Story code: ST-001107
Part 2: The Trial Shift
Sarah stared at the notarized pages of the care log for several seconds before closing the ledger with a dull thud. Clara shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes darting between her mother and the closed book.
“There must be a mistake,” Clara said, her voice cracking slightly. “She’s manipulating the security system, Mom. You know how she is.”
Sarah looked at Clara, then turned her gaze back to Chloe. “Notarized or not, the estate requires both of you to participate. Starting tomorrow, Clara is in charge of the morning insulin transfer and the physical therapy routine. Chloe, you will step back. We will see if Clara can manage the log herself.”
Chloe simply nodded, picked up her ledger, and placed it back inside the wooden memory box, clicking the brass latch shut. “Fine,” she said.
The next morning, I stood in the hallway outside the grandmother’s room, sorting through a box of old linens. Through the open door, I watched Clara attempt the morning routine. The grandmother lay in bed, waiting. Clara picked up the syringe, her hands shaking as she tried to draw the insulin.
“How much is it again?” Clara muttered, looking around the room. “Chloe usually leaves the dose written down.”
The grandmother spoke softly. “It’s on the chart, Clara. On the wall.”
“I see the chart, Grandma, but these numbers don’t make sense,” Clara said, her voice rising in frustration. She tapped the syringe against the vial. “Just hold still.”
A few minutes later, the physical therapist arrived. I watched Clara attempt to assist with the transfer from the bed to the wheelchair. Clara gripped the grandmother’s arm incorrectly, causing the older woman to wince and cry out.
“You’re not holding her weight right,” the therapist said, stepping in to take over. “Didn’t Chloe show you the transfer belt?”
“I don’t need a belt,” Clara snapped, stepping back, her face red and covered in sweat. She walked out of the room, brushing past me without looking.
The silence in the hallway was heavy as the therapist adjusted the wheelchair. Clara leaned against the wall, crossing her arms tightly and refusing to look at either of us. Her breathing was loud, her lips pressed into a thin line of defiance despite her obvious failure to manage the basic requirements of the care plan.
By afternoon, the tension in the house was thick. I went back to the shared bedroom to finish cataloging the vanity items, only to find the door locked from the inside.
Chloe walked up the stairs, holding a basket of clean towels. She reached for the doorknob and twisted it, but it didn’t budge. She knocked firmly. “Clara. Open the door.”
“I’m resting,” Clara’s voice called out from inside. “You can use the downstairs bathroom. I’m in charge of the house schedule now.”
Chloe didn’t plead or argue. She set the laundry basket on the floor, pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialed a number.
“Mr. Vance?” Chloe said when the call connected. “This is Chloe. I have a care disruption to report. My sister has locked me out of the shared bedroom where the medical supplies are stored, and she has refused to perform the afternoon transfer. I have the notarized logs from the past six months ready for your review.”
Through the wooden door, I heard the sound of quick footsteps. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal Clara, her phone in hand, looking at Chloe with wide, desperate eyes.