…”‘Petition for Guardianship of an Incapacitated Adult.'”
Lucy held up the folded paper proudly, the way she holds up her spelling tests. “That’s a big word,” she said. “Incapacitated. What does it mean, Grandma?”
I took it from her very gently. “It means someone who can’t take care of themselves, sweetheart.”
“But you take care of me,” she said, confused.
I unfolded it. It was a copy of a court petition, filed by my daughter, Rebecca, two weeks earlier. It asked the court to appoint her as my legal guardian. It said I had “advancing cognitive decline,” that I’d been “forgetting to pay bills,” that I’d “gotten lost driving home.” Stapled to the back was a letter from a doctor confirming a diagnosis of early dementia.
I’d never seen that doctor in my life.
I’m sixty-eight. I work three days a week as a bookkeeper for a dentist. I do the crossword in pen. The only bill I’d ever “forgotten” was one Rebecca had told me she’d already paid, after she insisted on “helping” me manage my accounts six months earlier.
I gave Lucy a cookie and put on a cartoon. Then I went into the bedroom and called my lawyer, an old friend named Martin, who’d done my will after my husband died.
He was quiet for a long time after I read him the petition. Then he said, “Don’t tell Rebecca you’ve seen it. Go to your own doctor tomorrow. Get a full cognitive evaluation. And bring me every bank statement you have.”
My own doctor saw me the next afternoon. He ran every test. I passed every one. He wrote a letter saying I had “no signs whatsoever of cognitive impairment” and that I was “sharper than most of his patients half my age.”
Martin looked up the doctor who’d signed the letter in Rebecca’s petition. He’d retired three years ago. He’d moved to Florida. When Martin called him, he said he’d never heard of me.
The bank statements were worse. Over six months, Rebecca had moved about $38,000 out of my savings into an account in her name. She’d also started the paperwork to list my house.
Martin filed my response with the court. My doctor’s letter. The retired doctor’s statement that he’d never signed anything. The bank records. A judge dismissed Rebecca’s petition at the first hearing. Then the judge referred the forged letter to the district attorney.
I revoked Rebecca’s access to every account I have. I changed my power of attorney to Martin. I changed my will.
Rebecca called me that night, screaming. Then crying. She said she was drowning in debt. She said she’d been “trying to plan for the future.” She said I wouldn’t have needed the money anyway.
“I’m sixty-eight,” I said. “I’m not dead.”
We haven’t spoken much since. Her husband called me a few weeks later and apologized. He said he hadn’t known any of it. He asked if Lucy could still come over on Tuesdays. I said of course. None of this was Lucy’s fault.
Lucy comes every Tuesday now. Last week, she asked me again, “Grandma, are you going to the old people’s house?”
“Not for a very long time,” I told her.
She thought about it. Then she said, “Good. Because you’re the only one who knows how to make the grilled cheese right.”
