Chapter 5 - The Assessment
Wednesday afternoon arrived wrapped in an ominous curtain of heavy gray clouds.
At precisely three-forty-five, I sat in the parlor. I had dressed with deliberate care: an oversized, faded floral cardigan with one mismatched button, a pair of worn slippers, and my hair pinned up slightly askew. On the small end table beside me sat three pairs of reading glasses, a lukewarm mug of instant decaf, and a stack of old crosswords with half-completed, nonsensical words scrawled in shaky pencil.
I placed my iPhone flat on the bookshelf behind a collection of Charles Dickens novels, the camera lens peeking discreetly through the gap between two leather spines, recording the entire room in high-definition video.
At four o’clock sharp, the front doorbell chimed.
Stuart let himself in using his key, followed by Jennifer and a tall, slick-haired man in a sharply pressed charcoal suit carrying an expensive Italian leather briefcase. Dr. Ronald Campbell. He was fifty-two, smelled aggressively of expensive cologne, and wore the condescending, tight smile of a man who believed everyone in the room was dumber than he was.
“Mom!” Stuart boomed, stepping into the parlor with exaggerated warmth. “Look who’s here. You remember Dr. Campbell, don’t you? From the country club fundraisers?”
I blinked slowly, looking at Dr. Campbell with an expression of faint, vacant confusion. “Dr. Campbell? Are you… are you here about my hip? The arthritis has been terrible in the damp weather.”
Jennifer smirked, leaning against the archway with her arms folded. She was wearing a new cashmere scarf—undoubtedly purchased with the proceeds of whatever else she had been quietly pawning from my life.
“No, Inez, not your hip,” Dr. Campbell said smoothly, taking a seat on the sofa directly across from me. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a clipboard stacked with clinical evaluation forms. “Stuart and Jennifer reached out because they’re deeply concerned about your general safety here alone. We’re just going to do a brief, informal cognitive screening. Just a friendly conversation between old acquaintances.”
“An examination?” I asked, my voice wavering with a delicate tremor. “Stuart, is this necessary? I made pot roast yesterday.”
“You left the stove burner on low for six hours, Mom,” Stuart lied smoothly, not missing a beat. “We have to be realistic. Go ahead, Ron.”
Dr. Campbell clicked his pen. “Inez, could you tell me what day of the week it is, and what year we’re currently in?”
I looked toward the ceiling, tapping my chin. “Well… it’s… Thursday, isn’t it? Or perhaps Friday. And the year… oh, heavens, ever since Robert passed, the years just blur together. 2018? No, 2020?”
Stuart leaned in, nodding solemnly toward Dr. Campbell, who immediately made a vigorous notation on his form.
“Thank you, Inez,” Dr. Campbell continued, his tone patronizingly soft. “Now, I’m going to give you three words. I want you to remember them, and I’ll ask you to repeat them back to me in five minutes. The words are: *Apple, Table, Penny*. Can you repeat those for me?”
“Apple… chair… quarter?” I whispered, furrowing my brow.
Jennifer let out a quiet, performative sigh from the doorway. “See what we’re dealing with, Ron? It’s gotten so much worse since Thanksgiving.”
“I see,” Dr. Campbell said gravely. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Inez, do you know who the current President of the United States is?”
I looked at him blankly. “Is it that nice young man from Illinois?”
Dr. Campbell checked another box, shaking his head with manufactured sorrow. He turned to Stuart. “The short-term memory deficit is pronounced, Stuart. Spatial orientation and chronological tracking are significantly degraded. In my professional opinion, she presents a clear and immediate risk to herself if left unsupervised in a multi-level dwelling.”
“Can you sign the preliminary commitment and capacity certification today?” Stuart asked, leaning over the sofa, his eyes gleaming with barely suppressed exhilaration. “We have an opening at Cedar Grove reserved for the fifteenth. We need the medical waiver to finalize the deed transfer under the power of attorney.”
“I have the capacity waiver right here,” Dr. Campbell said, unclipping a thick document bearing the official seal of the state medical review board. “Based on my clinical observation today, Inez lacks the cognitive executive function required to manage her estate, her legal affairs, or her personal physical welfare.”
He uncapped his fountain pen and leaned over the coffee table to sign the document.
“Wait,” I said.
My voice didn’t tremble this time.
The frail, wavering tone was gone. In its place was the crisp, commanding, authoritative projection of a veteran schoolteacher who had silenced rowdy auditoriums of three hundred children with a single syllable.
Dr. Campbell froze, his pen hovering two millimeters above the signature line.
Stuart blinked, taken aback. “Mom? What’s wrong with you?”
I stood up straight, smoothing down my cardigan. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small microfiber cloth, and calmly wiped my real reading glasses before sliding them onto the bridge of my nose.
“Today is Wednesday, December the twelfth,” I said, my voice ringing clear and sharp through the parlor. “The time is precisely four-fifteen in the afternoon. The President of the United States is Joe Biden. The three words you gave me were *Apple, Table, and Penny*. And you, Dr. Ronald Campbell, are a board-certified osteopath whose primary practice involves Botox injections, yet you are currently attempting to execute a fraudulent neurological incompetency waiver without conducting an MRI, a blood panel, or a formal psychiatric battery.”
The room went so quiet that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer sounded like gunshots.
Jennifer’s arms dropped to her sides. Stuart stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout.
“Mom… what… what kind of game are you playing?” Stuart stammered, stepping backward.
“I’m not playing a game, Stuart,” I said calmly. I turned my gaze directly onto Dr. Campbell, whose face had drained of all color. “Dr. Campbell, are you aware that Stuart’s durable power of attorney was formally revoked and filed with the County Clerk on Monday morning? Are you aware that Arthur Vance has already filed a notice of fiduciary conflict against Stuart in probate court?”
Dr. Campbell’s eyes widened in sheer panic. He snapped his head toward Stuart. “What? Stuart, you told me the POA was clean and uncontested!”
“It is! She’s bluffing! She’s crazy!” Stuart yelled, his face turning an alarming shade of eggplant. “She’s completely lost her mind!”
“And furthermore,” I continued, pointing a finger toward the Charles Dickens novels on the bookshelf, “the camera behind *A Tale of Two Cities* has recorded every single word of this fraudulent assessment in full 4K resolution with clear audio. If that signed capacity waiver touches that clipboard, Arthur Vance will deliver that video to the State Board of Medical Examiners and the State Attorney General’s fraud division before nine o'clock tomorrow morning.”
Dr. Campbell didn’t say another word.
He dropped his fountain pen. He shoved the unsigned paperwork violently back into his leather briefcase, zipped it shut with a frantic jerk, and scrambled to his feet.
“Ron, wait! Ron, sit down!” Stuart shouted, grabbing Campbell’s sleeve.
“Get your hands off me, Stuart!” Campbell hissed, violently shaking off Stuart’s grip. “You set me up! If the licensing board sees that footage, I’ll lose my medical license by Friday! We’re done! Lose my number!”
May you like
Dr. Campbell sprinted through the foyer, slammed the heavy front door behind him, and tires screeched in the driveway three seconds later as he fled into the gray rain.
***
