Three Years Feeding A Paralyzed Liar

Richard had been paralyzed for three years. I was the one who did everything for him—feeding him, bathing him, and cleaning up his waste. After the manufacturing plant shut down, I had to swallow my pride. At fifty years old, I took a low-paying temp job at an office, working alongside twenty-somethings. Every day, I worked from dawn to dusk. I’d rush home to flip him over, wipe his body down, and feed him. I left my debit card at home so he could have access to funds if needed. Every day at noon, I used DoorDash to have warm soup delivered right to his bedside. But last month, twenty thousand dollars went missing from the account. Thinking I was a victim of identity theft, I went to the bank to print out the transaction history. The recipient’s name was Chloe Vance. Richard’s ex-girlfriend. Every single transfer was made right after I left for work in the morning. The memo line on every transaction read: "Voluntary Gift." I folded the bank statement neatly and shoved it into my pocket. When I got home, I warmed up some oatmeal and fed him, one spoonful at a time. He acted just like he always did—opening his mouth, eyes closed, completely motionless. I set the bowl down and wiped my hands. "Richard, you're paralyzed and only have a basic flip-phone. How exactly did you transfer that money?" 01 "What did you say?" Richard opened his eyes. "Twenty thousand dollars is missing from the account. The recipient is Chloe Vance, your ex." "Never heard of her." "You dated her for three years before we got married. And now you don't know her?" "That was decades ago. What does that have to do with me?" "Every single transfer was made right after I left the house. Only you and I know the passcode to that card, and you're the only one home during those hours." "What are you trying to say?" "I'm not trying to say anything. I'm asking you what this means." He closed his eyes again. "Helen, have you been working too hard lately?" He called me Helen. For three years, he only called me in two ways: either a grunt to get my attention, or simply opening his mouth to be fed. The only time he ever used my actual name was when he wanted me to shut up. "Look at yourself. You're fifty. Half your hair is gray, and you have more wrinkles than my mother. Are you sure you're not just going through menopause?" "I am asking you about the bank transfers." "And I'm trying to help you find the real reason. Women your age go through hormonal changes. You get paranoid. You start seeing conspiracies everywhere. Remember Sarah, the accountant from my old office? At forty-eight, she kept accusing her husband of cheating. Turns out she just had severe anxiety." "I don't have anxiety. I have the bank statements." "Banks make mistakes all the time. Didn't you see the news last week? Some old guy had eight thousand dollars randomly deposited into his account by mistake." "He got extra money. I lost mine." "Either way, it's the bank's fault. Why are you standing over my bed interrogating me? I'm a paralyzed man. I have a cheap flip-phone and two useless legs. How could I possibly transfer money?" As soon as he finished speaking, he started coughing. His whole body shook, his face turning bright red. I went to fetch a glass of warm water. It had to be exactly body temperature—he hated it when it was too hot. He took slow sips, then turned his head away. "Don't bring this up again." "Why?" "You're waving a piece of paper in the face of your paralyzed husband who hasn't been able to move for three years. You look like a psycho." His voice was barely a whisper. "If you're tired of taking care of me, just say so. I won't stop you. Just let me rot in this bed. Nobody cares if a useless cripple lives or dies anyway." This guilt trip worked every single time. Over the past three years, whenever I showed even a hint of exhaustion, he would throw this line at me. It was his shield, blocking any questions I had. I washed the bowl, mopped the floor, and soaked his dirty bed sheets. Before turning off the lights, I leaned down to grab some tissues from under his pillow—he liked keeping a pack there for his nighttime coughing fits. My fingers brushed against something hard. Flat, rectangular, with sharp metallic corners. A smartphone. It wasn't the giant-button flip-phone I had bought him, the one that sat on his nightstand solely for emergency calls. This was a high-end smartphone. I didn't pull it out, but I could feel that the screen was slightly warm to the touch. "Is the light off yet?" his voice drifted from the pillow. "Turning it off now." I slid the phone back exactly where it was and stood up. