Paint Me True (16 page)

“She’s in the hospital, so-”

“Is it serious?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe.”

“You should come speak to me, yes. Sorry, my secretary’s off at an appointment and I need to figure out how the calendar works.” She laughed. “I look like a right fool here. Ah, there we go. I can fit you in tomorrow after five. Would you be able to come by then?”

“Is it possible to do it sooner?”

“What’s happened?”

“I have some questions about her living will.”

“Ah... well... right. Today at five?”

“Thank you so much.”

“I’ll see you then, Ms. Dunmar.”

H
elena Grayson, Solicitor, worked out of an office above a corner store, an Asian grocer. I pressed the gold tone buzzer and was admitted through a narrow door that opened on a flight of stairs. The door at the top was half open and indirect sunlight shone through the gap.

I jogged up the stairs and slipped through the door into a reception area. A heavyset woman with graying blonde hair stood by the front desk, dunking a teabag into a steaming mug. “Ah, hello,” she said with a warm, but tired smile. “You must be Eliza.”

“Yes. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.”

“Not at all, not at all. Would you like some tea?”

“No thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“I’m all right.”

“Come through then. She pushed open the door to her office, which had a wall of bookshelves that looked custom made to fit the burgundy, leather bound volumes that populated its entire length. Ms. Grayson’s desk was a rich, deep mahogany, the kind of wood that only an oil painting could do justice to, in my opinion. Its polish reflected the sunlight in sharp, focused glares.

She gestured for me to sit down in a chair across from her, one made from dark brown leather with a comfortable seat and a u-bend of padding for the back and arm rests. I felt a little small for it, but I did my best to sit up straight and look like I belonged there.

“Right, then.” She picked up a thick folder and flipped it open. “I’ll be quick about this. I don’t represent Nora. My partner in the practice, who died two years ago, was her lawyer and I declined to represent Ms. Chesterton upon his death.”

“Sorry?”

“I did obtain permission from her to release her file to you. You may take it to another lawyer if Ms. Chesterton seeks new counsel.”

“But... wait. I’m confused-”

“I chose not to take her on because of the way she put together her estate.”

“What do you mean?”

“She elected to have one person as both her agent under all forms of power of attorney and as her sole heir. You, specifically. In putting you in this position, she disinherited two natural born children.”

“She did what?”

Ms. Grayson’s tension lined face relaxed into the barest hint of a smile. “I am relieved to see that this is news to you. All the same, this situation presents conflicts of interest I am not comfortable with. Conflicts for you, that is.” She slipped the folder across the desk along with a sheet of paper. “This is a form acknowledging receipt of the file, nothing more. I just need it for my records.”

My head spun so I had trouble reading the form. Luckily, it was short. It just said, “The undersigned hereby acknowledges the receipt of the file for Nora S. Chesterton.” The date was written at the top and a line for me to sign below. I scrawled my signature and received the heavy file in my lap.

“So, wait-”

“I’m afraid I can’t advise you further.”

“You say there are conflicts of interest?”

“If you have the right to make end of life decisions for her, and are the heiress to all she owns-”

“But wait, I don’t want to be her heir. I want to be taken out of her Will altogether.”

“You must sort that out with Ms. Chesterton.”

“But-”

“I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you.”

“I... um... okay.” Assertiveness had never been my strong suit in a situation like this.

“I am very sorry about all of this, of course.”

“Right.”

“Good evening, Ms. Dunmar.”

Not exactly a subtle hint. I tried to look dignified as I walked out.

I needed to call my father. This thought absorbed nearly all of my attention as I stepped out of the building. I say nearly all, because I still had just enough awareness of my surroundings to spot Louisa. She wore a floral print dress and sandals and was down the street. When she caught me looking at her, she got into a car that had been idling by the curb and zipped away, but not before I caught sight of the hulking silhouette of her husband at the wheel.

