A place where I was to quietly vanish while they finished off my life remnants. All bitterness, all maternal offense, all doubts vanished. Washed away by a wave of icy, righteous fury.
It wasn’t anger anymore. It was the feeling one has seeing absolute, unadulterated evil. And understanding one must stop it.
Not for revenge. For justice. For my husband’s memory who wanted to protect me.
For myself. Stephen Vale, I said into the phone. And my voice was firm as steel.
I understand you. Do everything necessary. Pull all documents.
Prepare lawsuits. We’ll fight. I’ve already started, Louise Patricia.
I’m on your side. I know you’re ready. You’re ready.
You’re ready. You’re ready. You’re ready.
You’re ready. You’re ready. You’re ready.
And they’ll regret it very soon. The news of the credit didn’t break me. It tempered me.
As if dipped in icy water then thrust into fire. And I didn’t crack but turned to steel. All these days I thought I fought for my past, for memory, for justice.
Now I understood I fight for my future. For the right to simply live. The next few days passed in fog, but not despair fog, but utmost concentration fog.
I stopped noticing household inconveniences. Creaky bed, cold water, scant food from old canned jars found in the cellar. All that receded to second, even third plan.
My body moved on autopilot, doing necessary work, and brain worked clearly and tirelessly, like a well-oiled mechanism. I tidied one room, the one with the stove. Scrubbed it clean.
Found an old wooden table in the attic, washed it. It became my headquarters. Every evening I climbed the hill, and now it wasn’t just a connection session.
It was a war council. Me and Stephen Vale. He became my eyes and ears there, in the city, in that life already dead for me.
Louise Patricia, we filed a statement with the prosecutor’s office on fraud, he reported in his calm, business voice. Also sent official notice to the bank, attaching medical records of your condition during the agreement signing. The bank must start internal investigation.
Good, I said. What’s next? And next, Louise Patricia, we wait. First shells already flew to target. Just go about your business.
They’ll reveal themselves. And I did. I found an old shovel in the shed and started digging a small patch before the house, clearing years of weeds.
The work was hard, soil compacted, weed roots deep. But with each pulled root, I felt freeing not only the land but my own soul. I was uprooting my past.
My blind love, my sacrifice. It hurt but necessary. And on the fifth day after our credit talk, it thundered.
In the evening, as usual, I spoke with Stephen Vale. But this time his voice sounded different. With a note of restrained triumph.
Well, Louise Patricia, he began without preamble. The ice broke. This morning a courier delivered a registered letter with notice to your address.
For your son and his spouse. I imagined it. Morning.
They’re drinking coffee in my kitchen, discussing what color cabinets to order. Doorbell. Courier.
Sign for receipt, casually open the thick envelope, what’s in the letter. I asked. Official notice from me as your legal representative. It states your full and sole right to the apartment.
That any attempts at deals with it will be stopped in court. And most importantly, it contains demands within 24 hours to provide explanation on the credit agreement concluded, as we claim, fraudulently. I was silent, absorbing his words.
But that’s not all, he continued. This morning the bank’s security service, getting my documents, reacted. And reacted harshly.
All accounts your son had access to, including credit cards and joint savings, were frozen pending clarification. Anthony Boris personally oversaw. Frozen.
What an accurate word. Their world, built on my money, on my deceived trust, covered in icy crust. Did they try something? I asked, already knowing.
Oh yes, the lawyer chuckled. Bank called me. First your son rushed in.
Yelled, demanded, threatened. When calmly explained that until fraud investigation ends he gets not a cent, he reportedly paled and left. An hour later his spouse arrived at the bank.
Threw a tantrum. Demanded the manager, screamed about consumer rights, that she’d sue the bank. They politely showed her the door.
Their world is crumbling, Louise Patricia. Faster than they expected. I sat on the hilltop, wind tousling my hair.
I looked at my abandoned village, at dark house silhouettes, and felt no gloating. I felt the violated order restoring. Justice isn’t revenge.
It’s just returning everything to places. And then my phone rang again. Gene’s number.
I dropped Stephen Vale’s call and took son’s. «Mom! What have you done?» It wasn’t my Gene’s voice. That soft, slightly condescending tone he’d used with me last years, gone.
It was a squeal. High, breaking, full of animal horror. I was silent…
«Have you gone mad?» Papers from some lawyer came. Bank blocked all cards. All.
We have no money even for groceries. You decided to ruin us? He choked with rage and panic. In the background I heard Zoe’s sobs.
