Chapter 6: What Daniel Said Without Her
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Parking lot at the hardware store on Maple.
I told Ashley I needed to pick up something for the garage." A pause.
"She doesn't know I'm calling."
I let the silence sit for a moment.
"Daniel.
Do you understand what's in that folder?"
"I understand more than I did a week ago." He sounded tired.
The particular exhaustion of a man who has been lying to himself for long enough that the truth is becoming physically uncomfortable.
"She told me it was just a precaution.
That you were having some difficulties and we needed to protect you."
"And you believed her."
"She had the doctor's assessment.
She showed it to me and I—" He stopped.
"I wanted to believe you needed help.
That's different from believing it, I know.
But I wanted it to be true because it made everything easier."
"Easier than what?"
Another pause.
Longer.
"She said if we got the house, we could clear the debt.
We're behind on three credit cards and the second mortgage she took out on our place last year.
I didn't know about the second mortgage until six months ago, Mom.
She did it without telling me." His voice tightened.
"I didn't marry a woman I understood.
I think I married a story I told myself."
I sat very still.
"Daniel.
Ashley spoke to my doctor and gave him fabricated information about my mental state.
She filed a legal petition to take control of my finances.
She has done this to at least one other person before me."
Silence.
"What do you mean, before you?"
"There was an elderly man in Garfield.
She found a vulnerable person, cultivated access through a family member, initiated the guardianship process, and ultimately the man lost his home." I paused.
"You were the family member in my case."
The sound he made was not quite a word.
"She used you," I said.
"She needed a relative to petition, and you were the relative she had access to."
"Mom, I signed things.
She put papers in front of me and I signed them."
"I know."
"I didn't read them carefully.
I trusted her."
"I know that too."
A long, unsteady breath on his end.
"What do I do?"
"First, you stop signing anything she puts in front of you.
If she brings you a document, you tell her you want to review it with your own attorney before you sign." I kept my voice steady.
"Second, you do not tell her about this conversation."
"She'll know something is wrong."
"Probably.
But don't confirm it." I thought of the hearing date.
Twelve days.
"Daniel, I need to know: do you want to help me, or do you want to protect yourself?"
"I want to protect you," he said.
"I should have done that from the beginning."
"You should have," I agreed.
"But here we are."
He didn't respond to that.
He didn't need to.
"There's an attorney who may be willing to take my case," I said.
"Elder law.
If I can get a meeting with him this week, I'd like you to come.
As a witness to what you know and what you signed."
"You want me to testify against my own wife."
"I want you to tell the truth about what happened.
You can decide what you call that."
The silence stretched between us.
In it I could hear forty-seven years of everything — the boy on the porch step, the teenager who borrowed the car and brought it back with an empty tank and a guilty look, the grown man in a good suit at his father's funeral holding himself together with visible effort.
"Okay," he said finally.
"Okay, Mom.
Tell me when."
I hung up and sat for a moment with the phone in my lap and the envelope on the seat beside me.
Then I started the car and drove home.
Ashley's name was on the caller ID when my phone rang again twenty minutes later, while I was pulling into my own driveway.
I parked.
I looked at the screen.
I let it ring until it stopped.
She left a voicemail.
I played it in the kitchen while I put the kettle on.
Her voice was warm.
Practiced.
"Margaret, I just wanted to check on you after this morning.
I know it was a lot to take in.
I hope you understand everything we're doing comes from a place of love.
Call me back when you feel ready.
We can talk through anything you're confused about."
*Anything you're confused about.*
I deleted the message and made my tea.
When Patricia called at four o'clock, she spoke before I could say hello.
"His name is Gerald Fitch.
He said he can see you Thursday at two."
"I'll be there."
"He asked me one question." A brief pause.
"He asked whether you had documentation.
I told him you had emails from a former employee of your daughter-in-law's firm showing a pattern of elder targeting."
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"What did he say?"
"He said, and I'm quoting him: 'Tell her not to be late.'"
