I did not call Emily.
That decision troubled me for the rest of the morning.
My daughter deserved honesty, but suspicion without facts can destroy things facts might have repaired. If Derek had done nothing wrong, I did not want to place a permanent shadow over her marriage because Lily had misunderstood paperwork.
So I waited.
At four thirty, Emily collected Lily.
Derek was not with her.
“Long day?” I asked.
She rubbed the back of her neck. “Awful. We're short two people.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
Lily ran outside to inspect something beside the driveway.
I lowered my voice.
“How are things financially?”
Emily looked at me oddly.
“Why?”
“I'm your mother. I'm allowed to ask inconvenient questions.”
She smiled faintly. “We're managing.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Her smile disappeared.
“We've had a rough year.”
“How rough?”
She leaned against the counter.
“The mortgage jumped. Derek had some credit-card balances. Lily needed dental work. Everything seems to cost twice what it did five years ago.”
“Are you behind?”
“Not now.”
“Were you?”
She hesitated.
“Two payments on the house.”
I stared at her.
“Emily.”
“We caught up.”
“How?”
“I worked extra shifts. Derek moved some things around.”
“What things?”
“I don't know. He handles the finances.”
There it was.
A small sentence that explained far more than Emily intended.
“Do you see the accounts?”
“Of course.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Regularly?”
She looked toward the driveway.
“Mom, what's this about?”
I could have told her then.
Instead I said, “Nothing yet.”
Her face changed.
“Yet?”
“Go home. Get some sleep.”
She knew me too well to accept that.
“Are you worried about something?”
“I’m checking something.”
“About Derek?”
I looked at her.
That was answer enough.
She straightened.
“Mom.”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
Her eyes searched mine.
Then Lily burst through the door holding a dandelion and the conversation ended.
That evening I called my friend Ruth.
Ruth and I had taught at the same elementary school for twenty-six years. She had spent twelve of those years handling union paperwork, which meant she possessed two useful qualities: an instinct for administrative nonsense and an absolute refusal to be intimidated by it.
“I need to understand employer childcare benefits,” I told her.
“That's a very specific opening.”
I explained what Lily had said.
Ruth stopped joking.
“What company?”
“Harrison Manufacturing.”
“I know someone in Benefits there.”
“Of course you do.”
“I know everybody. Retirement is boring.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Can you ask a general question?”
“I can ask anything.”
“Don't use Derek's name.”
“Understood.”
“And don't use mine unless you have to.”
She was silent for a moment.
“Margaret, are you frightened?”
“No.”
That was not entirely true.
“I’m angry that I don't know whether I should be frightened.”
Ruth called me the following afternoon.
“Sit down.”
I sat.
“Harrison has a dependent-care reimbursement program.”
My fingers tightened around the telephone.
“How does it work?”
“Employees who qualify can submit documented childcare expenses. There are rules, limits, verification requirements—the usual bureaucratic maze.”
“Does the caregiver have to be paid?”
“Yes. It reimburses an expense.”
“And the provider has to confirm?”
“Normally.”
I stared at Lily's pink piggy bank, which was still on my kitchen counter.
“What does normally mean?”
“It means whoever files the claim has to identify the childcare provider and provide documentation.”
“What kind?”
“Receipts. Dates. Amounts. Provider certification.”
I felt cold.
“Signature?”
“Yes.”
I said nothing.
Ruth's voice softened.
“Margaret?”
“I have never signed anything.”
“I figured.”
“Can you find out whether Derek submitted claims?”
“Not without authorization.”
“Mine?”
“If you're listed as the provider, possibly.”
That afternoon, I searched through every folder in my filing cabinet.
Taxes.
Insurance.
Pension.
Property records.
Medical papers.
I had always kept meticulous records. Teaching does that to a person. Thirty children can turn one missing permission slip into an expedition.
I found nothing involving Harrison Manufacturing.
At six, Ruth called again.
“I spoke to my contact.”
“What did she say?”
“She can't release employee records to me.”
“Of course.”
“But she said if your identity may have been used without permission, you should contact the Benefits office directly.”
The next morning I did.
The woman who answered introduced herself as Janice.
I explained carefully.
