chapter
17
I had been calling Bruce all night and again as soon as I got up this morning. But Bruce was like me. He had a cell phone only because as a retired attorney, he still did some consulting from time to time and his clients needed to get in touch with him. But outside of work hours, Bruce didn’t keep his cell phone on. He wasn’t answering his home phone, either, so I was two seconds away from getting in my truck and heading back over to his house.
I decided to try his cell one more time. Thankfully, this time he picked up.
“This is Bruce.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
He chuckled. “I had a hot date. We went down to the casino. Right after you left, Helen showed up and kidnapped me.”
I heard giggling in the background.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, cutting him off before he started going into details about his latest conquest.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I have a legal question.”
“And I have legal answers—for two hundred and fifty dollars an hour,” he laughed.
“I’m serious, Bruce.”
My tone made him turn professional. “Whoa, buddy, okay. Tell me what’s going on.” Bruce could be a ball of fun, but when it was time to handle business, he would get real serious.
I rushed the words out. “When I got home yesterday, my kids were here and they announced they were going to sell my home and put me in an assisted living facility.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious, and they think I’m crazy. They think I have dementia or Alzheimer’s or something.”
“You got old age,” Bruce said without a trace of laughter.
“Exactly. That’s what I tried to tell them.”
“I mean, you’re depressed, but that’s understandable.”
“I know,” I said, pacing back and forth across my living room. A deflated yellow balloon from my birthday celebration drifted in front of me. I lifted my leg, stomped on it, and made it pop. “All I know is they’ll have to put me in the ground before I let them put me in a home.”
“Okay, calm down, big guy. Give me a minute, Helen,” Bruce said, his voice away from the phone. I heard some rumbling as if he was moving around. “Now, tell me,” he continued, “why do they think they even have the right to take your home?” He was in his official capacity now.
I sighed as I plopped down in my recliner. “Well, when Elizabeth got sick, we gave Marian a power of attorney so she could handle all of our business affairs.”
“So did your POA give her the right to sell your house?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I snapped. My temple was throbbing. The lack of sleep, coupled with my rage, had to have my blood pressure elevated. I stood and began the trek around my living room again.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Bruce asked.
“I just signed the dagblasted thing!” My pacing quickened, as if moving faster would bring me clarity.
It was his turn to sigh. “Now, how long have you been my friend, Ollie?”
“A lifetime.”
“And what have I always told you?”
I stopped right in front of the last family photo we’d all taken. Jeremiah was still a baby and sitting in Elizabeth’s lap. I was smiling, oblivious to the fact that my kids would one day grow up to stab me in the back. “Always read the paperwork,” I replied. “But I didn’t think that applied to my own child.”
“Well, calm down,” he said. “The first thing you have to do is find that paperwork.”
“I don’t know where that thing is.” I moved down the hallway to my bedroom as if being there would help me remember what I’d done with our copy of the paperwork.
“Do you think Marian will give you a copy?”
“Not unless it’s in her favor.”
Bruce paused like he was thinking. “Well, in order for it to be valid, she has to have it on record. But you need to go find it and see if she has the right to sell your house. I know in some cases a doctor has to deem you not competent, but if you gave her autonomy in terms of rights, then you might be in for a fight.”
I fell down onto my bed. I didn’t have the strength for a fight, especially against my own children.
“I just can’t believe this,” I said.
“Neither can I,” replied Bruce. “But let me know if you find the POA statement and I’ll look over it. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Before hanging up, I thanked him and promised to keep him posted. I stopped pacing and tried to think. I couldn’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday. How was I supposed to remember where a piece of paper was? Where would our copy of that document be, if we even had one? Then it dawned on me that maybe Elizabeth had put it where we put everything else.
I marched over to the closet. I felt around the top shelf until I found what I was looking for.
I threw the large brown shoebox onto the floor, silently cursing myself and my lack of paying attention all these years. My lackadaisical attitude toward matters pertinent to our home used to drive Elizabeth crazy. But I didn’t care to know any of the details required to run our household. I just wanted to bring home my check, turn it over to her, and then go watch Gunsmoke. She took care of all things domestic. So it was just a natural extension for her to handle the finances as well.
After a while Elizabeth had stopped fighting me over my disinterest and we fell into a comfortable pattern.
I dug through the box. Our birth certificates and wedding certificate was there, along with our insurance information, but no power of attorney.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” I moaned as I buried my head in my hands. “Why would they do this to me? To us, because this is our history.”
After Elizabeth died, Marian had really stepped up to the plate and taken over where her mother had left off. I’d been so grateful. I just never had any idea that she would betray me like this. And I’m sure Elizabeth didn’t, either.
I picked up the box that held all of our important papers and began stuffing everything back in. I stood and walked back to the closet where we’d kept these papers stored for the past thirty years. When I went to place the box back on the shelf, I noticed another box with pictures sticking out. I pulled it out and began sifting through it.
The baby pictures of our children brought a smile to my face. I fingered the black-and-white photo of Elizabeth and me standing in front of our house. It was marked June 12, 1963. We had been so proud to get this home. I’d worked overtime at the plant for two years to get the money for the down payment. And I’d toiled over the years to pay it off. I’d gotten into the construction business so that I could figure out how to remodel and expand the house myself. I loved this house, not just because of the sweat and blood that I had put into it, but because it signified my life with Elizabeth. And just like that, it was going to be snatched away . . . just like Elizabeth had been snatched away.
My gaze drifted over to the torn pages from Elizabeth’s old Bible. I don’t know what happened, but a heaviness overcame me and I did something I hadn’t done before. Something I hadn’t even done on the day she died—I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
“Oh, Elizabeth. I miss you so.”
I don’t know how long I sat there crying as if I’d just this moment lost Elizabeth. I wanted this nightmare to be over. How could you love a person so much that when they died, you felt like a piece of you had died as well?
Do you, Ollie Lane Moss, take this woman, to have and to hold?
My mind drifted back to the vows we’d taken before Elizabeth’s uncle, a Methodist minister. From that day on, I called her my rib. How did a person live without their rib?
In sickness and in health?
Thoughts of Elizabeth caused the tears I had been so adept at keeping at bay to flow until my tear ducts had run dry. I sat in a nostalgic cloud for a few minutes until I had my answer.
. . . Till death do you part?
How does a person live without their rib?
They don’t.