, taking that as a cue to leave. "I'm sure she has alternatives on where to give that money or what to do with those properties if I refuse them. If you need my affidavit, just tell me; I will write it in a heartbeat."
Seeing that Simon stood from his chair, still wearing that flirtatious grin, I threaded my way out of the cafe without another word.
The place which became my solace for the last five years was ruined now. From this day forward, every time I would enter through those glass doors that chime whenever someone comes in and out, I will remember Simon and Jayson… and Magdalena, not the tasteful coffee aroma, not the comfort of the booth that had my handwritten name on it.
As I walked through the familiar footpath, I could feel my heart beating at a quicker pace.
I have a wild imagination, a three-dimensional outlook on things when it comes to books I write. But when it comes to my reality, I'm one of those 'boring' people. I follow a routine. Wake up at five in the morning, exercise, shower, eat breakfast, and from then on, I'll either write or read, sleep and repeat. It's the same with the places I got to, the same grocery, coffee shop, bookstore, ice cream parlor. It's not that I don't have a life. I do. I have friends, I go out with them once or twice a week, and when I'm not with them, I fall into this familiar routine, and I'm okay with that.
People like Simon and Jayson are those I have no space for in my life. They'll derail my train of fine living, and I don't need that.
Reaching my building, I checked the mailbox and grabbed its contents before stepping inside the elevator, greeting Mrs. Pearson who had her dog Peachy on the leash.
My rubber shoes squeaked against the tiled hallway as I reached my door.
I pulled out my keys and entered through the narrow entry, throwing my keys on the bowl at the jam-packed bookshelf that separates the living room.
This place was shabby yet spacious enough for two people. A breakfast bar separates the kitchen from the living area. There was a ranch slider that led to a small patio. Being on the seventh floor, there's a good view of the neighborhood without the noise of the street. A narrow corridor leads to the bedrooms, bathroom, and utility room.
Now that I'm living alone, I set my desk and computer in the living room, bought a new shelf for Aunt Sandra's record player and a record collection. I've done a few renovations over the years, turned the dark walls into white, light timber fixtures and window frames.
Making a living out of writing is not as stable as having nine to five jobs, but being confined in a cubicle is not my thing. I'm a freelance photographer, and so far, I'm earning enough to pay rent, bills and have food at the table.
I've made decent sales on my second book, and Milly, my best friend, kept urging me to move to a new place, particularly in New York City, so I'd be closer to her. I've thought about it, but this is Aunt Sandra's place, so I'm having a hard time letting it go.
I set the mails on the coffee table and opened the ranch slider to allow the light and air in. Walking back inside to grab a glass of water, one mail - or postcard from the mail - caught my attention as I passed by. I picked it up and brought it with me to the kitchen.
After quenching my thirst, I studied the postcard; it was the Fontana di Nettuno [Neptune Fountain] in Messina, Sicily. On the back of it was a stamp of Cathedral and the Piazza del Duomo, the words amo la mia famiglia, and a drawing of a sunflower at the end of it. [I love my family]
Aunt Sandra told me that our family originated from Sicily, but I never knew anyone apart from her and my sister's name. Both of them are dead now, and nothing changes, I'm still alone, and I'm okay with that.
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