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?" He had never asked me about my schedule before. "Seven." "Tell your boss that the medical bills went up again this month." "Okay." "Helen." "Yeah?" "Don't talk about that bank statement anymore. If neighbors hear about it, they'll think we're going broke." 02 "Ma'am, here is the transaction history for the past three months." The bank teller slid the stack of papers across the counter. I hadn't waited until seven to leave the house. At five-forty, after leaving his oatmeal warming in the pot, I slipped out. At six AM, the bank was practically empty. The statement was seven pages long. I flipped from the back, circling every transfer to Chloe Vance in red ink. It wasn't just twenty thousand. In three months, there were eleven transfers. The smallest was one thousand, the largest was five thousand. Totaling twenty-eight thousand dollars. The timestamps were always between 7:15 AM and 8:00 AM—right after I left, but before I clocked in at work. There was even one transfer at 12:30 PM. I remembered that day. Our office was on break, and I had taken a twenty-minute nap in the lounge. "Do you need anything else, ma'am?" "Can you tell me which branch this recipient account was opened at?" "Well... by policy, we can't disclose the personal details of other account holders—" "I'm the one who sent the money. My money was taken and sent to someone else. I can't even know where they opened the account?" The teller hesitated for a few seconds, then tapped on her keyboard. "It was opened at the Pine Street branch on the East Side." Pine Street. My commute to work was toward the West Side. Pine Street was in the exact opposite direction—a forty-minute bus ride. During my lunch break, I skipped the cafeteria and took a bus to Pine Street. I wasn't familiar with this area. It was filled with brand-new apartment complexes. I didn't have Chloe's address, but I remembered a detail from Richard's old internet service bill from three years ago, right before his accident. I had helped him set up a plan, and the billing address wasn't our home. At the time, he claimed it was for a friend. I hadn't questioned it. That address was 118 Pine Street, Pine Crest Apartments, Building 3, Apartment 1401. The security gate at Pine Crest was broken, so I slipped inside easily. It was a modern building with a blue-gray exterior. I took the elevator to the 14th floor. The door to 1401 was shut tight. I didn't knock. On the mailbox next to the door, there was a small label: "Chloe Vance." The handwriting wasn't hers. It was Richard's. I had lived with his handwriting for over twenty years. The way he dragged the last stroke of his "R" was unmistakable. A man who had allegedly been paralyzed in bed for three years had his handwriting on his ex-girlfriend's mailbox. I stood in the hallway and quietly snapped a photo. Then I took photos of the apartment door, the hallway, and the building's exterior. By the time I got back to the office, I was fifteen minutes late. My supervisor, Sarah, gave me a look but didn't say anything. At three in the afternoon, my phone rang. It wasn't Richard. It was his mother, Eleanor. "Helen, did you forget to change Richard's adult diapers today?" "I changed them twice this morning." "He said you only changed him once. And his lunch was late. The food was cold when it arrived. Are you just giving up on him now?" "Mom, I had things to take care of during lunch—" "What could possibly be more important than your husband? He has been paralyzed in that bed for three years. You are his wife, Helen, not a stranger. You took vows. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health—" "Mom." "If you're tired of him, go ahead and leave. But think about what you'll do. You're fifty, you have no degree, no savings, and your old factory is gone. Where would you go without Richard? Who would even look at you?" She had said this so many times. The phrasing was always the same. Like a pre-recorded tape on loop. "I got it. I'll make sure it doesn't happen tomorrow." "And another thing, Richard said you've been asking him weird questions lately. It's stressing him out. As his wife, you need to be more supportive. He's going through enough without you nagging him." I hung up. When I got home that night, Richard was waiting for his food with his eyes closed. I fed him, wiped his face, and turned his sheets. When I tucked him in, my fingers brushed the edge of his pillow. The phone was gone. "Richard, you're out of tissues under your pillow. Let