Page 71 of Lillian

“That’s me,” I confirm just as something clicks.Shit.

“Great. You’ve been served.” He produces a manilla envelope, pulls it out, and hands it to me. “This is a legal document notifying you of your date to appear,” he states and then tells me I may need to respond by filing legal paperwork, and then he rushes out the door. If I wasn’t confused as hell, I might laugh.

Poor kid probably has PTSD from this job.

My thumb slides under the lip of the envelope, opening it, and I pull out the paper. I scan the top page where my name is front and center under ‘writ of summons.” Then my eyes bounce up to the top left where my heart stops.

Plaintiff: Mr and Mrs. Jack T. Walton

Defendant: Rebecca L. Walton

What. The. Fuck.

They’re suing Becca? I hurriedly look over the rest of the document, wondering at the fucking nerve of them. That’s when I catch a word out of the corner of my eye.

Conservatorship

They’re trying to put Becca under a conservatorship because, of course, they are. How dull will their lives be when they can’t control either of their children anymore?

Blood pumping, I toss the papers on the coffee table in front of the couch and pull out my phone, thumbing through my contacts.

I’m going to need a fucking lawyer. A good one, too, because God knows they’re going to get the best one money can buy.

I leave a voicemail for a friend who will have a recommendation for me. When I hang up, I sit there stewing in my anger, ready to walk across this floor to my dad’s office and beat the shit out of him.

But that’s what he wants. A scene. To know he’s getting to me. Instead, I stand up and grab my gym bag. Maybe a run will clear my mind.

As I’m heading out the door, a new thought hits me, and I pull my phone back out to make another call.

“Good morning,”I greet the receptionist with a smile. “We’ve got a twelve o’clock. Grace Wilson.” Every time I have to use Talia’s last name for Grace, I cringe. I call her by my last name to everyone else. To family and friends. Because that’s what she is. But for doctor’s appointments or legal papers, she has to be a Wilson. For now.

“Good morning,” she smiles back and then glances through her appointment book on the computer in front of her. “Ah, there she is. We’ve got her in to see Doctor Carter.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry. She sees Doctor Hendricks.” She’s been her doctor since I moved back home to Flagstaff with Grace.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Hendricks is on vacation. We can try to reschedule you for when she’s back if you’d prefer.”

I look down at Grace, who is still holding my hand, and remember the way she hacked up a lung all weekend. I sigh.

“It’s fine. We’ll see Doctor Carter.”

She nods. “He’s great, you’re in good hands.” Then, I’m handed paperwork to fill out for insurance and regular patient information.

I fill it out quickly and hand it back to the receptionist, then take a seat next to Grace as she plays with the toy set in the waiting room. Although the room is mostly quiet, there are only two empty chairs. All the rest are filled with worried-looking parents and kids sitting next to them or on their laps.

I take my phone out and think about calling Lincoln. But he’s working, and I don’t want to bug him. Instead, I scroll through social media. There are a few posts from my mom and Kim. My mom took a quick weekend vacation with my dad, so her posts of sandy beaches and Pina Coladas make me jealous. Scrolling through the pictures and videos Kim posted of Nicky playing catch in the backyard with Jim makes me laugh. Jim isn’t the most athletic dad out there. He can fix just about anything with a motor, but sports aren’t his forte. So watching him catch and throw with his son looks so awkward it’s funny.

Before I know it, almost forty minutes have passed, and we still haven’t been called back yet. One by one, the other chairs have emptied, though. We can’t be that much further behind.

I walk up to the receptionist and ask how much longer it’s going to be.

“Just a little bit longer. I’m so sorry. With Doctor Hendricks out, we’re swamped. We’ll be with you as soon as we can.” She looks genuinely apologetic, and they did squeeze us into their schedule, so I walk back to my seat, reminding myself to relax.

Ten minutes later, a nurse peeks her head out from the door that leads into the back. “Grace Wilson?”

“Grace,” I call as I stand up and walk toward the nurse. We follow her back, where she has Grace step on the scale and then measures her height. We are led into a cold, clinical exam roomwhere Grace hops up on the bed, the sheet covering it crinkling under her weight.

I answer the nurses questions about what brought us in, and then she leaves us to sit there again while we wait for Doctor Carter.

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