Not quiet, bitter weeping. But loud, demonstrative, hysterical wails. «Do you understand what you’re doing?» He yelled.
Zoe feels bad. She can’t get upset. And you, due to your senile dementia, decided to break our lives.
I did nothing, Gene, I answered quietly and calmly. This contrast between his scream and my whisper. Seemed to stun him.
He fell silent. «You did it all. You and your wife.
What, what did we do? We gave you a gift. Bought a house. And you repay us like this? You tried to steal my apartment, Gene.
You took a credit on it while I was dying of illness. You dumped me here so I wouldn’t learn until the bank takes my home. That’s what you did.
Dead silence hung on the other end. As dead as in this village. I heard only his heavy, ragged breathing.
He didn’t expect this. He thought I knew nothing. He thought it was just offense, just a show.
But it turned out a verdict. «Mom,» he croaked finally, and a pitiful, fawning note appeared in his voice. «Mommy, it’s all not like that.
It’s a mistake. Misunderstanding. We’ll explain everything.
Come on, cancel it all, huh? Withdraw all these papers. We’ll come, talk. Come,» I said. «Really?» Hope cut through his voice.
«You’ll cancel everything?» «No.» I said, «Come. I’m waiting.»
I pressed end. That’s it. Now they know.
They know it’s not a whim. Not offense. It’s war.
And they know I know their scariest secret. Now their panic will turn to despair. And despair pushes people to maddest acts.
I descended the hill. Night was dark, but I walked confidently. I knew they’d come.
And I was ready. They came the next day, closer to noon. I heard them long before seeing.
Engine roar, furiously and out of place tearing the sleepy village silence, and brake squeal right at my house. Dust rose in a pillar, covering wild currant bushes. I didn’t move.
I sat on the same porch where they dumped me days ago, and peeled young potatoes found in the overgrown garden. A few tiny, quail-egg sized tubers. My lunch.
Car doors slammed almost simultaneously. Gene jumped out first. Pale, haggard, with dark circles under eyes.
He wore an expensive shirt, but wrinkled, as if slept in it. Behind him, slower, Zoe emerged. Her face swollen, makeup smeared, but she still tried to hold her head high, with that expression of disdainful superiority become her second nature.
They stopped a few steps from the porch, looking at me. I didn’t raise my head, continuing to carefully cut thin skin from a potato. This simple, monotonous labor grounded me, didn’t let emotions take over.
I was not a drama participant, but a spectator. «Mom,» Gene began. His voice hoarse, pleading.
He stepped forward, extending arms as if to hug. I didn’t pull away, just kept looking at my hands. «Mommy, what is this? Why are you doing this to us?» I placed the peeled potato in a bowl of water and took the next.
«I was waiting for you,» I answered, not looking at him. This simple phrase apparently threw him off. He expected screams, reproaches, tears.
Anything but this icy, detached calm. «We, we came to talk,» he faltered. «Mom, it’s all some horrible misunderstanding.
We’re family. Families should help each other, not sue.» He spoke learned words, correct but empty.
No drop of sincerity, only fear. Fear of losing all he considered his by right. Here Zoe’s patience burst.
She stepped forward, pushing Gene aside. «Enough of this circus!» she hissed, her face twisted in malice. «Have you completely lost your mind in old age? Gone wild in your backwoods? What right did you have to block our accounts? Who gave you that right?» She almost screamed.
Her voice, thin and unpleasant, hit the ears. «Do you understand what you’ve done?» she continued, pointing at me with a finger of perfect manicure. «You’re shaming us.
We had to cancel the kitchen order. Cancel. People are laughing at us.
And I, I can’t get upset. Doctor forbade. I’m carrying a child, your grandson or granddaughter.
And you’re driving us to poverty.» She threw her main trump—pregnancy. Before, that word alone would’ve made me forget myself and rush to fulfill any whim.
But not now. The ice in my chest didn’t budge. I slowly raised my eyes to her.
Just looked. Long, attentively, unblinking. Like looking at an unfamiliar, unpleasant object.
My gaze made her falter. She stumbled, fell silent, but then recovered, her face flushed again. Gene picked up, again trying to play peacemaker.
«Mom, really. Zoe’s right, she can’t get nervous. Please, let’s settle it nicely.»
But you got offended, we understand. We’re guilty, overdid it. Maybe this house isn’t the best gift.
But we’ll fix everything. Return everything. Just call your that, lawyer.
Say you changed your mind. Right now. Here, take my phone.
