Best Laid Plans

Eleanor, a high school friend I'd drifted in and out of touch with, unexpectedly asked me to be her Durable Power of Attorney shortly before her mother's death. After her divorce, our time together increased, often revolving around me bailing her out of bad dating app decisions. With no immediate family close by, I saw the importance of the POA, but I also became the reluctant guardian of her finances. I gently suggested that people were taking advantage during shopping sprees, afternoons at the “club,” and trips to the casinos. Once, she told me her good friend was the girl behind the cosmetic counter. Possible, yes. Probable, no.

I politely navigated meetings with attorneys, realtors, and financial advisors. I shrugged my shoulders when she would describe me as the bitchy dog and my husband as the mellow retriever. I gave grace to the story she told about us being sisters in another life, where I was starving, and she would provide food for us. I’d confirm the story about riding home from the funeral home, where I helped dress and do her dead mother’s makeup. A phone ran in the car. I didn’t have my phone, and her’s was in her hand, not ringing, and many other descriptions of otherworldly encounters.

The arrival of an old boyfriend allowed me to gladly step back from daily involvement. We kept in touch, and she later informed me she was changing her will. I had known him for some time now, and trusted him. However, her texts soon revealed a pattern of verbal abuse. I listened with a sympathetic ear. After months of these stories, one seemed particularly bad, and I suggested she kick him out. She admitted she was never gonna do that. I tolerated a daily barrage of charges and contempt in our text chain.

Towards the end of a particularly contentious vacation, Eleanor felt very ill. Good advice from many, about seeing a Doctor fell on deaf ears. But they managed to patch things up, pack, and travel home. Eleanor was feeling slightly better. During our morning check-in with each other, I texted her a picture of my granddaughter, and she replied with a string of hearts. An unusual response, as most photos are greeted with some criticism. For some reason, I persisted. When my phone rang just 20 minutes later, showing the boyfriend's number, I just knew it wasn't going to be good. He just said, "Eleanor is gone, she's passed."

“What?” I held back a “You’ve got to be kidding” because I was pretty sure he wasn’t. “I’ll be right there.”

The immediate presentation of trust documents upon my arrival felt cold and misplaced compared to the gravity of the situation. She was still lying outside, and the coroner hadn't arrived yet. I could only see a foot and a hand exposed to the sun. Her brightly colored umbrella wasn't shading her anymore. His vague explanation of finding her outside and his claim of having only my contact information raised immediate red flags. When I finally opened the large envelope, I found conflicting trust documents and executor information inside, with an attorney’s letterhead attached to one of them.

The next morning, I made my way to the listed attorney’s office. The paralegal informed me they had no idea who Eleanor was. My feelings were now pissed, confused, grief stricken, and anxious. My phone rang during this bombardment of emotion. It was Eleanor’s Uncle. My stomach was roiling. The boyfriend called the Uncle, informing him of Eleanor’s passing, and just so happens he had a copy of the trust. Uncle wanted to know who I was and how to reach me, because I was listed as the executor and he was a beneficiary as well as the boyfriend. The boyfriend would not provide my information. So the eighty-seven-year-old man Googled me. After our little talk, he had confidence in me but not so much in the boyfriend and admitted he never liked him, saying Eleanor had alluded to the fact that the boyfriend possibly had dementia. The Uncle told me was possibly going to challenge the trust based on competency.

I was pretty wound up by this point. I assured her Uncle I would talk to the boyfriend and get some answers. My return to the house the next day found him very lucid, kind, understanding, and willing to do anything to stay in the home they had shared. Which I knew were her wishes. I knew she was hard to live with. I knew they both drank heavily (the Uncle even mentioned it), and verbal fights would ensue. I had seen it myself. I had made things worse by overreacting and feeding into the Uncle’s fears. The conflicting document had now disappeared along with the letterhead. I may never know what it said. But for Eleanor’s sake, I should carry out her trust, and if it aligns for him to afford the home, he should stay. It was the right thing to do.

Back at home, I needed to decompress, so I sat outside the barn in an old favorite folding chair and watched the wind blow the spring green grass and the cats play attack each other, rolling on top of one another, a ball of fur. A monarch butterfly fluttered around my chair, back to the rose bush, and off into the wind. I thought how odd it was, I hadn’t seen a monarch butterfly in years in this neck of the woods. It reminded me of a caftan top Eleanor used to wear with a full monarch pattern, and it made me smile. My cats needed feeding, so I got up from the chair and fussed with their dinner. When I turned back, the butterfly was sitting on the arm of my chair, looking right at me. I thought to myself, hmm. I think Eleanor is pleased. Out loud, I said, “Tell your mom hi!”

The next day, the boyfriend and I did more hunting for important papers, and I found the original attorney’s name. I called and found her traveling through Europe, so everything is on hold. In the meantime, the boyfriend is caring for the dog, cleaning out the vehicles, and communicating with me. I still need to face the Uncle. But as a new advisor told me, “You hold all the cards. Do what the trust states, it’s written out for you.”

This isn’t what I signed up for when we were lying out in the sun in her backyard, or cruising for boys at seventeen. It’s a heavy weight of responsibility. Truly a far cry from the innocent days of our youth.