Both of them tailing me? I wondered when that had started. Had they caught sight of me going into the lawyer’s office, or had they followed me from St. John’s? All the way back home, I kept my eyes and ears open, but if they followed me, I didn’t catch them.

B
ack at the house, I threw the deadbolt on the front door, then made a beeline for the computer. My dad’s Skype icon was green. I double clicked and then lifted Pip onto my lap. His stubby tail thumped against my hip.

“Hello?” Audio only, no video.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Everything okay, honey?”

“No. And I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s going on?”

“Aunt Nora won’t let the doctors do scans, and I just found out that I’m her agent on her living will and her sole heir and-”

“Slow down. Nora’s doing what?”

“They did an MRI and found a tumor, maybe more than one. They want to do more scans, but she refuses.”

“So she doesn’t want to face having cancer?”

“She says she hates the machines and being in the hospital. She’s got an old surgical scar that she refuses to talk about. When the doctor mentioned it, she threw him out of the room.”

“Surgical scar from what?”

“Like I said, she won’t talk about it, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Did she have a hysterectomy-”

“No, look, I’ve already thought about stuff like that.” Women with the BCRA mutation did sometimes get preventative hysterectomies, but I’d seen her womb in the MRI, her ovaries hadn’t been removed, and she had two children, which meant if she’d had a hysterectomy, it’d be after they were born, and thus in her British medical history. “She won’t talk to me. So I went to her lawyer-”

“You say you’re her agent on her living will?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I wish she hadn’t done that. Talk about stress.”

“And I’m her sole heir.”

“Well, sure. If you’re the person she trusts.”

“Dad
, if it’s my job to decide whether or not she gets treatment, that’s kind of a problem because if she dies, I get all her money.”

“Whoa, back up. Is her living will active?”

“Huh?”

“Or... go find it. Does it say it’s effective now or only if she can’t make her own decisions?”

“How do they usually work?”

“It depends on the local law and how it’s drafted. Unfortunately, I would know. Check hers.”

I tucked Pip under one arm and hauled Nora’s legal file from the desk into my lap. It took a little digging. I couldn’t find anything called a living will, but I did find a document titled, “Power of Attorney for Health and Welfare” that was written in such thick legalese that I had to re-read the first sentence five times before I gave up and moved on. “It says it stays effective if she is declared incompetent,” I said. “Does that mean it’s active now?”

“We-ell, I am guessing here but I would guess that this means that she still makes her decisions. Even if that thing is technically active, I don’t think they’d let you overrule her. I mean, the doctors would have let you know if that was the case, and I’ve never heard of a situation like that. Let’s assume it means you don’t make decisions unless she’s unable, so it isn’t your responsibility right now.”

“Her alternate agents are Great Uncle Morrie, who died last year and his ex-wife Cathy.”

“She’s got Alzheimer’s, honey. She can’t serve.”

I leafed through the file more slowly as I said, “Okay, but here’s the thing. If she’s acting crazy, refusing treatment all the time, can’t she be declared incompetent? I mean, she refused an x-ray on a broken arm.”

“A stubborn person isn’t incompetent. She’d have to be mentally ill – and the right kind of mentally ill, or unable to communicate.”

“What do you mean, the right kind of mentally ill?”

“Well, a kleptomaniac can still make healthcare decisions-”

“Oh, right. Sure. But her weirdness is all about healthcare decisions. I know weirdness isn’t a mental illness-”

“Lucky for all of us, eh?”

Against my will, I laughed. “Is it my job to get her declared incompetent or is it something the doctors or whoever just do?”

“Good question. In the US, it requires a notarized statement from a couple of doctors. Over there, I’ve got no idea.”

“Because here she is, refusing treatment, and I stand to inherit her fortune. If I don’t try to get her declared incompetent so that she can be treated, will that look bad?”

“People don’t normally dig into all of that, honey. Life isn’t like what you see on the news.”

