FicWad

“Hello is this Alice Westwood?” the crisp voice of a British sounding woman crackled onto the speaker of the white telephone.

“This is she,” I replied cautiously. I had been raised to be wary of strangers. Now at twenty-two years old, I was living with my best friend Lucy and her cat, but the message drilled into me as a kid was still there.

“Please hold for Mr. Golightly.”

I tensed, and tapped my fingernails impatiently.

“Hello, Miss Westwood,” a deep, solemn sounding voice greeted me after what seemed like an eternity

I pushed back my brown hair and wiped the sweat off the palm of my hand that wasn’t holding the phone. “Uh, how do you do, Mister...Goldfish, was it?”

The man cleared his throat rather noisily. “It’s Golightly, actually. And I’m doing sufficiently well for now.”

I smiled lightly. “Glad to hear it. What exactly can I do for you?”

Mr. Golightly coughed uncomfortably. “Well, it’s regarding your great-grandmother’s will.”
I stiffened. I hadn’t known my great-grandmother Anna very well, but it always made me sad that she had somehow outlived my mother, and my grandmother. My great-grandmother had died a few weeks ago after a severe heart attack.

“What about it?” my voice cracked slightly.
I heard the sound of rustling papers on the other line.

“She has, er, left you a journal as well as a sizeable amount of money. It has already been transferred to your account, of course, but I’ll need your address to mail you the journal.”

I sighed rather tiredly. “Yes, alright then.” I gave him my address and hung up the phone.

My mother and grandmother died in the same car crash. My mother was driving the car, and my grandmother was the passenger. I lost two people who were very important to me, and that made me sad every time I thought about it. I dealt with all of the funeral arrangements for all three of the deaths because my father could never deal with that sort of thing.

After phoning up the bank, I discovered that great-grandmother Anna had left me exactly three thousand three hundred and twenty seven dollars and eight six cents. I grinned at that. She probably just wanted to completely empty out her bank account. That sounded like her.
I went out on a whim and decided to invite my dad over for dinner. I suddenly felt the need to be near my family.

“Sorry, lovie. I’m just not up for it,” my dad’s own English accent was lovely and familiar.

“Daaad,” I whined childishly. I had never whined as a child. It was time to make up for twenty years.

I could hear him hesitating. “I don’t know...”

“I can come over there and cook if travelling is the issue,” I pressed.

That was the final straw. He would definitely not want me to come over there. “I’ll come there. Say sevenish?”

I smiled triumphantly. “Absolutely, Dad.”

I cooked up an old pasta sauce recipe that my mom had handed down to me. I knew it would make Dad nostalgic, but after avoiding things for so long, I think he needed to face the facts. The garlic bread was heating, and I was setting the table cheerfully when Lucy came home from work.

“Hey, Alice,” she greeted me, throwing down her handbag and peeling off her winter layers one by one.

“Hey,” I acknowledged briefly, concentrating on the spaghetti.

She pulled her blonde hair out of its elastic and then came to peer over my shoulder into the pot. She was about two inches taller than me. Damn her.

“Mm, pasta,” she smiled widely. I heard her stomach growl.

I laughed. “It’s not ready yet. My dad’s coming over for dinner.”

Lucy’s smile vanished. “Oh, did you want some father-daughter bonding time?”

I snorted. “Oh no. You have to be there to be my buffer. Without you, it would be a very quiet dinner.”

Lucy paused. “No, you and your dad eat very fast. I’ll just make the meal longer.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think you’re delusional. You’re not making any sense.”

“Delusional from hunger,” she insisted.

Smilingly, I tasted the spaghetti, declared it perfectly done, and drained the water. Just as I
finished doing this, the buzzer rang. Dad was here.

“I’ll get it!” Lucy bounded over and buzzed my father up.

When he was at the door, he looked the same. My dad always managed to look the same.

“Hi, Mr. Westwood,” Lucy was saying.

“Hello, er- Lucy, wasn’t it?” my dad sounded apologetic.

Lucy nodded. “Yup. Come in, Alice made pasta!” She sounded more excited than anyone else.

My dad let out a low chuckle. “I’ll let you taste it first. You know, to make sure you survive.”

I waved my wooden spoon at him. “Oi! I have perfectly good cooking abilities.”

My dad’s teasing face smoothed over the age lines that littered his features. “Yes, perfectly good at burning things, including yourself.” He motioned to the multiple scars on my hand from when I burned my hand on the oven, the barbeque, the stove, the radiator...anything hot, really.

I stuck my tongue out and served the spaghetti, heaping loads onto my dad’s plate. He needed a little meat on his bones. He shot me a look, but I ignored him and joined Lucy at the table.

“Did you get a call from the lawyer, Alice?” My dad only talked after he was done with whatever was on his plate.

I, on the other hand, was barely halfway done.

“Er, yes. They’re shipping some book or journal or whatever to my house.”

Dad nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I heard about that. Piece of rubbish, I’ll bet.”

I nodded absently. I was actually quite curious in the matter. What could possibly be so important that Great grandmother Anna had explicitly requested in her will that I get it?

“Want seconds, Mr. Westwood?” Lucy offered as she stood up to get her own second bowlful.

My dad declined politely. “I think I’d better get going.”

I shook my head. “Aw, Dad! Stay for dessert.”

Lucy dumped her bowl back down. “There’s dessert?”

“Yes!”

I opened the fridge to reveal a beautiful tiramisu cake, both Lucy and Dad’s favourite.
I turned on the television, and put on some movie that Lucy was raving about. My dad sat on the recliner and watched the telly with eyes glazed.

I licked my tiramisu and smiled at the two of them; my family.

“Uh, Alice, I think you’re dad’s conked out for the night,” Lucy whispered, pointing at my dad’s evidently sleeping frame.

He snored lightly, and Lucy and I giggled a bit. “Maybe it’s a bit late for him.”

“It’s only ten thirty!” Lucy said incredulously.

I shook my head. “That’s Dad for you.”

I gently shook him awake, and after a yawn and a promise of another dinner in a couple days, Dad shuffled back to the elevator. My heart swelled with pity, and I sighed.

“Poor Dad,” I muttered.

Lucy nodded in agreement. “You should invite him again next week, before he heads out for his fishing trip; that’s coming up, isn’t it?”

I grinned. “That is a brilliant idea. I’ll phone him tomorrow about it.”

Lucy herself gives a bit of a yawn. “Right, I’ll be going to bed.”

I raised two soap covered hands into the air. “I’ll be up for a while.”

She suddenly looked very remorseful. “Oh! I didn’t help you with the dishes.”

I waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I had a half-day today. I’ll clean and you get some rest.”

Lucy didn’t need much convincing. She slipped into the bathroom and was sleeping before I had even finished loading the dishwasher.

I watched telly for a while before turning in, my mind buzzing and my stomach warm and full.