Chương 8
“Yes?”
“Daniel asked for a lawyer.”
My stomach tightened.
“Was he arrested?”
“No.”
“He can still ask for one.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why did your voice change?”
Because lawyers meant fear had moved from family consequences to legal ones.
Because my brother, who had spent the night claiming confusion and panic, had finally understood he might have helped create evidence used against our father.
Because part of me wanted him frightened.
That was the part I liked least.
“He should have counsel,” I said.
“Yes.”
Hart did not give me anything else.
After we hung up, I stood near the nurses’ station pretending to read a handwashing poster.
A doctor came around the corner pushing my father’s bed with a transport aide.
Dad looked irritated.
That was encouraging.
“They made me take off my belt for an X-ray.”
“You’re surviving unimaginable oppression.”
“I had eleven dollars in that belt.”
“You still do.”
“You don’t know that.”
The transport aide laughed.
“Sir, nobody stole your eleven dollars.”
Dad looked at him.
“That sounds exactly like what someone who stole eleven dollars would say.”
The aide laughed harder.
For ten seconds, my father was simply my father.
Then they rolled him back into the bay and the doctor pulled the curtain.
She introduced herself as Dr. Moreno.
“Your X-rays show two nondisplaced rib fractures.”
Dad frowned.
“Two?”
“Yes.”
“I thought one.”
She ignored the complaint.
“Your arm is badly bruised, but we don’t see a fracture.”
I exhaled.
Dr. Moreno continued.
“I’m concerned about pain control and breathing exercises because rib fractures can become complicated if you stop taking deep breaths.”
Dad nodded as though receiving instructions about lawn maintenance.
“Can I go home?”
“Eventually.”
“Tonight?”
“We need to finish the rest of your assessment.”
He looked at me.
I raised both hands.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking loudly.”
Dr. Moreno smiled.
Then she looked at the bruises around his forearm.
Her expression changed.
“Mr. Mercer, I need to ask you some questions privately.”
Dad glanced at me.
“You can ask with her here.”
“I understand, but I ask everyone in this situation privately.”
I stood.
“I’ll get coffee.”
Dad said, “Decaf.”
“For me?”
“For both of us.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
I left before he could explain his war against caffeine again.
The vending area was at the end of the hall.
The coffee machine accepted my card, charged me three dollars and twenty-five cents, then produced something the color of wet cardboard.
I bought two anyway.
While I waited, Daniel texted.
I have counsel coming.
Then another.
I didn’t know about the fake doctor letter.
I stared at the screen.
A third message followed.
Claire please believe that.
I typed, Why should I?
Then deleted it.
I typed, Did Vanessa ever show you the letter?
I sent that.
His answer came almost immediately.
Yes.
My jaw tightened.
I called him.
He picked up.
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before the power of attorney paperwork.”
“And you didn’t think to call Dad’s doctor?”
“She said Dad didn’t want us talking about it.”
“That made sense to you?”
“People hide medical stuff.”
“Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
His frustration rose.
“You keep asking me what made sense like I was sitting there building a case.”
“You were signing documents.”
“I was trying to help.”
“With what?”
He went quiet.
I leaned against the vending machine.
“With what, Daniel?”
“Keeping him out of assisted living.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“Vanessa said if his cognition got worse, you were going to put him in a facility.”
My hand tightened around the paper cup.
“She said what?”
“That you’d already talked to somebody.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say.”
“And you believed her.”
“You’re the one who plans everything.”
The accusation was ridiculous.
It also explained more than I wanted it to.
Daniel continued.
“You have medical directives.”
“Everybody should.”
“You know Dad’s accounts.”
“Because he asked me to help organize them after Mom died.”
“You know his lawyer.”
“So do you.”
“No, I know his name.”
His breathing roughened.
“You know everything before I do.”
“Then ask.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“For years.”
I opened my mouth and stopped.
Daniel’s voice became quieter.
“Dad calls you when something breaks.”
“That is not true.”
“He called you tonight.”
“Because Vanessa attacked him.”
“And he knew you’d know what to do.”
“That is not a privilege I wanted.”
“But you have it.”
There was no useful answer to that.
I looked at the two cups of bad coffee.
“Did you ever see an original medical letter?”
“Vanessa showed me a printout.”
“Did you see an envelope?”
“No.”
“Patient portal?”
“No.”
“Email?”
“No.”
“Anything connecting it to Dr. Patel besides the letterhead?”
“No.”
“Did Dad ever tell you he was cognitively impaired?”
“No.”
“Did he behave like someone who couldn’t manage his affairs?”
Daniel’s silence lasted too long.
“Sometimes he forgot things.”
“So do you.”
“I know.”
“So do I.”
“I know.”
“What were you really afraid of?”
He inhaled.
Then his voice changed.
“I was afraid you’d decide everything after he died.”
The words sat between us.
There was no legal brilliance behind them.
No criminal sophistication.
Just inheritance, grief, resentment, and old family arithmetic.
“You thought I’d cut you out?”
“I thought you’d say you were only following what Dad wanted.”
“That sounds insane.”
“It doesn’t from where I’m standing.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Did Vanessa tell you that too?”
Another silence.
“Daniel.”
“Yes.”
There it was again.
She had not invented his resentment.
She had fed it.
There was a difference.
And he had opened his mouth willingly.
“She said Dad trusted you more.”
“Did she say he planned to leave me more?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see a will?”
“No.”
“Did you ask Dad?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“Because if it was true, I didn’t want to hear him say it.”
May you like
I looked toward Dad’s bay.
That was the first thing Daniel had said that sounded completely honest.
