That One Day (That One #1.5) (4 page)

It’s around six p.m. when I finally pull into the parking lot of Neale & Murphy. Only a handful of cars are still parked there. When I look toward the building, I see movement in some of the offices. I get out of the car and make my way to the three story building. Although it’s evening, the heat hasn’t lessened, making it hard to breathe.

I let out a sigh. “Here we go.”

I enter the building and take a deep breath, enjoying the air conditioned chill. There is a reception desk right across from me; a young woman in a business suit with her blond hair in a stern bun typing away on her computer. She only seems to notice me when I stand right in front of her desk. She takes stock of my appearance, her eyes quickly scanning over me. Her lips pull down in a frown in response, a look of disdain on her pretty face.

My first reaction is to tell her to go fuck herself before I realize how I must look to her. I haven’t shaved in days, and despite showering this morning,I’ve been on the road for nearly ten hours today. I look anything but fresh, my hair dishevele
d
from my hands continuously running through it. My torn jeans and faded black shirt are wrinkled and probably smell to heaven and back. I wouldn’t be surprised if she called the cops to pick up the homeless guy who just walked into her building.

The disgusted look is quickly replaced with a professional and polite one as she flashes me a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“How can I help you, sir?”

I clear my throat. “I got a letter from Mr. Murphy about an inheritance from my grandmother. Is there a way I could see him tonight about it?”

“You’ll need to make an appointment, sir.” She still gives me the fake smile, but I can see the disapproval in her eyes when her gaze travels up and down my less-than-stellar appearance.

Unfortunately for her, I’m currently out of patience.

“Listen, lady. I drove here all the way from Michigan. I’ve been on the road for longer than I care to think about. I’ve slept in motels that should be closed down by the CDC. And, I would like to take care of this shit now, not tomorrow. Let me speak to Mr. Murphy. Then you’ll never have to see my face again.” My voice has risen, and my breathing is coming out in hard bursts. I’m exhausted and pissed off.

Her mouth is in a hard line when she grabs the phone, and I’m convinced she’s calling the cops or security.

“Mr. Murphy, there is someone to see you. Apparently it’s urgent.”

She pauses for a moment, looking up at me. “What’s your name?”

“Benjamin Gibson. I’m here about Margret Andrews’ will.”

She repeats the information, then proceeds to say “Okay” a number of times before hanging up.

“Third floor, straight ahead once you step out of the elevator.” With that, she turns back to her computer, ignoring me completely. Fine by me.

“Thanks,” I say before taking off in the direction she pointed out.

As soon as I step out of the elevator on the third floor, the door across from me opens and a middle-aged man with grey hair and beard walks toward me. Unlike his receptionist, he doesn’t bat an eye at my appearance. He even shakes my hand.

“Mr. Gibson. Nice to meet you. I’m Daniel Murphy. Please, follow me.”

We step into his office and he offers me a seat before sitting down behind his desk.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks and points to the side table with an assortment of beverages.

I eye the whiskey for a second, but then shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“I’m sure you’re here about my letter concerning your grandmother’s will. I didn’t expect to see you here and definitely not this soon.”

I don’t want to make small talk, but right now this guy is the only person who can give me any information about my father.

“I thought it’d be a nice road trip.”

“Forgive me if I say that you don’t look like you enjoyed it very much.”

Yeah, no shit,
is what I want to say, but instead I go with, “It was a bit tiring.” I leave it at that, not going into any detail.

He seems to sense my hesitance and sits up straighter.

“It wasn’t easy to get ahold of you, young man. It took us a few months to figure out where you live now since your last name has changed and we weren’t aware. It’s been a bit of a challenge, I must say. But that’s what your grandmother paid us for, I suppose.”

He smiles at me. “Well, why don’t we get down to business so you can catch up on some sleep?”

I’m sure he also thinks I should catch up on a shower and shaving. Can’t say I really blame him.

“That’d be great.”

“Your grandmother has left you everything. Her house, which is old, but should still be worth something. Her car. Some money. I’ll just need you to sign some papers and then I can hand over the keys.”

“Wow. Why would she leave it to me?” I ask, feeling a bit confused. I’ve never met that woman, didn’t even know she existed. She never tried to contact me and now she just leaves me everything she has.

“From what I understand, you’re her only family.”

I feel like he punched me in the stomach; my breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. Does that mean my father is dead? Will I never meet him?

“What about my father?” I inquire, my voice strained.

For the first time, Mr. Murphy looks a bit uncomfortable, shifting in his chair, clearing his throat a few times.

“Mr. Gibson…may I call you Benjamin?”

Great, he wants to build a foundation of trust.

“Ben,” I reply.

“From what I understand, you haven’t met your father. Is that correct?”

I don’t want to rehash my fucked-up life with this stranger, but I want answers.

“I didn’t even know he existed,” I reply, my teeth clenched. I notice I’m bouncing my leg.

“Sorry. Listen, Ben, I don’t know the details. But your father, he’s not well. He’s been in a mental health institution for many years now. He’s in no place to take over your grandmother’s house. The only person left is you.”

I don’t move for a moment, except for blinking frantically. The relief that washes over me when I hear my father is alive is quickly replaced by the shock over what Mr. Murphy just told me. My father, a man I never met, never knew existed, is in a mental hospital. My mind is spinning and for a moment, everything goes out of focus. Is he basically telling me my father is crazy?

When I look back at him, sympathy is clearly written all over his face.

