PART 10 — “WHO MADE THE APPOINTMENT?”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then I asked the simplest question in the room.
“Who made the appointment?”
Silence came through Mark’s phone.
“Alicia?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
Mark closed his eyes.
Thomas didn’t.
“With whom?”
“A specialist.”
“Name.”
“Dr. Leonard Price.”
Thomas wrote it down.
“Where?”
“Westbrook Medical Center.”
“And what did you tell Dr. Price’s office about Dorothy?”
Alicia hesitated.
“That she was having problems.”
“What problems?”
“Memory. Confusion. Financial decisions.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I looked at the clock.
Less than three hours earlier, this woman had believed I would sign whatever she placed in front of me.
Now she was describing me as incapable of making decisions.
Thomas asked, “Did Dorothy request this evaluation?”
“No.”
“Did her physician refer her?”
“No.”
“Did Mark?”
Another silence.
“No.”
Mark stared at the phone.
“You made an appointment to have my mother evaluated and never told me?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“How?”
Alicia didn’t answer.
I did.
“You were going to take me.”
Mark looked at me.
I remembered the brochure in their glovebox.
The folder in the back seat.
The whole morning had been planned.
Perhaps they intended to convince me today that I needed “help.”
Then tomorrow would come the doctor.
Then Silver Meadows.
Then my house.
One little step at a time.
Thomas picked up his phone.
“I’ll contact Dr. Price’s office.”
Alicia immediately said, “Don’t.”
Thomas stopped.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll make this worse.”
“For whom?”
She said nothing.
Then I heard a car door close on her end.
“Alicia,” Mark said, “where are you?”
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
She hung up.
Mark called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Thomas was already searching through the papers.
Then he stopped at the Silver Meadows brochure.
“Dorothy.”
He pointed to a handwritten note on the back.
Price — 10:00 Tuesday.
Underneath it:
Bring POA + financial summary.
POA.
I didn’t know the abbreviation.
Thomas did.
“Power of attorney.”
Mark whispered a curse.
I stared at the words.
“But I haven’t given anyone power of attorney.”
“No,” Thomas said. “You haven’t.”
His eyes moved toward the document carrying my imitation signature.
My stomach turned.
Mark saw it too.
“You think that’s what this is?”
Thomas didn’t answer immediately.
“I think we need to determine exactly what Alicia believed this document allowed her to do.”
Then my phone rang.
Not Mark’s.
Mine.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Dorothy Harper?”
“Yes.”
“This is Westbrook Medical Center calling to confirm your appointment with Dr. Price tomorrow at ten.”
I looked at Thomas.
He motioned for me to continue.
“I don’t remember making an appointment.”
The woman paused.
“Our notes indicate it was arranged by your daughter.”
I looked across the table.
Mark heard it.
So did Thomas.
“I don’t have a daughter.”
Another pause.
“Oh.”
The woman’s voice became cautious.
“I apologize, Mrs. Harper.”
“What name did she give?”
Keyboard clicking.
Then:
“Alicia Harper.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did she provide anything else?”
The woman hesitated.
“I can’t discuss the full file by phone, but I can tell you there are documents attached to the appointment request.”
Thomas held out his hand.
I passed him the phone and gave permission for him to speak.
He introduced himself.
Then listened.
His expression changed.
“What kind of documents?”
A pause.
“I understand.”
Another.
Then Thomas said:
“Please preserve everything exactly as received. Mrs. Harper will not attend tomorrow until this is clarified.”
He ended the call.
Mark stepped closer.
“What did they send?”
Thomas looked at me.
“A written summary of your supposed cognitive decline.”
I wasn’t surprised anymore.
Then he added:
“And a letter.”
“What letter?”
He hesitated.
“A letter supposedly written by Mark.”
My son went completely still.
“What?”
Thomas looked directly at him.
“It says you’ve observed significant deterioration in your mother’s judgment over the last six months.”
Mark shook his head.
“No.”
“It requests an urgent capacity evaluation.”
“No.”
“And according to the clinic…”
Thomas paused.
“…it carries your signature.”
Mark stared at him.
Then slowly sat down.
First my signature.
Now his.
Two documents.
Two people supposedly signing things neither of us remembered signing.
Mark looked toward the front door Alicia had walked through minutes earlier.
And for the first time that morning, my son’s voice sounded afraid.
“Mom…”
He swallowed.
“What exactly did I marry?”
