Mortal Coil
Lucien sat at his desk and stared at the page in front of him. He'd filled in as much as he could. He didn't want anything fancy. He'd seen enough death in the least dignified of ways to have any illusions about his own final resting place. But he would like to be buried near his mother. Simple headstone with his name and the dates of his life. He'd written that in on the blank space provided. Simple coffin, nothing ornate. A pine box would suit him fine, but he had come to understand that the people who would attend his funeral in Ballarat—most out of a feeling of duty rather than much general affection for him—would want to see something at least lacquered. He'd checked the box on the form for that as well.
But there was one section still left blank that he did not like one bit. Next of kin. Who would be called in the event of his demise? Only one name came to mind. And it troubled him very much.
Jean had cared for him all these months living in Ballarat—Christ it was over a year now, wasn't it? She'd kept his house and his appointments and his accounts. She'd hauled him off to bed when he'd gotten too drunk to get there himself. She'd fed him three meals a day when he was home to eat them. She brought him tea and organized his files. And more than all that, she'd provided a brilliant mind and a kind ear to work with him through all the various problems that he came across in his life and in his work. She had saved his life, that Jean Beazley. Physically—he'd not forgotten the way she'd held a gun to Hannam to rescue him—and emotionally.
There was no one else in his life who would really care if he died. Lawson perhaps. But he was more likely to be the one to discover Lucien's body rather than be the one the funeral home contacted for the arrangements. No, Jean was really the only person who might feel any emotion beyond a passing hint of loss at Lucien's demise. Jean might actually mourn him. She had a kind heart that way.
So that was all there was to it. Jean would be his next of kin. She was not his family by blood or marriage, but she was certainly more family than he'd known in over a decade. Funny to realize that all of a sudden. Jean was family. She had a family of her own of course, as did he. But they were all so far away. Here, in this house, Lucien dared to believe that he and Jean had become each other's family.
No use sitting there staring at the page any longer. Lucien stood up and got a pen and gathered the pages of the form in search for Jean to ask if she'd sign the consent.
