Mrs. Mercer watches them the way people watch actors overplaying a part.
On the third morning, she asks for Harold Greer.
The lawyer comes that afternoon. He is about seventy, built like an old tree, and carries a leather folder that looks older than most interns. He speaks with Mrs. Mercer alone first. Then he asks for you.
You step into the room uncertainly, aware of Gail and Thomas watching from the hallway with frank irritation.
Mrs. Mercer looks exhausted, but her eyes remain sharp.
“Daniel,” she says, “Mr. Greer is going to witness that I am still capable of making my own decisions. You are also going to witness it, because I trust your memory more than their intentions.”
Thomas starts to protest. Harold Greer shuts him down with one raised hand and the kind of silence lawyers cultivate over decades. Papers are signed. Initials placed. A conversation recorded on a small device Greer brings from his briefcase. You are not told what has changed. You are told only that it matters.
That night, in the parking lot, Gail corners you by the vending machines.
“How long have you been involved?” she asks.
The phrasing itself irritates you.
“I clean her house. I help out.”
“With what?”
“Whatever she needs.”
Gail folds her arms. “My mother can be impressionable.”
There are entire family histories packed into the word impressionable, and none of them are flattering.
“She seems pretty clear to me,” you say.
Her eyes sharpen. “Be careful. Old people get attached. Sometimes helpers misunderstand kindness and start expecting things.”
You stare at her for a beat too long. Then you say the truest thing available.
“Some people only show up when they think there’s something left to sort.”
Her face goes still. You walk away before she can answer.
