“I told her, if you’re looking for someone to blame your problems on, don’t blame my daughter. That’s what I said. I told her, you made your own bed.”
“Uh-huh. That sounds very wise, Sharon.” I have no idea what she’s referring to, but it isn’t too hard to fill in the gaps. Krystle spent her twenties lurching from drama to drama, and I’m not surprised to hear there was blowback that reached all the way up to Westport, Connecticut. “Hopefully, that lady won’t come back.”
“Oh, but she did.” Sharon’s eyes dart from side to side. “Yesterday. She pretended she was in the wrong room. I played along. Kept my eyes closed like I was sleeping.”
I frown. “Sharon, are you saying some strange woman came into your room yesterday when you were resting?”
She nods very slowly. “She’s found me, Alexis. Margaret Cooper. She’s back.”
On my way outside, I ask the receptionist if my mother had any visitors yesterday. I doubt it, but I want to double-check. The receptionist, who is on the phone, pushes the visitor log at me. I scan the names on the two pages for yesterday, looking for this Margaret Cooper that my mother mentioned, but there is none. In fact, no one signed in to see my mother. I feel a little silly. Margaret Cooper is as likely to be a soap opera character from the eighties as a real person my mother once knew.
“Thank you,” I say, pushing the book back. But as I walk through the front door, a woman carrying a small fern passes me and smiles. I hesitate and watch her walk right through the lobby and turn left without signing in.
The receptionist takes no notice.
I shake the thought from my head. My mother suffers from delusions. I need to accept that. I’m viewing her dementia through the lens of my own personal problems.
But I make a mental note to mention it to Krystle when I discuss the dismal state of the Westport house and what I have learned about there being a reverse mortgage. I am not looking forward to that conversation.
I get in my car, exhausted from the day’s events. All I want to do is crawl home and get into a hot bath with a glass of wine, and then curl up all by myself and watch something dumb. But going home means facing reality—judgmental moms, an angry husband, and a needy kid. Not to mention meeting with that shark of a lawyer and going over this whole nightmare in detail. So much for self-care; tonight will be about self-preservation.
Trying to exit the parking lot, I get stuck waiting for a break in traffic. Finally I can pull out and turn left, shooting a quick glance behind me to see if I am holding anyone up.
That’s when I see it.
Idling by the curb is that black Audi with Virginia plates, FCS.
31
I’m halfway into oncoming traffic. It’s too late to stop and back up, so I pull into the left lane so that I can make a U-turn and drive back into the Morningside House parking lot.
I feel dizzy and hot. It’s the same car, I am sure. In addition to the F and the C and the S, I can now add the last three digits—372.
I hold my breath, waiting for the car in front of me to make a left, doing everything in my power not to lay on the horn. Finally, I am zooming back in the direction I came from. It probably takes less than a minute, but when I get back to the parking lot, the Audi is gone.
My whole body shakes as I merge onto the Beltway and head back to Bethesda. There is no doubt in my mind—someone is following me, but who, and why?
The shrill ring of my phone vibrates through the car, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s Daisy.
“Hey, sweetie, how are you holding up? What do you need to know?” Her disembodied voice bounces through the interior of the car. It takes a second to remember she is returning my call. The text I sent her about the reverse mortgage earlier today seems so long ago. I explain what Barb DeSoto told me.
“Walk me through this,” I say. “Please.”
“A reverse mortgage was designed so people who have tons of equity in their house can pull some money out and stay in the house,” Daisy says. “Like senior citizens. Let’s say your house is worth five hundred thousand—you can pull out three hundred thousand and use that money to pay for living expenses or a grandchild’s tuition, or whatever.”
“It’s like a home equity line of credit?”
“Not exactly. You don’t make monthly payments. Instead, when the owner dies, or when the house is sold, you pay back the lender. In the case of a senior who takes out three hundred thousand, when they die and their heirs sell the house, the heirs will need to pay back the lenders that money. With interest, of course.”
“There’s no way my mother took out that loan. She’s been in assisted living for years.”
“Sad to say that there is rampant fraud and identity theft these days. Anyone who has your mom’s basic information—social security number, date of birth—would have been able to apply in her name. Any strange financial letters or weird phone calls?”
“My sister handles all the correspondence to the house,” I tell her before saying goodbye. The whole drive home, I am stewing in a hot mix of guilt and anger. I should never have left Krystle in charge of the management of the house. She was in over her head. This is as much my fault as hers.
I’m only a few miles from my house when my phone trills. I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go through to voice mail, and a moment later, my phone beeps letting me know