me get you a new pack." "No need. I can reach them myself." He could reach them himself. A man who supposedly couldn't move his arms, a man who needed me just to roll over, could reach under his own pillow. "Okay. Get some rest then." "Helen." "Yeah?" "Tomorrow, make an extra batch of oatmeal before you leave. Keep it in the slow cooker on warm. Don't order DoorDash anymore. It's not healthy." "But who's going to serve it to you at noon?" "I'll figure it out. Don't worry about it." 03 "Which year of Richard Collins' medical records do you need?" The hospital archives window was small, forcing me to lean in to speak. "October 2021. The car accident." "Are you immediate family?" "I'm his wife." The clerk checked my ID, searched the database for ten minutes, and handed over a thick manila folder. I didn't open it at the window. I walked over to a bench in the hallway. Discharge summary, surgery logs, MRI reports—twelve pages in total. On page three—the spinal scan report. I am not a doctor, but after taking him to countless follow-ups over the past three years, I had learned to recognize the medical terms. "L3-L4 herniated disc. Mild compression on the dural sac. No significant spinal cord signal abnormalities detected." A herniated disc. Not a severed spinal cord. I pulled out my phone and found the medical certificate from his check-up last year. It clearly stated: "Spinal cord injury resulting in incomplete paraplegia." Two reports. One saying "no spinal cord abnormalities," the other saying "spinal cord injury." Same patient, same hospital. I looked at the signatures on both. The original MRI was signed by: Dr. David Miller. The follow-up certificate was also signed by: Dr. David Miller. The same doctor had signed two completely contradictory documents. I took photos of every page, put the documents back into the folder, and returned it to the window. At lunch, a young coworker named Lily sat next to me. She was sweet but incredibly chatty. "Helen, what are you looking at so intensely?" "Nothing, just checking my bank app." She leaned in to take a peek. "Chloe Vance? That name sounds so familiar." My fork froze in the air. "You know her?" "Not personally, but I've seen her on TikTok. There's an influencer called @ChloeCares. Her real name is Chloe Vance. She makes caregiving videos, teaching people how to care for bedridden patients. She's pretty popular—has like fifty thousand followers." "What kind of videos?" "You know, stuff like how to roll a patient over, how to prevent bedsores, techniques for feeding. Very professional. Apparently, she's caring for someone herself, and she posts updates constantly." I immediately opened TikTok and searched "@ChloeCares." Her profile picture was a white gardenia. Her bio read: "To love is to serve. Three years, day by day. I do it gladly." Three years. I scrolled through her videos. She never showed her face, only close-ups of her hands. They were clean, well-manicured hands with pale pink nails, rolling a faceless patient over, wiping his back, and feeding him oatmeal. The oatmeal was served in a light blue ceramic bowl. Ours were plain white. But her feeding technique—scraping the excess off the spoon against the rim of the bowl before bringing it to the mouth, waiting patiently for the lips to open—was identical to mine. Richard was a slow eater. If you fed him too fast, he would choke. It took me six months of trial and error to master that exact rhythm. The comment section was filled with praise. "You are such an angel." "This is true love." "God bless your beautiful soul." When I got home that night, Richard was waiting for his food, eyes shut. I brought the spoon to his lips. He opened his mouth slowly, swallowing one bite at a time. It took twenty-three minutes to feed him. "Richard, you seem to have a good appetite today." "Yeah." "There's this TikTok creator called @ChloeCares. She posts a lot of videos about caring for bedridden patients. Have you seen her?" He didn't answer. But his Adam's apple bobbed. "Do you know her?" "Are you starting this again?" His voice suddenly became sharp. "I told you, I don't know her. You have nothing better to do than creep on social media all day? Do you know how you sound right now?" "How?" "Like one of those paranoid, menopausal women who spy on their husband's phones all day. Keep this up and I'm going to commit you to a psych ward." "Fine, I'll drop it." "Good. Just do your job and take care of what you're supposed to. