Working Girl / Soundtrack
For most of the month of July I watched Mother’s state of being deteriorate. At first subtly and then towards the end of the month I noted greater lack of clarity. Ironically, she was frequently nicer in these states. It was hard to tell if this was heart felt or drug induced.
Still the pattern continued of daily conversations with me and Mother, Mother and G, and G and I. More than not, I would find myself calming G. down saying, based on my interaction of the day, I didn’t think Mother was on her last leg to warrant an immediate drop everything bedside vigil. However, clearly things were progressing and progressing fairly quickly.
Mother too seemed to be gaining an understanding of this. She began to discuss in more detail funeral arrangements and her wishes. She noted certain things in the house that she wished to give to certain people or items that belonged to others. One night we had a lovely conversation about what in the condo I personally wanted. I think she was both pleased and surprised when I cited a water color picture of a boat that had been her favorite as well. She never knew I even noticed the picture.
At this point, though, I started growing more concerned. I knew that Mother had done very little to close her practice. What I knew of her affairs, her house, her office – all of it was in a shambles and I suspected I didn’t know half of it. She had said her lawyer had started to work with her on things, but I was doubtful.
G and I both agreed, her lawyer was another piece of work. G. described him as a rude shyster. He refused to talk to me, thus he had not even said enough to be considered rude. When I raised this with Mother, she had refused to believe it, telling me I was wrong.
With the end growing near, I started really thinking about the reality of what came next. What did I know about estates, never mind one as convoluted as hers? I didn’t know the rules and requirements, but I did know of HIPPA and I did know that as a psychologist there were issues with closing an office. I knew very little about her actual accounts, or what bank held the mortgage on the condo. The bank I thought was the mortgage holder I had tried to contact when the first issue of the check book came up. They told me there were no records for a person of her name. Was I named on bank accounts? I didn’t know for certain having been told different things on different occasions.
M. and I spent many hours talking about this. We tried to find a recent copy of her will, to no avail. She would never give a straight answer as to a copy’s location, though she did say the lawyer had one. He wasn’t giving it up.
Though at that point Mother was consistently saying I was executor of the will and upon her death it would all be up to me. Since this came up in conversations that were usually because she had very specific things she wanted as funeral arrangements, I tended to believe her. Financially, the lawyer had and would take care of things, but in terms of ceremony and process she wanted it up to me. After, it would be mine to deal with. I believed this too, as I believed that Mother knew the mess she was leaving. What I wasn’t sure was if leaving me a mess was one last twist of a knife or if it was done as a bizarre element of trust.
Growing up, our house was always a disaster. Not true garbage, as that would have required there be food and cooking occurring, which there frequently wasn’t. In fact, Mother once sent me a card: It had a hand drawn woman on the front riding in what looked like a covered wagon. With what was to look like hand written words the outside read: “Thinking of you…” Inside it said: “…ate out, it was good.” But while our house wasn’t dirty, it was a sea of stuff: Bottles, the latest gadget on sale at the mall, candles, knickknacks, and papers – lots and lots of paper. Old junk mail. Envelopes with half started do lists, free information picked up wherever and in later years printed from the Internet. Files, office notes, forms. Nothing could be thrown out until it was read, including supermarket flyers. But there was never time to read it all, so it would accumulate, stack up, fall over and get stacked upon.
Because of all this chaos, there were only certain people allowed in the house to witness this mess. Of course, I was one of the special ones. More than once it occurred to me that I had been named as executrix of the will because I was one of the few people who would have been allowed to go through the mess.
I suppose, in retrospect, I should take this as a compliment. Certainly the degree to which she stated that she trusted I would support her wishes was a positive thing. But I find I can’t feel anything about that and at the time, it seemed such a small part of the picture I didn’t see it. I understood her funeral wishes and I promised to abide by them. They were small easy things compared to the looming estate. It’s physical mess. It’s complicated legal issues. And whatever surprises my mother created.
Growing more and more concerned about this, I tried to talk to Mother. As always, she would not have it. I tried to talk to M, but all he could say was he’d support my decisions. I did some research and learned that just because someone is named as an executor, it could be refused. That usually there is, in effect a ‘runner up’ named and worse case, it would go to the lawyer.
I was fairly certain there was a runner up named. Equally I was certain it would be one of the “cousins.” J. might have been out of favor, but his sister B. wasn’t nor were their father. I had been hurt by the cousins in the past, but believed it had been merely inconsideration on their part. I still trusted them.
So I decided. I would refuse the job. One of the cousins, better equipped than I, could take on the position. With our early discussions, I thought I could retrieve the picture and few personal items that were mine or I wished to keep and if not, so be it. I had come to terms with the possibility of not having “things” a long time ago.
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