He extended his shiny smartphone. As if it was so simple. Call, and all their lies, all betrayal vanishes, erases like writing on sand…
I set the knife and last potato in the bowl. Wiped my hands on the old apron. And slowly stood.
I was at their level. They stood on ground, I a step higher, on my porch. «You want me to cancel everything?» I asked quietly.
«Yes. Yes, mommy.» Gene nodded eagerly.
Zoe looked at me challengingly, pressing lips. «So I give you my Social Security again.» «My apartment?» «My life?» «Mom, don’t exaggerate.»
Gene winced. «The apartment is our common. And we’d care for you.
Always.» «Like you cared for me when I was ill?» I asked, and my voice became even quieter. But in the ensuing silence it rang deafening.
They froze. I shifted gaze to Zoe. She instinctively took a tiny step back.
«I remember everything, Zoe dear,» I said, for the first time in years calling her as she liked. I remember you sitting by my bed. I remember your caring hands.
And I remember the papers you slipped me. Said it was for the IRS. For the HOA.
Pure formality. Zoe’s face became white as sheet. Her arrogance, her fury.
Her confidence, all drained from her like bad makeup in rain. Only bare, animal fear left. Gene looked from me to wife, understanding nothing.
«Mom, what about?» I looked at my son again. In his eyes fear, but also incomprehension. Maybe he really didn’t know all details.
Maybe she fooled him too. Or he preferred not to know. It no longer mattered.
He was an accomplice. «I’m talking about the credit, Gene,» I said, minting each word. «The big credit?» «You took at the bank eight months ago.
Against my apartment. Under my signature you got when I was delirious. You thought I’d never learn? Thought I’d quietly die here in this shack while the bank takes my home for your debts?» The blow hit home.
Seen by how Gene staggered, as if punched in the gut. He looked at Zoe with horror and some new, bitter understanding. She didn’t look at him.
She looked at the ground, at her expensive shoes dirtied with country mud. All their tricks, all manipulations crumbled to dust. They stood before me naked in their greed and lies.
Masks torn off. The show over. So, Gene, I finished in my quiet, even voice.
You still want me to call the lawyer? He couldn’t utter a word. Just opened and closed mouth like a fish thrown ashore. Zoe hunched shoulders.
Turning from predator to cornered animal. The pause was long, heavy. In this pause died the last drop of my maternal love for him.
Died and was buried right here, by this rotten porch. «Leave,» I said. It wasn’t an order or request. It was simple fact statement.
Like rain falls or night comes. They silently turned. Not looking at each other. Like puppets with cut strings.
Shuffled to their expensive, shiny car. Got in. The engine started not so furiously, but wearily.
The car slowly, almost uncertainly, turned and rolled away on the dusty road. I remained alone on the porch. Beside me a bowl with peeled potatoes.
My lunch. My new life. And the air around was amazingly clean.
After their departure, silence fell. But it was a different silence now. Not dead and oppressive like the first day, but calm and full of dignity.
I cooked my potatoes on the stove. They seemed the tastiest food in the world. I ate slowly, sitting at my washed table, and looked out the window I’d finally unboarded and washed.
Beyond it my overgrown garden, and in it among weeds I saw several surviving peony bushes. Their dark red tight buds about to open.
I thought that was it. That they, crushed and exposed, would leave me alone and try to clean up what they wrought. But I underestimated them again.
I forgot a cornered beast doesn’t seek repentance. It seeks to bite one last time. About a week passed.
In that time I met my only neighbor. Rather, he came to me. One morning I was hauling a water bucket from the well.
And heard behind a calm, low voice. «Let me help, neighbor. Not a woman’s job, turning the winch.»
I turned. Before me stood a tall, lean old man with gray beard and incredibly clear blue eyes. He easily with one hand finished turning the winch, grabbed the bucket, and set it on ground.
«Fred Cooper,» he introduced, extending a broad, calloused palm. «Live in that house, two plots over. Last of the Mohicans in this village.
Louise Walker.» — I answered, shaking his firm hand. So our acquaintance began.
Fred, or Uncle Fred as he asked to be called, turned out former chairman of the local farm co-op. Old school man, not talkative but wise and solid. He didn’t ask how I ended up here.
He just saw. Saw the expensive car that brought and left me. Saw me alone, without help, trying to settle in the abandoned house.
And understood without words. He started helping me. Brought some dry firewood logs, shared milk from his goat, or just came evenings to sit on the porch, talk about weather, crop prospects.
His silent presence was huge support for me. With him I didn’t feel lonely. I felt safe.
And then the last battle struck. One morning, watering my future peonies, I heard hum of cars. Not one, several.