“Dad, she’s rich and she’s got two estranged children. Why wouldn’t they dig into this?”

“Ah... good point.”

“And even if the doctors think she’s all there, doesn’t this look bad? I mean, I’ve been here looking after her. What if they think I scared her out of medical treatment or something?”

“I think that’s a little extra paranoid, honey.”

“I don’t want to be her heir!”

“Well, look, don’t worry about it then. Most places here in the US, if all the heirs agree on an alternate distribution of the estate, they can do that with a simple court filing.”

“So what’s that mean? I can single-handedly decide to give all the money to her kids?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” That took a load off my chest. “Well, okay. I need to find out when she was in the hospital before. What happened with that surgery she won’t talk about. I need to get her to talk to me.”

“Think you can?”

“I have to try. She was real defensive before, but maybe if I approach things differently, she’ll actually talk. The doctor kind of put her on the spot.”

“If you think you can get her to talk-”

“Do you see another option?”

“Look in her medical records?”

“No, see, the doctor said it wasn’t in there. It must’ve been from when she was in the US.”

“Oh, right.”

“And I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get her US medical records?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to look. Her childhood doctor died ages ago and then where did she move? Provo? Can’t really call every practice in Provo about records that old. And you’d have to fill out forms to receive them, to prove you’ve got a right to them, and I don’t think we do in this case. We’re not her doctors or lawyers or anything like that.”

“Does she still have old friends who would’ve known her back when it happened?”

“Good question. I have no idea. Problem is, there aren’t any near family members of her to ask. They’ve all passed on.”

“Yeah, so I need to get her to talk to me.”

“You sure you’re up to this?”

“No, but I have to try, right?”

“If you need me, I’ll be there in twenty-four hours.”

“Thanks, but actually, if you can just leave your phone on, that’ll work for me.”

“You’ve got it. Call any time, day or night.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, honey.”

I
carefully packed the painting of Nora and Paul in the park and carried it the eight blocks to St. John’s. I found Nora not in her bed, but in the chair, gazing out the window at the garden, where on sunny days, other patients limped around for exercise.

At the sound of my entry, she turned, and I saw her cheeks were striped with tearstains.

“Hi,” I said.

“Honey, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry if you felt like we ganged up on you.” I took out the painting and handed it to her.

She grasped it on the edges and stared. “This is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. It came together pretty well.”

“I’m sorry I insulted your art.”

“Huh? When?”

“When I said there was nothing you could paint that would make a difference. Everything you paint makes a difference. A huge difference.”

“Well, thanks. I wasn’t insulted.”

“I miss Paul so much.”

“I know.”

“Especially right now. If he were here, he’d take control and put everything right, but he’s not. I feel so lost without him.”

A dozen replies came to mind and I discarded them all. There was no point saying he’d want her to get her scans. That was just plain manipulative. I sat in silence instead.

“I feel like an idiot. Here I am in an oncology center and I won’t even let the oncologist talk to me. I’m taking up valuable bed space.”

“Listen,” I said, “you and me are like war survivors. We’ve lost everyone. Real soldiers develop post traumatic stress. I don’t see why we’d be any different.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

“How can I help you?”

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to just go home? It’s your choice. I won’t criticize you.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Good. I am so relieved to hear that.”

“But I have to get scans, don’t I?”

“That’d be the next step.”

“How extensive?”

“I don’t know. Look, do you not like the machine? I can ask if maybe you can... I don’t know, be sedated or something? I want to work with you here. Your happiness is what I care about.”

She looked at the painting. “I wish you could paint every moment we had together. I wish you could bring him all the way back to me.”

“If I could, I would.” Since I’d made little progress on convincing her to get scans, I let her change the subject. It seemed like it’d keep her talking and keep her opening up to me, which might get me what I wanted in the end. “Just tell me what to paint next, and we’ll get started.”

“I can’t hijack your life like that.”

“What about when he proposed to you. What was that like?”