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." I cleared the bowl. While washing the dishes, I went back to Chloe's TikTok profile. The latest video was posted last Wednesday. It showed the silhouette of a man standing by a window, wearing a gray cotton robe. He was standing. 04 "Helen, are you okay? You look pale." Lily walked over with a cup of coffee. I was sitting at my desk, staring at my phone screen. I had watched that video seven times. "I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well." "Want some coffee?" "No, thank you." I played the video again. The foreground was a sheer white curtain with warm sunlight filtering through. The background music was a soft piano melody. The man stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his head slightly tilted as if admiring the view outside. He was wearing a gray cotton robe. I had bought that robe. Last winter, there was a sale on Amazon—two for forty dollars. I got a blue one for myself and a gray one for Richard. He had claimed he didn't need it. He said a paralyzed man had no use for a robe and that hospital gowns were fine. But the man in the video was wearing it. The collar was buttoned to the second button, and the left pocket bulged slightly—exactly where he liked to keep his lighter. The video was only eight seconds long, and it didn't show his face. But I didn't need to see his face. That posture—leaning his weight on his right leg, his left foot slightly flared outward—was a posture I had looked at for over twenty years. The timestamp on the video was last Wednesday at 6:00 PM. Last Wednesday— My supervisor, Sarah, had given me a mountain of spreadsheets to finish. I didn't leave the office until 11:00 PM. I had ordered him lunch, left dinner in the slow cooker, and texted him before I got busy: "Food is in the cooker." He had texted back: "Okay." I had assumed he meant he would figure out a way to have the delivery guy help him, or just wait. But he had gotten up and walked over to get it himself. I flipped my phone face down on the desk. The screen went black, but the image remained burned into my mind. I scrolled further back into Chloe's Instagram posts. The earliest post was from April 17th, three years ago—exactly three weeks after Richard was discharged from the hospital. It was a photo of a bouquet of flowers with the caption: "Finally, I can take care of you properly." Three years ago. I thought I was the only one caring for him. Waking up at five every morning to roll him over, wash him, feed him, clean his bedpan, check his blood pressure, and do physical therapy. I had spent hours massaging his useless legs until my own hands shook with exhaustion. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. He had laid there like a corpse, and I had served him like one. Meanwhile, his ex-girlfriend was posting videos online boasting about her "devotion." Before clocking out, I found an even older post on Chloe's profile. It was from two years ago—a photo of a dining table with two cups of coffee, two steaks, a salad, and two sets of silverware. The caption was just a single heart emoji. In the top right corner of the photo, outside the window, you could see a distinct blue-gray building. Pine Crest Apartments. Two years ago, while Richard was enjoying steak and red wine with Chloe, I was grinding at my job just to pay for his medical supplies. On the subway ride home, I held onto the handrail, my other hand gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. I got home at nine. When I opened the bedroom door, the lights were off. Richard was lying in bed in the exact same position I had left him in that morning. He was on his back, hands flat on the blanket, eyes shut. "Did you eat the soup?" "Yeah. It was cold." "I left it in the slow cooker on warm. How could it be cold?" "Maybe the cooker was unplugged." His eyes remained shut as he spoke. I walked over to the kitchen. The slow cooker's indicator light was glowing. It was plugged in. "Richard." "Yeah?" "What did you do today?" "What do you think? I'm a cripple. What can I do besides lie here?" "All day?" "All day. I can't even get a sip of water when you're not here, and you're asking me what I did? Do you have a conscience?" His voice pitched up. "Fine. I won't ask." "You better not," he muttered, his tone dropping back down. "Go heat up some water. My feet are cold." I went to boil the water. As the kettle heated up, my heart turned to ice. I hesitated for a long time, then dialed the police department to report my husband for hiding and transferring marital assets. The officer on the line listened patiently before telling me this was a domestic/civil matter. They couldn't intervene. I needed a lawyer.