Chapter 6 - The Authority to Sign
Cal Mercer stayed for eleven minutes. I knew because I watched the clock above the pantry while he spoke with Diane in the foyer.
When he left, my mother shut the door and leaned against it.
“He wants the western acreage,” Grandma said.
“He wants everything.”
“He wants what the deed allows him to take.”
“And what does the deed allow?”
Diane removed her coat. “You are both going to stop treating me like a criminal.”
“Then stop hiding evidence.”
“You found a ledger and suddenly you are a legal expert.”
“No. Jonah is.”
Diane’s mouth tightened at his name. “Jonah should stay out of this.”
“He already is. He has a conflict.”
“A conflict with Mercer does not make him trustworthy.”
“Neither does being your daughter.”
The words escaped before I could catch them. Diane flinched, and I hated that I felt victorious.
Grandma noticed. “Courage is not the same as cruelty, Mara.”
I looked away.
Diane walked to the kitchen counter and opened the leather folder. “This is the durable power of attorney.”
The document had been signed eight months earlier, when Grandma was recovering from pneumonia. It named Diane as agent for financial and medical matters. The signature looked like Grandma’s, though the final letter in Evelyn had a long, confident sweep.
“You gave her authority,” I said.
“Limited authority,” Grandma replied.
“The document says she may sell real estate if necessary for your support.”
“That clause was added later.”
“By whom?”
“The attorney.”
“Which attorney?”
“Harold Pike.”
Diane tapped the page. “Mr. Pike witnessed the signing.”
“He is Mercer’s attorney,” Grandma said.
“He was a local attorney who agreed to help when you refused to pay for one.”
“I did not refuse. I asked for time.”
“Time is what people with money purchase from people without it.”
Grandma looked at her. “You were not without money when you borrowed mine.”
“I was without choices.”
“You had choices.”
“Name one.”
Grandma said nothing.
I took the document. “Has this power of attorney been revoked?”
“Yes,” Grandma said.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Where is the revocation?”
“With Lillian Voss.”
“Was it recorded?”
“Not yet.”
Diane gave a humorless laugh. “A private letter does not erase a public document.”
“It does if the agent knows about it,” I said, repeating something Jonah had told me earlier by phone.
“I was never served.”
“You were there.”
“For what?”
“The signing.”
Diane looked at Grandma. “You revoked me without telling me?”
“I told you I no longer trusted you with the house.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It was clear enough.”
“You said you were angry.”
“I was.”
“You said you wanted a day to think.”
“I thought.”
“You signed a revocation and hid it.”
“I protected it.”
Diane turned to me. “This is what you came into. She makes decisions in secret and then calls secrecy protection.”
“You took her walker.”
“Because she fell.”
“She fell because you took her walker.”
“She fell before I took it.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?” I asked.
“She was already unsteady. I moved the walker because she kept trying to walk alone.”
Grandma’s eyes dropped to the table.
“Did you fall before she took it?”
“I stumbled.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because the fall was mine.”
“And the walker?”
“Was hers.”
No one spoke.
Diane gathered the papers. “Mercer will come tomorrow at ten. If Mother refuses to sign, he will foreclose. If she signs, she gets enough money to live independently.”
“Independently somewhere you choose.”
“Somewhere safe.”
Grandma pushed herself upright. “I will not sign.”
“Then you will lose the house.”
“Perhaps.”
“You think principles pay bills?”
“No. People do.”
Diane stared at her mother, then at me.
“When the roof is sold over your heads,” she said, “do not ask me to stand in the rain with you.”
She carried the folder upstairs.
Grandma waited until the footsteps faded.
“Find Lillian Voss,” she said.
“I will.”
“And Mara?”
May you like
“What?”
“Do not assume a revoked power is the only thing your mother has hidden.”
