Free What Came First by Carol Snow

we’re going up to Glendale for dinner.”
    “You get his dad a present?”
    “Don’t have to. He’s dead.”

11
    Laura
    Based on the photo she e-mailed, I disagree with Wendy Winder’s assessment that her children look nothing like Ian; there is a definite resemblance around the eyes and also in the little girl’s expression. The picture shows them gazing into a tank at Sea World, one of Ian’s and my favorite weekend destinations. He has gazed at the tank in just the same way, and while I know the odds are nearly nonexistent, I can’t help but wonder whether we’ve ever passed by his biological half siblings—and whether there are any other children going about their daily lives of school and sports and vacations who share his DNA.
    As much as Wendy Winder complained about her twins (who can’t be as bad as she made them sound), I keep thinking, At least they have each other . Ian just has me. And someday I’ll be gone.

    When I see Doug Hepplewhite’s name on my schedule Friday morning, I steel myself for an onslaught of uncomfortable emotions. Doug is Dorothy Hepplewhite’s son and trustee. For someone who deals with the grief-stricken on a regular basis, I still struggle to strike the proper tone. Some people want to spend the entire session talking about their loved one, which, considering my hourly rate, can put a small dent in their inheritance. Other survivors get right to business. My fondness for Dorothy only compounds the situation, and I don’t want my personal sadness to add to her son’s burden.
    Doug Hepplewhite arrives on time, a woman at his side. I assume it is his wife, but I am wrong.
    “Linda Hepplewhite Smith,” she says, shaking hands. “Doug’s sister.”
    “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I tell them, the words inadequate as always. “She was a lovely person.”
    They nod. Doug Hepplewhite looks older than he did three months ago, when he came in to help his mother finalize her affairs. Already thin, he appears to have lost weight.
    I pull out the trust and we get down to business. Dorothy Hepplewhite had no debt and modest assets. She has split her money evenly between her children, with a separate trust for her grandchildren. There is little confusion, and no controversy: only resignation and sadness. As I provide guidance regarding dissolution of her accounts and the sale of her home and car, her children sit next to each other in straight-backed chairs, holding hands, while Doug makes occasional notes.
    It’s the hand-holding that does me in.
    “I know this is a really difficult time, but let me say that your mother would have been proud of your absence of acrimony.” I flip a page. And burst into tears.
    Doug Hepplewhite says, “Were you and Mother . . . close?”
    Linda Hepplewhite Smith says, “Are you okay?”
    I reach for a tissue. “So sorry. My apologies. Personal matter.”
    The two bereaved children, still holding hands, remain strong in the face of my inexplicable breakdown.
    I dab my eyes, take a deep breath, and get back to closing out Dorothy Hepplewhite’s life.
    I am saddened by her passing, it’s true. Beyond that, I can’t help thinking, once again, Ian just has me. And someday I’ll be gone.
    The irony of my preoccupation with Ian’s genetic ties does not escape me. I do, after all, have a family of my own, and to say that we’re not close does not even begin to cover it. My mother lives with her second husband in Seattle, my father with his second wife in Reno. Not to be outdone, my brother, Mike, seven years my senior and a tenured history professor at UC Davis, lives in Northern California with wife number three. He always was an overachiever.
    Early in life, Mike decided that he didn’t want children, which probably factored into the breakup of his first two marriages. Nevertheless, last summer, on his third time at the plate, he wed a woman with two girls, aged three and five. As I wasn’t invited to the wedding, I’ve never met