The Will

Isabel isn’t answering her damn phone, which is odd considering it’s always in her hand. I hope she remembers the time the funeral starts, her own father’s funeral, and I hope she is running late due to the London traffic, instead of being distracted by something arbitrary, like deciding which shoes to wear. I look down at my own shoes – timeless and simple Chanel flats – that Jonas had bought me decades ago for the opening of my first art exhibition. I’ve surprised myself at how well I’ve taken care of the shoes. I’ll call Isabel one more time, but I doubt she’ll arrive before the procession starts–

Isabel calls out to me, half-trudging, half-striding towards me in a most unpolished manner, unsurprisingly due to the tacky platform pumps strapped awkwardly to her feet. It’s a rare occasion that I’m pleased with, at least, the upper half of her attire today. She’s wearing a chic, satin dress that drapes her figure elegantly, covering just enough skin to be deemed acceptable in a church. I smell her overbearing eau de parfum as she gently pulls me into a hug. She apologises for being late. She asks how I’m doing. I ease myself away from her embrace to face her. I tell her that we should sit down. There is a slight, unspoken gap dividing me and Isabel as we walk solemnly together down the aisle. We claim our spots in the sparse first row. Isabel is our only child. I turn around to observe the guests attending. I recognise some members of his extended family, a few of our friends, and several high-ranking employees and directors from Jonas’ pharmaceutical company. A hush falls over the crowd as the procession begins…

I take a final glance at the coffin that embraces my husband. He is being carried away, and soon will be laid into the ground. I rise from the front row, realising it’s time for me to socialise with the guests. I understood the responsibility of taking this role when I had first married Jonas, though I’ve never enjoyed it, and it is unfortunate that Isabel is a natural socialite, for she wastes her conversational talent on the vulgar and simple-minded idiots whom she meets in pretentious nightclubs. How can she possibly inherit Jonas’ assets?

My attention is drawn to a young woman. I’d never seen her previously at any events or family gatherings, but her reticent yet focused demeanor tells me that she’s likely an employee at Jonas’ company. I’m charmed by her youthfulness. It stands out among Jonas’ dull peers and monotonous relatives, like the most splendid pigment of paint upon a plain canvas. I excuse myself from an average conversation with one of Jonas’ benefactors (or was it the director of one of the departments?) and approach the young woman, who is staring unassumingly at Jonas’ portrait. In the portrait, he was in his mid-thirties, boating with his mates, slightly drunk and glowing.

“That was taken in Spain some twenty years ago,” I say to her.

“He looks younger, but different in some way,” she muses, almost reminiscently. I inspect her face more closely. She’s of Asian heritage, perhaps Korean or Chinese. I admire her facial structure and delicate features that compliment each other harmoniously like a marble statue.

“Yes, he looks healthier, doesn’t he?” I joke somberly, but the young lady neither smiles nor reacts. “Are you a director? Or perhaps a manager?”

As if my words trigger a command in her brain, the woman blinks and faces me with an air of both realisation and shame. She tells me her name, Trish Fumeda, and that she’s a simple pharmacist from the company, extending her hand gracefully. I tell her my name, after which the atmosphere shifts as she realises who I am.

I realise that Jane is Jonas’ widow, and how ignorant I was to forget that I would likely encounter her today. Should I be feeling guilt? Shame? I feel neither. I knew Jonas had felt isolated in his own household since his very first heart attack. The combined deterioration of his health, the growing disappointment in his only daughter, and the inevitable loss of companionship in his marriage had pushed him into a state of resentment and into my love and care. From my perspective, I simply provided a good-hearted man with warmth and emotional support so he could pass away with dignity and pride. He couldn’t get that from a snobby wife and immature daughter who’s been blatantly anticipating his death.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Taylor,” I say cordially. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Mr. Taylor was a great CEO.”

Jane gazes at me soberly. “Yes. I wish he were also a great man to his family.”

I meet her gaze hesitantly, almost awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Did she know? I was told Jane Taylor was an extremely intelligent woman. She’s not academic like Jonas, but an artist, with an articulated elegance that most people found intimidating, almost challenging. At that moment, Isabel approached.

I was getting tired of dry conversations and small talk about my father. Every “oh, poor Isabel”, “I’m sorry for your loss” and “he was an incredible man” became more jarring than the last. I only became interested when my great-aunt mentioned something about Dad’s will, which our family hadn’t yet discussed. What did he leave for me, as his only child? Which summer house? Which car? What percentage of his wealth?

I approach Mum chatting to an Asian woman next to Dad’s portrait. I’d always hated that portrait. He doesn’t look sincere, doesn’t look like the same strict, boring Dad I remember. The woman is young, no older than me, and I wondered what her relation to him was.

Mum notices me. “This is our daughter, Isabel,” she introduces me to the woman.

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Trish.” She’s soft-spoken, and in terms of appearance she’s quite pleasant. No wonder Mum looks so invested in her; she views people based on their “artistic value” and treats them accordingly.

“Hello,” I reply, “thank you for coming.”

Trish stares at me with an observant look, like a scientist surveilling a test subject. I sense some pity in her stare as well. “Sorry for your loss.” Yes, I immediately dislike her. I simply smile back, out of politeness, but now I just want to go home.

I sense Isabel’s growing boredom and disquietude as the formalities drag on. I quietly loathe her elusive disrespect and longing to go home, not at all dissimilar to a small child on the verge of an explosive tantrum. I gaze wistfully between the two young women, and a sudden air of closure overcomes me like a sigh of relief, and I turn back to Trish to say, “Thank you for coming, but we must leave now. It was lovely to meet you.”

Trish nods gracefully. Her body language expresses sympathy and understanding, but her eyes provoke with a sense of satisfaction – as if she had achieved victory. I know she did, for in a few days Jonas’ lawyer will present his will, and every asset, every penny, and every last piece of our family’s dignity will be handed over, not to our daughter, but to his mistress.