The Signature That Didn’t Belong

“I have an eight o’clock meeting,” Mom said, lifting her black tote from the chair. “Mom’s eating, and Lily’s on the couch. Keep her in that seat. She’s very unsteady today.”

“Sure,” Uncle Dave replied with a yawn. “Have a safe drive.”

Mom went out. A moment later, the garage door rolled down with a heavy rumble.

Dave came into the living room and gave me a quick look where I lay on the sofa. He picked up the remote. “Need a bucket, kid, or is it just a fever?”

“Just a fever,” I answered, making my voice small.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything.” He dropped into the recliner and switched on a sports channel.

I stayed still for twenty long minutes. The announcers’ voices went on and on, and Dave’s eyes seemed to settle into a blank stare. At last, I eased myself off the couch.

I went down the hall toward Gran’s bedroom, trying not to let the floorboards creak beneath my feet.

Her old address book sat where it always did, in the desk’s upper-right drawer. I opened it carefully and searched the yellowed pages, passing the little letter tabs.

Under A, I found the entry for Robert Abernathy, attorney at law. Gran had written his firm and local number herself.

I knew her writing at once: narrow, exact letters, each one steady on the page. Her G had sharp corners, like a small triangle.

I shut the book and glanced at Gran’s bedside table. Her cell phone rested on its charger. I took it and carried it into her bathroom.

Once inside, I pulled the door closed until the latch clicked. I sat on the chilly tile, leaned against the bathtub, and tapped in the number.

The phone rang three times. A woman answered. “Robert Abernathy’s law office.”

“Could I talk to Mr. Abernathy?” I asked, working to keep my shaking out of my voice. “Something bad is happening to Eleanor Vance.”

“Please hold.”

I waited, gripping the phone with both hands. Then a man with a low, rough-edged voice spoke. “Robert Abernathy here. Who’s calling?”

“I’m Lily. I’m Eleanor’s granddaughter,” I said in a quick whisper. “You came to our house when she made her will.”

“I remember you, Lily.” His voice gentled, though it still sounded careful. “How is your grandmother?”

“Not okay. They’re taking her to The Pines on Monday, and they’re going to sell her house. She never said they could.”

The silence on the other end lasted long enough for me to press my knees together. Then he answered.

“Your mother phoned my office yesterday,” he said. “She said Eleanor’s dementia had become much worse very quickly. She also told us she had Power of Attorney, so she believed she could make these choices.”

“She doesn’t have it,” I whispered. My fingers tightened around the phone. “That paper is fake. Mom makes Gran’s signatures because Gran’s hands shake. They don’t look alike. Mom’s G is round and lumpy. Gran’s is pointed.”

I heard a chair creak where Mr. Abernathy was sitting. “Lily, that is a serious claim. A Power of Attorney needs to be witnessed by a notary.”

“It isn’t notarized,” I said, barely able to breathe. “Mom forged it. I know the signature isn’t Gran’s.”

The quiet that followed felt different from before. The lawyer’s voice lost its gentle, waiting sound. “You’re certain the document has not been notarized?”

“Yes. And Mom is making Gran act sick.” I looked toward the little wicker bin beside the toilet. “Gran usually takes tiny white pills for her shaking. This morning Mom gave her a blue one instead.”

I swallowed. “She crushed it into Gran’s tea. I saw her do it. It came from a bottle of sleeping pills that belongs to Mom. She gives it to Gran so everyone thinks Gran has dementia.”

“Lily,” Mr. Abernathy said, his voice suddenly low and serious. “Where is your mother now?”

“At work. Uncle Dave is here with us.”

“Don’t tell your uncle what you know, and don’t argue with him. I’m leaving for your house now. It should take me twenty minutes. Go back to your room until I—”

The bathroom door flew inward.

I sucked in a breath. The phone slipped from my hands and landed on the bathmat.

Uncle Dave filled the doorway. His coffee was gone. His face looked red, and his gaze darted from me to the lit screen on the floor.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded. His voice sounded angry enough to fill the tiny room.

I scooted backward until the tub pressed against my back. The hard porcelain edge dug into my shoulder.

Dave stepped inside and bent over me. He snatched up Gran’s phone, checked the screen, then lifted it to his ear. “Hello? Are you there?”

Mr. Abernathy must have ended the call when he heard Dave come in. No one answered.

Dave tapped the screen to disconnect and stared down at me. “I asked you something, Lily. Were you calling your mother’s office? What are you trying to pull?”

“I wasn’t playing around,” I said. My voice shook, but I made myself look straight at him. “I called Mr. Abernathy.”

Dave went still. The anger on his face loosened, and something frightened flashed behind it. “The lawyer? Why are you calling Mom’s lawyer?”

“Because you’re stealing Gran’s house.”