“Do you know where my father is? What…” I pause. “What institution?”

“Yes. It’s in the file. I’ll be right back. My secretary has already gone home, so I’ll have to fetch it myself.” He gives me an apologetic smile. As he walks past me, he gives me a pat on the shoulder.

Once he’s out of the room, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands over my face. Fuck. How did I get into this nightmare? For a second I wish I’d gone out with Dave right after class and spent the night partying. By the time I would have gotten home, I’m sure the letter would have disappeared.

A few minutes later, Mr. Murphy comes back, and I sit up straight.

“Okay Ben, first I’ll need you to sign the papers here and here.” He points to the lines I’m supposed to put my signature on. I know the smart thing would be to read what I’m signing, but I just don’t give a fuck. As soon as the papers are signed, he hands me an envelope.

“Everything you’ll need is in there. Papers, keys, and the name of the institution where your father is.” He hands it to me and follows it up with his business card. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

I nod at him and shake his hand. “Thanks.” Making my way out of the office, I head toward the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping the exercise will lessen the anxiety I feel.

I step out into the hot air, leaving the coolness of the office building behind. Sitting in my truck, I open the envelope. I look through the papers, put the keys for the house in my pocket, and then stare at the neatly handwritten note. It’s the address and phone number of St. Michael’s Hospital.

So, this is where I can find my father. Locked away in God-knows-what kind of state. Visions of straightjackets and padded cells swirl in my mind.

I start the truck and make my way through Tucson to find my new home. It takes me a while, especially since I don’t have my phone to search the address. I stop twice to ask for directions, not wanting to spend the night driving through the city.

Two hours after arriving at the lawyer’s office, I pull onto a quiet street. It’s nothing fancy. Just a nice, middle-class neighborhood. There are kids riding their bikes outside, and I see people sitting on their porches. It’s so idyllic I want to barf.

I see a father playing football with his son in the front yard and it makes my heart ache. Shaking my head, I continue down the street in search of my grandmother’s house. I have no idea what it looks like, so I have to rely on scanning the house numbers. Halfway down the street, I spot it and pull into the driveway.

143 Belmont Road. Home sweet fucking home.

The oppressive heat envelops me as soon as I get out of the truck. How can it still be this hot? I grab my duffel bag as well as the paper bag containing some burgers and fries I picked up on the way, and make my way toward the house. It’s a one-level, red brick, ranch-style house with a driveway big enough for five cars. It looks like it was built a few decades ago, and I wonder if I’ve ever been here, or played here with my father.

The windows and door up front have white bars with an intricate leaf pattern on them. There is an iron bench standing under one of the windows next to the front door. The plants in the front yard are all dried up. I guess no one watered them after my grandmother died.

I take the keys out of my pocket and unlock the door, taking a step inside. Instantly, I’m hit by an overwhelming, musty smell. It’s bad, but considering my grandmother has been dead for a few months and no one was in here since, it’s not that surprising.

I leave the front door open, looking for a light switch. But, no fucking surprise, the light isn’t working. I make my way to the side table next to the couch and try my luck there. Again, everything stays dark. The windows don’t allow for much light to come in from the outside, especially since it’s getting dark already.

I stumble back out to the truck and get my flashlight out of the trunk, going in search of the fuse box. I find it after making my way through the kitchen to the laundry room. Of course, the fuse box isn’t the problem. Electricity was probably shut off when my grandmother died. Great, I’m sitting in the fucking dark.

I get a sinking feeling when I turn toward the main valve, making sure it’s open. Then, I test my luck with the sink in the laundry room. At first there is a lot of groaning and metal clanging, and I can already see myself peeing outside, when finally, water flows from the tap. Rusty and red at first, but after a while it clears. Who would have thought that I manage to catch a break for once?

I make my way through the house with my flashlight, opening all the windows to get the stale air moving. The heat in the house is stifling, but until I get the electric sorted, air-conditioning is nothing but a dream.

There’s no point checking out the house in the dark, so I plop down on the couch with my burgers, fries, and my new best friend—a bottle of whiskey.

***

Fed and slightly drunk, I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I know is hearing someone talk above me.

A female voice whispers, “Do you think he’s dead?”

I hear someone snort before a deep, male voice answers, “Nah, just drunk.”

“Did he break in? Should we call the cops? He looks like a homeless guy.” It’s the female again, and at this point I’m starting to wonder who the fuck is in the house and how they got in here. I open my eyes to see a girl with long blond hair peering down at me, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed. She’s holding a small dog, one of those tiny, fluffy things that shouldn’t be classified as a dog.

I sit up too quickly and the aftereffects of the whiskey make things spin for a moment.

Pressing the heel of my hand to my temple, I glare at her. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” She moves back and holds the overgrown rat closer to her chest.

“Hey, man, chill the fuck out.” The male voice addresses me. I look up to see a tall guy now standing in front of the blond chick. He isn’t just tall, but packs some serious muscle. And, I kid you not, is wearing cowboy boots, torn jeans, and a wife-beater. Nice.

“You’re in my fucking house, asshole,” I grind out, ready to get into a fight if necessary, although I doubt my head would survive.

The girl peers out behind what I suspect is her boyfriend. “You left all the doors open.”

“And that means you can come in here and fucking insult me?” I’ve gotten up by now and am in the guy’s face. My bravado is nothing more than an act, especially since standing up straight requires all of my strength right now.

“This is Mrs. Andrews’ house.” She quips again before Muscleman shoves her back behind him.