My parents told Grandma they were taking her out to lunch. Three hours later, a nursing facility called me. Her suitcase was sitting in their lobby, and my parents were nowhere to be found. I drove 190 miles to bring her back with me. She clicked her seatbelt into place, looked straight at me, and said, “Don’t call them. I’ll tell you exactly where we’re going.”
My parents told Grandma they were taking her out to lunch. Three hours later, a nursing facility called me. Her suitcase was sitting in their lobby, and my parents were nowhere to be found. I drove 190 miles to bring her back with me. She clicked her seatbelt into place, looked straight at me, and said, “Don’t call them. I’ll tell you exactly where we’re going.”
My parents told Grandma Eleanor they were taking her to lunch.
Three hours later, a nursing facility in Ohio called me.
“Is this Daniel Mercer?” the woman asked. “Your grandmother listed you as her emergency contact. Her suitcase is still here in our lobby, but the family members who brought her left before the admission paperwork was finished.”
I was standing in the kitchen of my Indianapolis apartment, holding a cup of coffee I suddenly had no desire to drink.
“What do you mean, they left?”
The administrator hesitated. “They said they had to get some paperwork from their car. They never came back.”
I called my father. It went straight to voicemail.
Then my mother. Same thing.
I drove 190 miles with both hands locked around the steering wheel.
When I got there, Grandma was sitting beside a single brown suitcase and a grocery bag packed with medications. She was still wearing her church coat even though the lobby was warm. Her gray hair remained carefully pinned, and her face had that calm expression it always took on whenever she was furious.
I crouched beside her. “Grandma.”
She looked at me for several long seconds. Then she got to her feet.
No tears. No questions.
She walked out toward my car, climbed into the passenger seat, and buckled her seatbelt.
“Don’t call them,” she said.
I looked at her.
“I’ll tell you where to drive.”
“Where?”
“First, the county courthouse.”
That got my attention immediately.
Once we were back on the highway, she opened her purse and handed me a folded bank statement. Three withdrawals had been circled in red. Twelve thousand dollars. Eighteen thousand. Twenty-five thousand.
All taken within six weeks.
“Your father has power of attorney,” she explained. “Temporary. I signed it after my surgery because I trusted him.”
My stomach tightened.
“He told me I was starting to become forgetful. He said I needed help handling the bills.” She stared out the window. “Then yesterday, I found this.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said the money was being used to pay for my care.”
I glanced toward the lone suitcase sitting in the back seat.
Grandma let out a humorless laugh.
“At lunch today, your mother told me we were stopping somewhere that had a garden. They walked me into that facility, finished none of the paperwork, and vanished.”
My phone buzzed. Dad.
Grandma reached over and turned it face down.
“Courthouse first,” she repeated. “Then the bank. Then there’s one more place.”
“What place?”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“My house.”
I swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Because if they’ve done what I think they’ve done, your parents didn’t just leave me there today.”
She reached inside her coat and pulled out a small envelope. Across the front, written in my grandfather’s handwriting, were two words: HOUSE DEED.
“I hid this before they came to pick me up,” she said. “I wanted to know whether they would go looking for it.”
Her voice dropped.
“They wanted me out of the way.”
