After eleven long days, Ruth was still in the hospital, and Emma was bone tired. She was having difficulty accepting her mother’s stroke had been more severe than originally diagnosed. Her mother couldn’t speak and had difficulty swallowing. The paralysis worsened the situation. Emma visited every morning and evening, often tenderly feeding her mother a meal. She talked to her constantly, but Ruth’s distant eyes told Emma she didn’t recognize her only daughter.
She sat at Ruth’s upstairs desk. The reality was setting in—she and Jack knew little about her mother’s finances. She opened a drawer, looking deep into the space. Emma recognized her father’s gun case. It was unlocked; the Smith and Wesson was tucked inside. She laid the gun and ammunition on the desk. Handling the gun, Emma thought back to her father teaching her to shoot. She smiled at the memory of Sunday afternoon outings of target practice, shooting tin cans off a country fence.
The revolver’s chamber was fully loaded. Shocked, Emma removed the bullets and yelled for Jack to join her.
“Jack!”
Emma held the gun, dropping the bullets into the pocket of her sweater and walked out to the hall. She peered at her spouse below. He held an open manila file folder on his lap; when he looked up at her, his brow furrowed in distress.
“You need to come down here.”
Emma walked the carpeted steps fast. “What is it?”
Jack saw the Smith and Wesson in Emma’s hand. “Isn’t that your dad’s gun? I hope it isn’t loaded.”
“It was.” She moved closer to Jack. “What have you found?”
“Ruth’s bank accounts, and she doesn’t have as much money as we thought. The file had fallen behind the drawer. Look at this.”
He handed Emma the folder, and she sat down hard in the chair crosswise from him.
Labeled “Donations,” Emma mutely flicked through the letters of thanks for her generous contributions to The Road to Calvary: ten thousand dollars, fifteen thousand dollars, and fifty thousand dollars for a stained-glass window written in July. Emma’s chest was tight, the air dry. Jack pushed another folder titled JSI toward her.
Emma opened it and huffed. Inside laid a check photocopy for two-hundred thousand dollars, written to JSI. “Damn it!” she screamed, and tears of fury sprang from her eyes. “She promised me she wouldn’t have any more to do with them. My own mother lied to me!”
Jack reached out and put a hand on Emma’s quaking forearm. “I know this looks damaging, Em. But I thought your dad invested in blue-chip stocks, leaving Ruth secure. We’ll have to meet with her financial team.”
The manila file shook in her hands. “I think I figured out what the JSI stands for,” Emma sniffled.
He patted her arm. “What?”
“Jesus Saves Investments,” she stated flatly. “It’s hard to accept she could fall prey to schemes like this. Mom is going to need every cent just to live in a decent place with excellent care. We can sell the house, sure, but how long will that take? My mother shouldn’t live in some hell-hole shack. She deserves better.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket to blow her nose.
“Let’s arrange a meeting with her legal and financial advisors. They’ll have a better idea of her real assets.” He took the revolver out of his wife’s quivering hands. “Give me that and all the bullets, too. Emotions are running high, and access to a firearm is not a good idea.”
Emma glowered at her husband in irritation. She couldn’t believe what he was insinuating and dumped the gun in his lap. “Jesus, Jack, you’re being ridiculous.”