Chapter 7 - The Deposition of Evelyn Vance-Ellis
The court-ordered deposition took place on the second floor of the county courthouse on August 14th.
Because of the allegations of financial fraud and unauthorized encumbrances, Judge Harrison had ordered Evelyn and Richard to be deposed under oath prior to the finalization of the sale decree.
The conference room was small, fluorescent-lit, and smelled of lemon disinfectant. Outside the narrow windows, a thunderstorm was brewing, turning the summer sky the color of bruised slate.
My mother sat at the far end of the laminate table, looking shrunken. She had lost weight over the last six weeks. Her signature blown-out hair looked limp, and the designer cardigan she wore seemed two sizes too big. Richard sat beside her, staring sullenly at his own clasped hands, refusing to look at anyone in the room.
Arthur Pendelton sat on their left, looking like a man who regretted every career decision that had led him to this table.
Andrew and I sat beside Jonathan Vance. Marcus had stayed home with Mia; we didn't want our daughter anywhere near the wreckage.
The court reporter adjusted her stenotype machine. “We are on the record. In the matter of Vance and Ellis versus Ellis, Docket Number 24-CV-1104.”
Jonathan Vance leaned forward, adjusting his microphone.
“Mrs. Ellis,” Vance began, his tone polite, clinical, and completely devoid of hostility. “Could you please state your full legal name and address for the record?”
“Evelyn Vance Ellis,” my mother whispered. “104 Oakridge Lane.”
“For how long have you resided at that address?”
“All my life, mostly. Except when Richard and I were first married.”
“And who was the owner of that property prior to November 14th, 2005?”
“My mother,” Evelyn said, a tiny hint of indignation creeping into her voice. “Clara Vance.”
“And on November 14th, 2005, did your mother execute a deed conveying that property to you, your son Andrew, and your daughter Laura as tenants-in-common?”
“Yes, but—”
“Just answer the question, Mrs. Ellis,” Vance interrupted gently. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever pay rent to your son Andrew Vance for your occupancy of his one-third share of that property?”
“He’s my son!” Evelyn’s voice rose, cracking at the edges. “A mother doesn't pay rent to her own child!”
“Did you ever pay rent to your daughter, Laura Ellis?”
“No!”
“Did you, in March of 2016, sign an affidavit claiming that you and your husband had full legal authority to encumber the property with a ninety-thousand-dollar lien?”
Evelyn looked frantically at Arthur Pendelton. Pendelton sighed, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his temples.
“Mrs. Ellis,” Pendelton muttered. “You have to answer.”
“Richard handled that,” Evelyn whimpered, pointing a trembling hand at her husband. “I just signed where he told me to sign! We needed to help Heather! Heather was going through a terrible divorce! Her husband left her with nothing! What were we supposed to do? Let our daughter starve?”
“Your daughter Heather was thirty-six years old at the time,” Vance noted dryly, consulting his notes. “She was employed as a pharmaceutical sales representative earning eighty-four thousand dollars a year. Is that correct?”
“She had expenses!” Evelyn shouted.
“And did you inform Laura or Andrew about this ninety-thousand-dollar loan?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they wouldn't understand!” Evelyn burst out, tears finally spilling over her wrinkled cheeks. “Andrew is cold! He doesn't care about this family! He lives three thousand miles away and never visits! And Laura... Laura was always fine! Laura had Marcus! Marcus had a steady job! They didn't need the money! Heather needed it! Kaye needed it!”
I sat across the table from her, watching the spectacle.
For forty years, I had believed that my mother’s favoritism was some mysterious, complex emotional equation that I was simply too defective to solve. I had spent decades looking in the mirror wondering what was wrong with me: *Was I not pretty enough? Not funny enough? Did I read too many books? Did I complain too little?*
And now, sitting in a drab courthouse room under fluorescent light, the truth was laid out in all its pathetic, banal simplicity.
It wasn't that Heather was special.
It was that Heather was weak.
My mother needed Heather to be weak so that my mother could feel powerful. Heather’s incompetence was the oxygen that fed my mother’s delusion of being the grand, indispensable matriarch. And because I was competent, because Mia was brilliant, because we didn't come to her begging for scraps, she had no use for us.
We were an insult to her need to be needed.
“Mrs. Ellis,” Vance continued, his voice relentless. “On June 22nd of this year, you hosted a party at 104 Oakridge Lane. Is that correct?”
Evelyn sniffled, wiping her nose with a soggy handkerchief. “Yes.”
“And you ordered a cake for that party?”
“Heather ordered it.”
“With your card?”
“Yes.”
“And that cake stated: ‘Congratulations to our only granddaughter.’ Did you read that inscription when the cake arrived?”
Evelyn looked down at the table. Silence stretched across the room. The only sound was the rhythmic, soft clacking of the court reporter’s machine.
“Mrs. Ellis,” Vance pressed. “You are under oath. Did you read that cake?”
“Yes,” Evelyn whispered.
“Did you instruct anyone to correct it?”
“No.”
“Did you invite your granddaughter, Mia Ellis, to that party?”
“Yes! I called Laura! I told her to bring Mia!”
“And when Mia arrived,” Vance leaned in, his eyes hard as flint, “did you have a single photograph of Mia displayed anywhere in that yard?”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “I... I didn't have any recent ones.”
“Mia graduated high school seventy-two hours earlier,” Vance said. “Did you attend her graduation?”
“I was sick!”
“Did you send a card?”
“I forgot!”
“Did you purchase a graduation gift for Mia?”
“I was going to—”
“Did you purchase a graduation gift for Kaye?”
“Yes,” Evelyn sobbed.
“What was it?”
Evelyn put her face in her hands.
Beside her, Richard cleared his throat, his face mottled with shame. “A car,” Richard muttered into his collar.
Vance turned his head sharply. “Excuse me, Mr. Ellis? You bought a thirteen-year-old child a car?”
“A savings fund for a car,” Richard corrected, his voice defeated. “Ten thousand dollars in a certificate of deposit.”
Vance nodded slowly. He looked down at his legal pad, made a single checkmark, and closed the folder.
“I have no further questions for this witness,” Vance said.
Across the table, Andrew leaned forward. He didn't look at his lawyer. He looked straight at Evelyn Vance Ellis.
“You’re going to be out of the house by September thirtieth, Mother,” Andrew said. His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It sounded like an air traffic controller announcing an inevitable landing. “The auction is scheduled for October fifth. Douglas Sterling has already listed the parcel with three commercial development firms. If your belongings are not out of the house by five PM on September thirtieth, the sheriff will place them on the curb.”
“Andrew!” Evelyn wailed, reaching her hands across the table toward him. “I’m your mother! You can’t do this to me! Where will we go?”
Andrew stood up, buttoning his suit jacket.
“You have one hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars coming to you,” he said coldly. “There’s a lovely two-bedroom senior living complex near the highway. I believe they have a very nice lawn. You can sit out there and eat pink cake with Heather every single day.”
He turned to me. “Ready, Laura?”
I stood up. I didn't look at my mother. I didn't look at my father.
May you like
As we walked out into the marble corridor, the sound of Evelyn’s wailing followed us through the heavy wooden door—thin, shrill, and completely powerless against the stone walls of the court.
***
