Beat Girl

Chapter #2 | Silence

One week after the funeral I found I was not as ready to go back to sleep quite so soon following my night’s sleep and I stayed in front of the TV, mostly staring through it rather than watching anything. At one point in the morning, I made my way to the piano. I didn’t care so much about how rusty I was becoming without my usual two-hour daily practice; it was more of an attempt to bring alive my mother’s spirit. Deep down I think I hoped the notes would allow me to communicate with her. But as I sat in front of my mother’s beloved piano, my fingers felt paralysed. I could not move them at all, not even to press a single key. The piano had been rendered mute. It was as if some spell had been cast, enveloping the piano in an invisible cloak that was impenetrable to human touch. Maybe the piano, too, was grieving, I thought, and then immediately realised what a silly notion that was. Saddened, I returned to the sofa, resolute not to approach the piano again.

Sometime before lunch the doorbell rang. I didn’t move, hoping whoever it was would either think no one was at home or would get the message that I didn’t want company. But after a short pause, the doorbell rang again, this time more persistently. I was still adamant I wouldn’t answer it. They could all go to hell, all the do-gooders and well-wishers and busy-bodies of this world. Finally, however, when it looked like the caller wasn’t accepting defeat, I grumpily padded over towards the door. It occurred to me that I probably looked quite a sight, as I hadn’t showered or changed my pyjamas for an entire week. This thought was followed by another realisation - I didn’t give a damn. Looking through the peep hole I recognised the caller – it was my mother’s lawyer, Mr Hartigan. At least he wasn’t calling with a casserole in hand wanting to comfort me. I let him in. He brought in with him the smell of outside and it felt foreign.

Mr Hartigan did a slight double take at the sight of me. However, to his credit, he managed to conceal it quite well, greeting me in quite a normal manner, as though everything were fine. I appreciated it. I responded in like, guiding him to the living room.

‘Right, Heather, I know there is never a good time or a right time for this end of things, but I need to go through the papers with you.’ When he saw my blank look, he explained further. ‘The estate, which is a legal term for whatever a person leaves behind, even if there is no actual estate.’

Mr Hartigan brought his hands together to form a steeple. ‘The bottom line is, there is no money. Whatever your mother had in her savings account had slowly but surely been decreasing ever since she became unwell and was no longer earning.’ He sighed. ‘The little that had remained has all been swallowed up by the funeral costs - which, as you probably know, are quite steep.’

‘So, what are you saying – there’s absolutely nothing left?’ I stared at him, barely comprehending.

Mr Hartigan shook his head sadly. ‘Not a penny, I’m afraid.’

‘But what about rent?’

‘I’m sure you’ll figure something out, you’re a smart girl,’ Mr Hartigan said by way of bringing his visit to a close; such matters were not his responsibility. ‘I’ll be in touch with you in the next couple of days, once everything’s signed and sealed. Alright?’

In a daze I walked him to the door, panic taking over and replacing the overall sense of numbness that had pervaded me for the past week. What would I do? How would I survive? Images of being homeless and hungry sprang before me and I had to quickly sit down to calm myself. I once again turned my attention to the TV to allow the wave of panic to die down. After about an hour, I picked up a notepad and a pen and decided to write down all the options that might be open to me.

The first person that came to mind, naturally, was Amy. But she’d moved out of her parents’ house and was living in a cramped flat with her best friend, Steve, who was sleeping on her sofa. It was, therefore, usually a tight fit even on the odd night I crashed at her place, let alone for anything more long term. No sooner had I written her name than I crossed it out. Great start, I thought to myself. I went to the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee in the hope that the caffeine would kick-start my brain into coming up with some better, more viable solutions.