Chapter 3 - THE HOURS THEY CUT AWAY
Vanessa came out of the shower wearing one of my old T-shirts.
I had closed the laptop and moved to the couch before she entered the room.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Trying to catch up.”
“There’s nothing to catch up on tonight.”
She sat beside me and rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled like the shampoo I had mailed her from Germany because she claimed she could not find it in Fayetteville anymore.
“Keller thinks guardianship is necessary?” I asked.
Her body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Maybe. Just temporarily.”
“And the facility?”
“Pine Hollow has a memory-care wing. They have an opening, but we have to move fast.”
“How much?”
“Six thousand a month.”
“Mom can’t afford that.”
“She has retirement savings.”
There it was.
Vanessa turned toward me. “You can’t take this on, Ethan. You just got back. You’ll be working twelve-hour days. And I can’t keep living like this.”
“Of course not.”
Relief softened her face.
“I knew you’d understand.”
I waited until she went upstairs, then returned to the camera.
The unit stored footage on a microSD card. Vanessa had deleted most of the continuous recordings, but she had not reformatted the card. The remaining directory showed time gaps around every clip sent to Dr. Keller.
I copied the files to an encrypted drive from my duffel bag.
One recording had not been trimmed properly.
It began with Mom sitting on the bed in daylight, wearing her glasses and reading a paperback. She looked tired but calm.
Vanessa entered carrying a cup.
“I don’t want that,” Mom said.
“You need to take it.”
“Dr. Patel never prescribed it.”
“Dr. Patel isn’t here.”
Vanessa removed Mom’s hearing aids and placed them on the dresser.
Mom reached for them. Vanessa pushed her hand away.
“Give those back.”
“You’re overstimulated.”
“I’m not a child.”
Vanessa closed the curtains, leaving the room nearly black.
The recording skipped forward eighteen minutes.
Mom was on her feet, unsteady, shouting for help.
Vanessa stood near the door.
“You see?” she said softly. “This is what you do.”
Mom grabbed her wrist.
Vanessa did not pull away. She pressed Mom’s fingers harder against her own skin and held them there.
“Let go of me,” Mom pleaded.
Vanessa waited several seconds before jerking free.
Those were the bruises she had shown the neighbors.
I saved the footage twice.
The serious consequence was no longer theoretical. If I had signed the guardianship petition, Vanessa could have used the psychiatric evaluation to take control of Mom’s medical decisions and finances while Mom sat drugged in a memory-care unit.
I opened the banking envelopes from the closet.
Mom’s checking account showed repeated electronic transfers to our mortgage account, Vanessa’s credit card and a company called TriCounty Resolutions.
The first transfers were round amounts: five thousand, eight thousand, twelve thousand.
The later ones were smaller and more frequent.
I found a Pine Hollow receipt for a nonrefundable deposit paid with Mom’s debit card.
My wife had already reserved the bed.
I stepped onto the back porch and called the Cumberland County Adult Protective Services emergency line. I gave my name, my mother’s condition and the evidence I had found.
The intake worker told me not to confront Vanessa if doing so could place Mom in greater danger. She instructed me to preserve the medications, photographs and recordings. A social worker would coordinate with law enforcement.
“There’s a psychiatric evaluation at eight-thirty tomorrow,” I said.
“Keep that appointment. I’ll contact the doctor.”
When I ended the call, Mrs. Carter was standing on the other side of the fence in her bathrobe.
“Ethan,” she whispered. “Is Ruth all right?”
“You tell me.”
Her eyes dropped.
“Vanessa asked me to sign something last week.”
“What did you sign?”
“A statement saying I’d seen your mother become violent.”
“Did you?”
May you like
Mrs. Carter gripped the fence.
“I saw what Vanessa wanted me to see.”
