Chapter 2 - The Heated Blanket
The paramedic’s name was Lucas.
I remember because he kept asking me questions in a tone that was calm without being childish.
“Mr. Dawson, do you know what day it is?”
“Saturday.”
“Month?”
“January.”
“Any chest pain?”
“Only where the water hit.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“Not now.”
“Did you fall?”
“Yes.”
“Head strike?”
“No.”
“Blood thinners?”
“Baby aspirin.”
He wrapped another blanket around my shoulders.
My jeans were so wet they looked black.
Mud filled the grooves of my shoes.
I stared at my hands and hated how old they looked when they shook.
The sheriff’s deputy crouched beside me.
“Mr. Dawson, I’m Deputy Harris. Can you tell me what happened?”
“My son sprayed me with hose.”
“Accidentally?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me out of house.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Own it?”
“Yes.”
Brian shouted from patio:
“He doesn’t live in the house anymore!”
Deputy Harris looked over.
“Sir, I’ll speak with you separately.”
“This is my home!”
I almost smiled.
Ten minutes earlier it had been his property.
Now it was his home.
Language changes quickly when police arrive.
The deputy asked:
“Did he strike you?”
“Grabbed me by arm inside, pushed me through back door, then used hose.”
“Any injury?”
“My shoulder hurts.”
“Any threats?”
“He said get off his property. His wife told me to crawl.”
“Did anyone record?”
I looked toward Brenda.
“Yes.”
She crossed her arms.
“I recorded because Frank was acting crazy.”
Harris stood.
“I’ll need to speak with you.”
“I deleted it.”
Too fast.
The deputy’s expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because it was embarrassing.”
“Whom?”
She looked at Brian.
No answer.
Jennifer came outside.
She was around forty-five, wearing a red sweater and slippers.
“I recorded some of it too.”
Brenda’s head snapped around.
“What?”
Jennifer held her phone.
“From kitchen.”
Brian cursed.
Deputy Harris said:
“Ma’am, please don’t send that around. We may need it as evidence.”
She nodded.
Good.
No viral revenge.
At the hospital, the diagnosis was not dramatic.
Mild hypothermia.
Bruised right shoulder.
Abrasion on knee.
Elevated blood pressure.
No fracture.
No pneumonia.
No heart attack.
The physician wrote that prolonged cold-water exposure in near-freezing conditions could have become dangerous, especially at my age, but I had been removed relatively quickly.
I stayed four hours.
Brian did not call.
Brenda did.
Once.
I did not answer.
At 2:16 p.m., a text arrived.
You’re making this bigger than it was.
I stared.
Then another.
If you try to take the house from us after everything we’ve paid, we will fight you.
There.
Not:
Are you okay?
Not:
I’m sorry.
Property.
I screenshotted both.
Then called a woman I had not spoken to in almost two years.
Naomi Clarke.
Naomi was the attorney who handled my purchase and estate documents.
She answered:
“Frank?”
“I need to revoke something.”
“What?”
“The transfer-on-death deed.”
Silence.
“Are you safe?”
“I’m in hospital.”
“What happened?”
“My son sprayed me with garden hose and put me in mud.”
Another silence.
“Why?”
“He says house belongs to him.”
Naomi’s voice sharpened.
“Frank, the house is yours.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t sign any later transfer, did you?”
“No.”
“Any refinance?”
“No.”
“Any power of attorney I don’t know about?”
My stomach tightened.
“Brian had me sign something last spring when I had cataract surgery.”
“What something?”
“He said medical authorization.”
“Do you have copy?”
“No.”
“Then before we do anything else, I’m checking recorder, title, and any filings under your name.”
“Can you revoke the death deed?”
“Yes. But we do it properly and record revocation.”
“Today?”
“Recorder’s office is closed. I can prepare immediately and record Monday. There may be other estate documents we need review.”
I breathed out.
“Good.”
“Frank.”
“Yes?”
“Do not go back alone.”
“I need clothes.”
“Police standby or authorized third party.”
“I don’t want drama.”
She laughed once.
“You are in a hospital because your son sprayed you with freezing water. Drama already arrived.”
That sounded like Marie.
My wife had been dead seven years.
She used to tell me:
“Frank, pretending a problem is small does not make you generous. It makes you available for the next problem.”
I had hated that sentence.
Mostly because she used it about Brian.
After discharge, I did not return home.
Jennifer and her husband Tom offered guest room.
I refused at first.
Tom said:
“Frank, you are wearing hospital scrubs and your wallet is in a plastic bag.”
Fair.
I spent night in their downstairs bedroom.
At 8:40 p.m., Jennifer knocked.
“There’s something you need to see.”
Her phone showed the video she had recorded.
Brian spraying me.
Brenda laughing.
Then Brian shouting:
“This entire house and estate belong to me now!”
My own voice:
“My signature is the only one on the deed.”
The video also caught something I had missed.
After paramedics arrived, Brenda stepped toward Brian and whispered:
“Call Mark before Frank changes anything.”
I looked at Jennifer.
“Who’s Mark?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Mark Ellis.
May you like
Brian’s financial adviser.
And suddenly the paperwork Naomi had asked about did not feel like a side issue anymore.
