I didn't go home straight away. While not being exactly the same subject, the meeting with Madame Zara had jolted me back into awareness of something I had been avoiding for far too long – my responsibility as a mediator to help those I can, a responsibility I had left untended far too long in the case of Fred Carpaci. This poor man had asked me for the tiniest of favours, and how had I repaid him? I'd looked his wife up in the white pages, given her a call, weeks ago now, ending in no results, and left it that way. I didn't deserve to be a mediator with the way I'd been acting lately, but the fantastic news from Madame Zara had kicked me back into the mode I should always be in: ready to help, even if that meant kicking some stingy widow butt.
There were still many hours of sunlight left so I figured, why not start helping now? I called Adam and made him google the easiest way to get there, caught the bus to the closest station to their house, and walked the extra kilometre.
Let me tell you, the area was alright. Not as snazzy as my road – but then, I do live in one of the richest and most prestigious areas in the state – but quaint, full of white picket fences and next-doorsey charm. I thought, well, if they can afford to live in this area, maybe this won't be that hard – it's only a necklace, after all.
The Carpaci house was just as nice as the other houses in the area, but more forlorn looking. The grass had grown a little longer than what was tasteful, the gate hung open, curtains were closed over all the windows. For a second I wondered if perhaps they had moved, but a car still stood in the driveway. I realised that I should have expected this appearance – after all, the father of this household had just died. The last thing they would possibly be thinking of was how long the grass was getting.
I sighed. Being a mediator did sometimes have its upsides – meeting the love of my life being one of them – but I was so tired of constantly being around death. These people must be in extreme turmoil, their whole life ripped apart, like my mother's had been when my dad died. They would be in a complete state of emotional shock, not nearly having come to terms with the situation yet, and along would come me – some girl who they would assume cared for nothing other than her looks and either her boyfriend or the accuisition of one – to throw their life into even more chaos. I was sick of watching the faces of families crumble as I push them to remember things which they would rather leave in the dark recesses of their memory, unfortunate occurances, insensitive quarrels, the bad things about the person they loved that they would rather not dwell on. I was sick of having to do this to solve problems when all the family really needed was some time.
I know I've said it before a million times, but I never asked for this job, and having done it for a number of years, I certainly don't want it. The warm fuzzies you receive from the good news is completely overshadowed by the destroyed faces of those you're delivering the news to.
Figuring I'd done enough staring for one morning, I starting trudging regretfully towards the front door. I sent out a quick thought to Fred. I knew he'd appreciate being there when I confronted his wife, just seeing him again. As I should have expected, he appeared straight away, shocking me. "How'd you get here so quick," I questioned him.
He sighed. "I was in the neighbourhood." His tone is full of mourning, and once again I was filled with sadness.
"Sorry I took so long," I told him as we reached the door. He smiled in understanding, and I lifted my hand and rung the doorbell.