Vanessa rolled her eyes and repeated it, slower, like I was a toddler. ‘You. Are. Senile. Mom. Marcus and I talked. The house goes to him, you move into the assisted living place in Brockton, and we manage your accounts.’ Brittany nodded like a bobblehead. Marcus stared at his mashed potatoes.
I reached under the table and pressed stop on the little recorder clipped to my cardigan. Then I pulled out my phone.
‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘meet Eleanor Hayes. My attorney. She’s been on speakerphone since you walked in with those papers.’
The color drained from Vanessa’s face.
‘Hello, Vanessa,’ Eleanor said pleasantly. ‘I’ve recorded everything. Including the part where you pressured a competent adult to transfer property under false claims of incapacity. That’s elder financial abuse under state law.’
Marcus finally looked up. ‘Mom, I didn’t — Vanessa said you ASKED us to —’
‘I know what she said.’ I slid my own folder across the table. ‘Three weeks ago I had a full cognitive evaluation at Mass General. Perfect score. I also updated my will. The house, the pension, the patents from the bridge designs — all of it goes into a trust. Neither of you are trustees.’
Vanessa shot up. ‘You can’t do that! I’m your DAUGHTER —’
‘You’re the daughter who tried to declare me incompetent over turkey.’ I stood too, slowly, all five-foot-three of me. ‘The trust benefits my grandchildren directly when they turn twenty-five. Not you. Not Brittany’s boat fund.’
Brittany choked on her wine.
‘And Vanessa,’ I added, ‘the loan I co-signed for your condo? Called it in this morning. You have ninety days.’
She started crying. Real tears, finally, not the performance ones.
I picked up the gravy boat again. It felt light now.
‘Anyone still hungry?’ I asked. ‘The pie is homemade. By me. Senile hands and all.’
Marcus quietly asked if he could stay and talk. Vanessa grabbed her coat and her useless papers and left.
I ate two slices.
