Chapter 5 - The Call About My Memory
The call came on Friday.
A woman introduced herself as a social worker responding to concerns about my welfare.
Someone had reported that I was confused, isolated, and being pressured into selling my house by a real estate agent.
For a moment, I could hear my heartbeat more clearly than her voice.
“Who reported that?”
“I can’t discuss the caller’s identity.”
I looked at my kitchen table.
My calendar lay beside a neatly organized folder containing the sale documents, bank statements, and notes from Ruth.
There was also my ridiculous clay mug.
I had placed pencils in it because nobody should risk drinking from something that leaned that badly.
“I’m willing to speak with you,” I said. “My attorney can attend.”
“That’s entirely your choice.”
Her calmness helped.
She wasn’t accusing me.
She was checking a concern.
The person who had made the report was the one who wanted me frightened.
We arranged a visit for Monday.
Then I called Ruth.
She did not sound surprised.
I hated that.
On Saturday, Jessica canceled the children’s visit.
“They’re upset,” she said.
“They were excited yesterday.”
“They need stability.”
“So do I.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I stood beside the balcony door.
“What would make it easier, Jessica?”
She hesitated.
“You could help with a down payment.”
There it was.
Not confusion about my welfare.
Not grief over the old house.
Money.
“How much?”
“We found a place. Thirty-five thousand would cover—”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard the details.”
“I heard the amount.”
“It would still be your grandchildren’s home.”
“And you and Cedric would still be responsible for providing it.”
She went silent.
Then she said, “Don’t expect them to understand why you abandoned them.”
After she hung up, I cried.
There was nothing dignified about it.
I cried into a dish towel because the tissues were in the bedroom and I couldn’t seem to move.
Martha found me twenty minutes later.
She sat beside me without telling me to be strong.
When I could speak, I said, “Maybe I should just pay.”
She looked at me carefully.
“You can. You’re allowed to change your mind.”
That surprised me.
“But ask yourself what you’re buying,” she continued. “A home for them? Or another few months before the next demand?”
I wiped my face.
“I don’t know how to love him without fixing things.”
“Then that’s what you learn now.”
On Monday, the social worker arrived with a notebook and comfortable shoes.
Her name was Denise.
She asked whether I had enough food.
Whether I controlled my own accounts.
Whether anyone had threatened me.
Whether I understood the sale.
I answered honestly.
Ruth provided the documents I had authorized her to share.
Denise spoke with me privately, too.
Nobody coached my answers.
Nobody needed to.
When she asked why I had moved, I told her about the barbecue.
I had expected embarrassment.
Instead, I felt relief.
There was something powerful about saying, aloud, exactly what had happened without immediately explaining why Cedric wasn’t usually that bad.
Denise closed her notebook.
“I can see you’ve thought carefully about your plans.”
“Does getting older mean every unpopular decision becomes evidence against you?”
Her expression softened.
“No. It does not.”
After she left, I sat in silence.
Then Cedric called.
“Someone came to see you?”
I stared at the phone.
“How did you know?”
“Jessica said—”
He stopped.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
“Were you worried about my memory?” I asked.
“Mom, we were worried about you.”
“Then why didn’t you visit?”
“We’ve been dealing with—”
“Why did your concern come with a request for thirty-five thousand dollars?”
His breathing changed.
“Jessica shouldn’t have asked like that.”
“But asking was fine?”
He said nothing.
I looked toward the balcony, where afternoon sunlight touched the rosebushes below.
“Cedric, if you use my age to frighten me again, we will communicate through Ruth.”
“You’d do that to your own son?”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
Then I answered him.
“Yes.”
