The Woman At The Hospital Had Brought The Wrong Signature

Will met us at the hospital with Noah's overnight bag and the blue hat my sister had knit before she got sick.

"I'll take him home," he said. "You stay."

Noah shook his head.

"I need to see Mom first."

We asked the nurse, washed our hands, and went in together. Lena sat against two pillows with a cup of cold tea. She smiled when she saw him, and he climbed into the chair beside her bed.

"Aunt Iris saved your receipt," he told her.

"Good," she said. "Your grandpa wanted us to keep it."

She listened while he told her about the supper. I tried to stop him before the part about the coats, but he finished it in his small, steady voice.

Lena closed her eyes.

"You had a place there," she said. "You always had a place."

When Will took him home, she opened the drawer beside her bed.

The visitor had left a copy of the papers. The nurse had asked her to leave when Lena became upset.

Across the top page were the words FAMILY SETTLEMENT PROPOSAL.

It offered Lena $12,000 in exchange for agreeing to a plan that would move Noah's interest in Arthur's company to Vera.

"What interest?" I asked.

"She wouldn't explain. She said Arthur had left us a problem, and this would make it go away."

The next sheet claimed Lena had received the papers four days earlier.

There was her name at the bottom.

Except the L was wrong. Lena made hers with a loop our mother had taught us. This one looked like a fence post.

"I was here that day," I said.

"So was I."

Lena handed me an old pay stub from the same drawer. Her real signature was on the back, where she had changed her mailing address.

"Take pictures of both."

At the foot of the proposal was a lawyer's name, Miriam Shaw. I called the office number. A recorded message gave another number for urgent estate matters.

I left my name, Lena's name, and Noah's.

Miriam called back before I reached the parking garage.

"Where is Lena?" she asked.

"In the hospital. Why?"

There was a pause.

"I've been trying to reach her. Letters sent to the staff apartment came back marked moved, address unknown. The number in the company file was disconnected."

Lena's old phone had broken. Her new number was on the address form Vera's office had accepted.

"What did Arthur leave Noah?" I asked.

"I need to speak with his mother before I discuss the details. Can I see her tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Please tell her not to sign anything tonight."

I went back upstairs.

Lena looked ashamed when I told her about the calls and letters.

"I thought if we were in his will, someone would find us."

"Someone just did."

She pulled the blanket straight across her knees.

"Arthur came to the office the week before I was fired. He asked why the apartment account was short. I showed him the copies I had. Vera saw us talking."

"Copies of what?"

"Deposits. Rent. Money taken out of paychecks after people had already paid in cash."

She had been an accounts clerk for nine years. She knew which drivers rented company apartments and which workers sent money orders because they did not use bank accounts.

"I didn't take eighteen thousand six hundred forty dollars," she said.

That was the amount Vera had told everyone Lena stole.

"I know."

"I need somebody who can prove it."

For the first time that night, I heard how tired she was.

I left after the nurse brought fresh tea. At home, Will had saved me a plate and put my swollen feet on a cushion.

"We can manage a late paycheck," he said.

"For how long?"

He rubbed his forehead. We had $417 in checking and rent due the next week.

"Long enough to count what we have," he said.

Before bed, I checked my work schedule.

My name was gone.

An email arrived a moment later. Vera had written that I was suspended while the company reviewed my conduct. She had attached an account sheet saying I owed $856 for helping Lena hide a housing debt.

Exactly my unpaid wages.

I sat on the edge of the bed while Will read over my shoulder.

Then another message came, this one from Dot.

It was a picture of her own pay slip.

Housing Recovery: $96.

Under the picture, she had typed, Iris, I have never lived in a company apartment.