“My son-in-law works for your company. My granddaughter mentioned paperwork identifying me as her childcare provider.”
There was a pause.
“May I have your full name?”
“Margaret Bennett.”
Keyboard clicks.
Another pause.
Then more typing.
“When did you begin providing childcare?”
“Six years ago.”
“Were you compensated?”
“No.”
The keyboard stopped.
“Mrs. Bennett, can I place you on hold?”
“Yes.”
The music lasted nearly four minutes.
When Janice returned, her tone had changed.
“Mrs. Bennett, I need to verify your identity before discussing anything further.”
She asked for my date of birth and address.
Then she asked a question that made the hair rise along my arms.
“Do you recognize a provider identification account ending in 4172?”
“No.”
“Have you ever created an online childcare-provider profile associated with Harrison Manufacturing?”
“No.”
“Have you ever electronically certified childcare services for Derek Collins?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Janice?”
“I'm here.”
“Has someone been claiming that I did?”
“I can't characterize the records until they're reviewed.”
That was a corporate answer.
Teachers recognize those. They are cousins of the sentence, We are looking into the incident.
“How much?”
“I'm sorry?”
“How much money has been connected to my name?”
“I’m not authorized to give you that figure over the phone.”
“Then authorize someone who is.”
Another pause.
“I can escalate the matter.”
“Do that.”
She asked whether I could come in the next day with identification.
I agreed.
Then she added, “Mrs. Bennett, until we understand what happened, please don't contact the employee regarding the records.”
That sentence frightened me.
“You mean Derek.”
“Yes.”
“You already know which employee I'm talking about.”
“I can’t discuss that further.”
I thanked her and hung up.
My hands were trembling.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that the teaspoon clicked against my cup when I tried to stir my coffee.
The next morning Ruth drove me to Harrison Manufacturing.
The Benefits office occupied the second floor of a beige administrative building beside the factory. Everything smelled faintly of toner and burnt coffee.
Janice met us in a conference room.
She was younger than I had imagined, perhaps thirty-five, with tortoiseshell glasses and a folder pressed tightly against her chest.
“I've been authorized to show you limited copies while our department reviews the account.”
She placed the folder on the table.
I opened it.
The first page contained my name.
Margaret Bennett.
My address.
My telephone number.
My date of birth.
All correct.
Beneath it:
IN-HOME CHILD CARE PROVIDER.
I read the words twice.
Then I turned the page.
A receipt.
Services rendered for Lily Collins.
Hours.
Dates.
Payment amount.
At the bottom was a signature.
Margaret Bennett.
It looked enough like mine to fool someone who had never watched me write.
But I had taught handwriting for thirty-one years.
I knew every habitual movement of my own hand.
The capital M was wrong.
I turned another page.
Another month.
Another payment.
Another imitation.
“How many are there?” I asked.
Janice hesitated.
“How many?”
“Forty-eight monthly submissions.”
Ruth inhaled sharply beside me.
“Four years?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the amounts.
Some months were smaller. Others larger.
I began adding them mentally, but Janice spared me the arithmetic.
“The reimbursement total associated with the claims is eleven thousand seven hundred sixty dollars.”
For a moment, the room became strangely distant.
Nearly twelve thousand dollars.
My name.
My work.
My granddaughter.
Someone else's money.
“Where was it deposited?”
“I can't disclose employee banking information.”
“Was it deposited to me?”
“No.”
That was enough.
I closed the folder.
Ruth put her hand over mine.
Janice looked uncomfortable.
“There is something else.”
I met her eyes.
She slid one photocopy from beneath the others.
“We compared the provider signatures.”
“Yes?”
“They aren't consistent.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course they aren't. None of them are mine.”
“That isn't what I mean.”
She placed two forms side by side.
March.
August.
Same name.
Different hand.
I leaned forward.
The first imitation had been made by someone familiar with my signature.
The second had been copied by someone else.
I knew it instantly.
Not one person had used my identity.
At least two had.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Receipts Came to Sunday Dinner, and One Careless Sentence Finally Broke Derek’s Carefully Maintained Story Apart
One Innocent Question at Sunday Dinner Made Margaret Wonder Who Had Been Putting a Price on Her Love
Part 2 of 20
