The Occurrence

Chapter 1

I stare at him, this man probably five years younger than me, yet he has wisps of gray in his hair, like flecks of silver in an ocean of raven waves. I nod. I know not what else to do; I just nod, and he continues to drone. I do not have any gray in my hair. In fact, my color is a completely natural dark blonde.

My eyes wander and I spot a large magnolia tree outside the arched window. It's being buffeted by a strong wind and I wonder, was that magnolia always there? You'd think I'd know the answer to that, and the size of the tree alone would say yes, but I simply cannot remember it.

I quickly look back at the man, who, from his expression, has said something obviously well-meaning. Thoughtful. Genuine. I offer him a half-smile to appease him. It works. He blathers on.

I'm suddenly aware of the smell of this office. Surrounded by dark cherry wood, it's ironic that I smell pine, and I scan the room to find the large glass globe filled with potpourri. There it is. On the cherry bookcase filled with leather books with gold wording on the spines. Leaves. Dried flowers. And oh, look. Pine. Locally made. Because what's a better smell than pine when you smell it every single damn day when you're a local? He couldn't have chosen Spiced Apple or Hawaiian Breeze. Not manly enough for him, I suppose. Pine and musk. Pine and mold. It all smells the same after awhile.

I look down now, at my hands, and I turn the ring on my finger round and round. The man now says something about a garden, but I could not care less. I sigh, loudly and rudely, not meaning to. It just comes out that way. My body aches from exhaustion. The man quickly changes his topic to a lake, to grab my attention or perhaps cheer me up a tad. Again, I don't care. I stop turning my ring. There's a scratch on the band. When did that happen? I frown.

He offers me a bottled water. I take it even though I'm not thirsty. My mother always told me when someone offers you something for free, to take it but be wary of any ties it could have. Considering I'm paying him, I feel pretty safe. I nod my thanks.

"Nice nameplate," I say without emotion, and his eyes glance down to the golden plaque. Does he polish it every day? No fingerprints. It reads: Travis Bennett.

Yeah, you would be a Travis, I think, and my mind wanders back to Simmons Middle School and me ducking a swing from Travis Saddler. Only, this Travis – Travis Bennett – is not a bully. He's a well meaning guy, offering compassion and insight to a really shitty situation.

"Oh that?" he grins and shows his perfectly straight, whitened teeth. "I got that on my five year job anniversary."

I nod.

"Nice," I say again, because I refuse to say 'awesome' for everything. Repetition is underrated anyway.

My hands rake through my hair, and I scratch my cheek. I haven't shaved in two days, and my fingers drag loudly across my stubble.

"So, Mr. Ferraro-" he starts.

"No, call me Mason," I interrupt. "Mr. Ferraro sounds like I'm important."

The eyebrows of Travis raise, and I see flecks of gray in them too. Age will not be kind to this man.

"Well," he begins, and rambles on again. I instantly stop listening.

My attention is drawn to movement outside. A man. Waving. At me.

I feel my own brow furrow, as recognition sets in.

What the hell?

I rub my eyes. Travis offers me a tissue with a condolent smile. I take it but ball it up in my hand and squeeze it.

My eyes shoot back out the window, and sure enough, by the magnolia, is my dad. It figures. While I'm inside dealing with paperwork and legalities, he's outside in the cool spring breeze enjoying himself. I feel a surge of heat to my cheeks and I take a deep breath to calm myself. Allie taught me that. Imagine my shock to learn that it works.

My father waves again. Not a "hey there" wave, but a "come outside" wave, complete with the circular motion beckoning me.

Travis goes on about payment plans. I stand and walk to the window, hands in my pockets, fumbling with my lucky silver dollar that my grandmother gave to me when I was seven in one pocket, my keys in the other.

The wind picks up; the sky darkens. Soon it will storm, and lightning and high winds aren't to be trifled with in our area. Dad wasn't going to budge, though, I knew that, come hell or high water.

"I'll be back in a minute," I mutter, starting for the door.

I just reach the threshold when Travis stops me short, a brotherly hand on my shoulder, though we aren't brothers. We aren't related at all.

"I'm so sorry about your loss," he says, and hands me the funeral expense folder, glossy and new. "You can call me anytime about arrangements."

I nod and take the folder. It's cool to the touch and my fingers stick to the cover. I look past Travis's sympathetic gaze. In his plaid shirt and denim jeans, standing against the wind, is my dad, continuing to hail me.

"Thank you," I say, and pat Travis on the shoulder twice like a subdued politician, and head outside to speak with my dead father.