Caroline remained beside my bed for several minutes.
She kept looking at the banking application, trying to understand why the transfer had failed.
I watched her through nearly closed eyes.
She seemed less concerned about my condition than she had been when she first entered the room.
That was the part I couldn't stop noticing.
She had kissed my forehead.
She had asked no meaningful questions about how I felt.
And now that the bank had refused her, all her attention was fixed on the screen.
I wondered what she would have done if the transfer had succeeded.
Would she have put the phone down and held my hand?
Would she have called the nurse?
Would she have told me that she hoped I recovered?
I couldn't know.
I only knew what she was doing now.
She was trying to move my money without my permission.
I had to keep reminding myself of that fact because my mind kept searching for a gentler explanation.
A mother can spend a lifetime making excuses for her child.
I was discovering how dangerous that habit could be.
Caroline finally placed the smartphone on the tray table.
She folded her arms and stared at the screen.
Then she picked it up again.
I could hear her tapping.
I didn't ask what she was doing.
My eyes remained closed.
I was pretending to be confused and exhausted, hoping she would stop paying attention to me.
But she wasn't finished.
She began looking through the phone, moving between screens as though another application might offer a way around the restriction.
I could hear her breathing through her nose.
Every so often, she muttered something under her breath.
The room felt smaller with her in it.
I thought about Diane's office.
I remembered her warning that I needed to protect myself, even if I wasn't ready to decide what I believed about Caroline.
At the time, I had thought the worst that might happen would be another argument about paperwork.
I hadn't imagined this.
I hadn't imagined lying in a hospital bed while my daughter used my thumb to try to reach the money I had saved for the rest of my life.
I needed help.
Fortunately, I had not waited until that moment to prepare for the possibility that I might need it.
About twenty-five minutes earlier, Caroline had stepped into the hallway to call Richard.
I had been alone.
My smartphone was still on the tray table, and my purse was beside the chair.
I had looked toward the open doorway to make sure nobody was watching.
Then I reached for my purse.
The movement was difficult.
My fingers felt clumsy, and I had to pause once because the effort made me tired.
But I found the little black flip phone beneath the tissues.
Plastic.
Small.
Ordinary.
It had seemed almost foolish when I bought it.
Now it was the only phone Caroline didn't know about.
I opened it and pressed the first speed-dial button.
Diane's number.
When she answered, I kept my voice low.
"It's Margaret."
She recognized me immediately.
"Margaret, what's happened?"
"My daughter is trying to take money from my account."
There was a brief silence.
Then Diane's voice became more focused.
"Are you safe right now?"
I looked toward the doorway.
"No."
"Is she in the room with you?"
"She stepped out, but she'll be back."
"Does she have access to your banking application?"
"She has my smartphone. She knows how to unlock it."
Diane didn't waste time asking questions that could wait.
She told me not to confront Caroline.
She told me to keep the spare phone hidden.
And she asked me to alert the nurse as soon as I could do so without putting myself at risk.
Then she said she would contact hospital security and report the attempted transfer to the local police.
I closed my eyes while I listened.
I was frightened, but hearing a familiar voice helped me think clearly.
"Will you stay on the line?" I asked.
"I'll make the necessary calls now. If you can safely reach the nurse, do that. Don't try to handle this alone."
I told her I understood.
Then I ended the call and tucked the flip phone back into my purse.
My hands were shaking.
I sat quietly until Caroline returned.
She didn't notice anything different.
That was the only advantage I had.
Now, as I lay in the hospital bed, I waited for the help Diane had promised.
Caroline picked up the phone again.
She tried the banking application once more.
The same restriction appeared.
She made a frustrated sound.
"How did you manage this?"
I opened my eyes a little.
"Manage what?"
She gave me a sharp look.
"The account. Why is it locked?"
"I don't know."
She seemed to study my face.
For a second, I wondered whether she suspected I was pretending.
Then she looked away.
"Richard is going to be furious."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
I stored them away in my mind.
Not because they answered anything, but because they told me something about what mattered to her.
She was worried about Richard's reaction.
She wasn't worried that she might have frightened me.
She wasn't worried about the fact that I had nearly died.
I felt a dull ache beneath the fear.
I wanted my daughter back.
The daughter who used to sit at the diner counter after school, swinging her legs and waiting for me to finish work.
The girl who had once fallen asleep in the passenger seat while I drove her home late at night.
I remembered helping her fasten a dress before her wedding.
I remembered giving her the money for the house.
Those memories were still real.
But they couldn't make what she was doing acceptable.
Caroline suddenly turned toward my purse.
"Where's your debit card?"
I didn't answer.
She leaned over the chair and reached inside the bag.
I wanted to tell her to stop.
I wanted to call for the nurse.
But I remembered Diane's instructions and forced myself to remain calm while I watched Caroline search.
She pulled out my wallet first.
Then a packet of tissues.
A folded receipt.
My house keys.
She placed everything on the chair, moving faster as she grew frustrated.
"Where do you keep it?"
I let my eyelids droop.
"Keep what?"
"Your bank card."
"Perhaps it's in my wallet."
She opened the wallet again and searched through the compartments.
Then she turned back to the purse.
Her fingers moved beneath the lining, feeling for anything she might have missed.
I felt sick watching her handle my belongings.
The purse had accompanied me for years.
It had carried grocery lists, receipts from the diner, photographs of my grandchildren, and the ordinary little things I needed to get through a day.
I had never thought of it as a place where I might have to hide something from my own daughter.
Caroline reached the bottom.
Her fingers closed around the flip phone.
She pulled it out.
The little black casing looked almost ridiculous in her hand.
She turned it over once.
Then she looked at me.
"What's this?"
I kept my face blank.
"An old phone."
She pressed the button to open it.
The small screen lit up.
"Why do you have another phone?"
I could hear the anger returning to her voice.
I didn't answer immediately.
I was trying to decide whether to speak, whether to ask her to put it down, whether to reach for the nurse call button.
Before I could make up my mind, the phone began to ring.
The sound was loud in the quiet room.
Caroline froze.
I watched her eyes move to the screen.
Then back to me.
She held the ringing phone between us.
"Mom, who's calling you on this?"
I said nothing.
The phone continued ringing.
And for the first time since she had entered my room, Caroline looked uncertain.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Voice on the Hidden Phone Made My Daughter Stop Searching My Purse and Look at Me Differently
I Thought Raising My Daughter Alone Would Mean She Would Stand Beside Me When I Needed Her Most
Part 4 of 12