A whole cavalcade approached my village. Three cars stopped at my house, and people began exiting. I recognized them.
My cousin Vera from Peoria with husband. Late husband’s nephew, Oliver, with wife. Some other distant relatives seen only at funerals and weddings…
And leading them like two generals, Gene and Zoe led their troop. Gene looked even worse than last time. Thinner, with twitching eyelid.
But Zoe, conversely, transformed. In simple dark dress. No makeup, hair in modest bun.
Her face showed universal sorrow. She held Gene’s arm, supporting as if he’d fall. Oil painting: unhappy son and his faithful, suffering spouse.
They lined relatives in semicircle like for execution, and Gene, prompted by Zoe’s quiet whisper, began speaking. His voice trembled, but now not panic. It was well-rehearsed sorrow.
Dear ones, Aunt Vera, Oliver, thanks for coming. He began, sweeping all with tragic gaze. We called you because trouble hit our family.
Big trouble. He paused, letting words sink. Relatives looked at me with bewilderment and sympathy.
Our mom, Louise Patricia, she’s unwell, Gene said with anguish. After illness, problems started. With head.
She began forgetting everything, confusing. She imagined conspiracies, some credits. She doesn’t recognize us.
Accuses of terrible things. I stood with watering can in hands and listened to this theater of absurd. I didn’t believe my ears.
They decided to declare me insane. To take everything. So their fraud becomes just fruit of my sick imagination.
We wanted to treat her, Zoe picked up in her mournful, angelic voice, dabbing dry eye with handkerchief corner. We sought best doctors, clinic, but she ran away. Found some abandoned house and hides here.
Refused help. Blocked all accounts so we can’t pay for treatment. She’s dangerous to herself.
We fear she’ll do something to herself. Aunt Vera, kind-hearted woman, gasped and pressed hands to chest. «Louise, dear, what is this? Let’s go home, to city.
To hospital, get treated.» They looked at me like a violent lunatic. Mix of pity, fear, and some disgust.
I saw my verdict in their eyes. Gene and Zoe’s plan was devilishly simple and effective. Who’d believe a lonely elderly woman living in ruins over young, respectable son and his pregnant wife caring so for her? I was silent.
What could I say? Any word, any protest, they’d immediately declare symptom of illness. See? Aggression. Inadequate reaction.
And when it seemed all lost, that I lost this last, dirtiest battle, I heard behind calm creak of gate. May I inquire, what gathering? All turned. On the path stood Uncle Fred.
In his usual work clothes, but held straight like a general. His clear blue eyes swept the delegation, stopped on Gene and Zoe, and finally on me. And you, excuse me, who? Zoe asked haughtily, eyeing him head to toe.
Me? I’m the neighbor, he answered calmly. Cooper, Fred Isaac. And you fine folks who came to the woman in a crowd and scare her? We’re her relatives.
Gene shouted hotly. And we came to save her. Her head’s not right.
Uncle Fred slowly approached and stood beside me. He didn’t look at me, but I felt his solid shoulder. Head not right, you say? He squinted at Gene.
Strange. But I’ve been talking with Louise Patricia a week. And see before me absolutely sane, clear, and very strong person.
A person whose own son brought on birthday and dumped in this shed like useless thing. I saw it with my own eyes. Relatives murmured.
Aunt Vera looked at Gene doubtfully. And I see a person, Uncle Fred continued, voice firmer, who alone, without help, turns this shed into livable house. Kindled stove, tidied, digs garden.
Do crazies behave so? To me, so behave people from whom everything taken but couldn’t take main—will to live. He stepped forward, closer to delegation. And you young people, he shifted gaze to Zoe, you seem strange to me.
Came in expensive car, dressed to nines, but say mother cut off all your accounts. How’d you get here, on last dime? And you don’t look like grief-stricken children. More like raiders come to squeeze last from old folk.
Only instead of soldering irons and irons, you have tears and lying words. Last words he said loud and clear. And they hit bullseye.
Relatives who came with sympathy for Gene now looked at him and Zoe suspiciously. Their well-planned show crumbled before eyes. Aunt Vera approached me.
«Louise, is it true? He kicked you out?» I nodded silently. And that was enough. All their lies burst like soap bubble.
Relatives began whispering, casting angry, condemning glances at Gene and Zoe. Nephew Oliver, burly guy, approached Gene closely. «What scum are you doing?» He growled.
Decided to drive own mother to grave. Gene backed away. Zoe grabbed his hand and dragged to car…
