Because I lived three states away, my visit had already been planned for later that month.
I had flown in for work nearby and rented a car.
After the furnace problem, I changed the plan and brought Dad back with me for a few days.
Vanessa knew none of that.
Apparently neither did Grant.
Dad had not told them because, in his words, he did not need committee approval every time he spent a weekend with one of his children.
Now that small decision had exposed something neither of us understood.
At 7:04, Dad called Harold.
He put the phone on speaker.
Harold answered sounding half asleep.
“If you’re calling about fishing, it is freezing outside and you’ve lost your mind.”
Dad looked at me.
“You find my body last night?”
There was a long pause.
“What?”
“Vanessa says I died. Says you found me.”
Harold became fully awake.
“The hell I did.”
“You speak to Vanessa?”
“Not since Sunday.”
Dad nodded slowly.
“Anybody call you about me?”
“No.”
Then Harold stopped.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Someone called the funeral home yesterday.”
Dad’s face changed.
Harold had sold the business years earlier, but the new owner still occasionally called him when older families requested him specifically.
“What did they want?”
“They asked general questions about prepaid arrangements.”
“Whose?”
Harold hesitated.
“Yours.”
The kitchen suddenly felt colder.
Dad’s prepaid funeral contract was real.
He had arranged it years earlier after his second heart scare because, as he put it, he did not want his daughters arguing over caskets while he was unavailable to referee.
Vanessa knew that.
So did I.
But only one of us had apparently started checking on it before he died.
“Who called?” Dad asked.
“They didn’t give a name. Office manager said it was a woman asking what paperwork would be required if the policyholder died at home.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“What time?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
I looked at Dad.
Yesterday afternoon he had been sitting on my couch complaining that my television was too complicated.
Someone had been asking what would happen if he died at home.
Harold promised to get the call information from the funeral home.
Dad thanked him.
Then he called his attorney.
This time, no speaker.
He walked into the living room and spoke quietly for almost ten minutes.
When he came back, he looked older.
Not frightened.
Just deeply tired.
“What?” I asked.
He sat down.
“Vanessa called him yesterday too.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she ask?”
“Whether a beneficiary could access estate property before probate if there was an emergency.”
I stared at him.
“She told your attorney you were dead?”
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