Part 5
I put the milk in the refrigerator and called Rachel with the papers lying open on the counter. The first thing I asked was whether Ben could already act for me.
“No,” she said. “This is a request to the court. It isn’t an order.”
He was asking for control of my finances and authority over decisions about my care and where I lived. The petition described my changes to the bank accounts as evidence of growing suspicion. It referred to the missed invoice, my recovery from surgery, and what it called an agitated response to a family vacation.
I read that phrase to Rachel. She asked me to bring the entire packet, including the envelope, and said we’d respond with records and evidence. She could contest the request; she couldn’t keep it from being painful.
Over the next weeks, my calendar filled with appointments I hadn’t chosen. I met with Rachel, gathered statements, and saw a clinician for an independent assessment. A court visitor named Janine Lee arranged to speak with me at the condo.
I cleaned before Janine came. I put away the breakfast dishes, straightened the cushions, then stopped myself from moving June’s binder off the table. I kept picturing someone reading a note about a cluttered home and deciding it meant more than an unfinished morning.
Janine asked to speak with me alone. She explained her role, took out a notebook, and asked how I managed my bills. I showed her the folder I’d brought from my desk.
“You can tell me in your own words,” she said.
“I know. I used to review loans. We needed the records.”
She let me finish, then asked about my days: groceries, appointments, the medication I still took, people I could call. I answered easily until she asked how I’d felt since the petition arrived. I looked at her pen.
“I’m afraid you’ll see something normal and it’ll become another paragraph.”
She set the pen down. “What sort of thing?”
“Being tired. Forgetting a name. Needing someone to take me to an appointment. I can’t get through a whole visit proving I never do any of it.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
She asked about the house. I told her what it cost to keep, the rental arrangement, and my plan to sell after the family left. When I didn’t remember the latest insurance premium, I looked it up instead of trying to give her a figure.
“Could you change the arrangement without selling?” she asked.
“I could start collecting rent. I could put more conditions in writing.”
“Have you considered that?”
“Yes. But I’d still be managing the house, and we’d still be having the same conversation whenever they couldn’t pay. I don’t want to keep doing it.”
She asked what I would do with the proceeds and how I’d arrange help if I needed more of it. Those were fair questions. Rachel and I had begun reviewing my plans, including who could assist me and what authority they would actually have.
At the clinical appointment, I couldn’t recall one of the words the clinician had asked me to remember. My face got hot, and I tried to explain before she finished speaking. She offered me a break; I took it, drank a cup of water, and went back to complete the assessment.
That afternoon, Dennis asked me to help open a jar. Patti’s hands were stiff, his grip wasn’t what it used to be, and the lid refused to move for me too. We finally got it loose with a rubber pad from their drawer and laughed at the effort we’d put into one jar of pickles.
“Can you drive Patti to her appointment Tuesday?” he asked. “Mine’s at the same time, across town.”
I checked my calendar and said yes. Patti handed me the address while Dennis put the pickles on a plate. We ate them standing at the counter.
Ben didn’t arrange another visit with the children. When I asked, he said everyone needed space.
I spent three days writing and deleting a reply, then sent: Please tell Lucy and Owen I love them.
Rachel asked whether I was ready to make a formal report about the unauthorized signature. I’d hoped Ben might admit what he’d done and help correct the record, but nothing from him suggested that was going to happen. I told her to go ahead.
The lender continued its review, with more requests for documents. Making a report hadn’t settled the matter. I paid the legal bills from my own account, along with the regular expenses of a house I couldn’t yet put on the market.
One evening, Evelyn brought oranges and stayed while I opened the latest bill from Rachel. She watched me check the amount and put it in the folder. Ed had had a difficult week, and she needed to get home before his bedtime.
“I keep thinking about Ben with June,” I said. “He never made her feel like she was too much work.”
Evelyn peeled an orange, taking her time around a rough patch of skin. “I remember.”
“I wish there were some way to keep that and stop this.”
She separated the orange and put half on my plate. “I don’t think keeping quiet would keep it.”
We ate without finishing the conversation. Before she left, she asked whether I needed her at the hearing. I said I’d like her there if Ed was well enough, and she wrote the date in her phone without promising.
By August, Rachel had Janine’s report and the clinician’s findings. Neither supported taking control of my life or money away from me. Rachel went over them with me, but reminded me that the judge would make the decision.
Two days before the hearing, Ben requested a meeting through the attorneys. I agreed to see him at Rachel’s office. He came without Caroline or Neal, wearing a shirt creased across the front as though he’d pulled it from a chair.
He sat opposite me and put a folded sheet of paper on the table. Rachel waited while he opened it, smoothed it, and looked up. “We could bring the kids over Sunday. Start getting things back to normal. But I need to know you’re willing to help us…”
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