A Suspicious Mind

Suspicion:  The imagining of something without evidence (Ed Note: That's a great definition, the without evidence part).

So here's the latest installment of the reality TV show "Suspicious Seaweed V Serene Seaweed." That's a joke - Suspicious Seaweed always wins.  He dominates.  It's like watching a major league pitcher throwing inside, high and tight, to a T Ball player.  Serene Seaweed is bailing out. He's on his back, in the dirt.

I've not been able to shake the feeling that my sister was trying to go around and behind and beneath me on the whole checking account appropriation thing.  I'm telling the truth when I say - and I have to mention that I'm telling the truth because it's not a favorite thing of mine to do - that I really am not upset about the money and her behavior.  But I'm . . . you know . . . suspicious.  I can't remember one instance of my father talking about money with me - ever - in the entirety of my existence on this earth, so I'm having a lot of trouble imagining the circumstances where he would, unbidden, offer to give my sister a hell of a lot of money.  I can't see it happening without some prodding or manuevering on my sister's part.  I may be wrong but I can't shake the feeling.

So here's the main thrust of the latest installment.  The lawyer who is responsible for dealing with the legal system - making sure that the will is executed according to the wishes of my father - has to provide the probate court with a detailed accounting of my father's assets.  He sent a list to us for review.  There were a few highlighted areas where he requested additional statements or back-up documentation, and then there was one big, long, detailed section - marked in proctor red - asking why I had provided one amount for dad's checking account and then the last statement showed that amount less 85%.  Apparently that's a no-go for the court.  Where did that money go, the court is wondering?

So my sister, temporarily free from any brotherly disapprobation, is on the hot seat again.  I read her response to the lawyer with some sadness.  I remembered how I felt when I had told a whopper, got caught, miraculously danced out from under the lie, with that vaguely comforting feeling of having got away with it but not really.  Then it resurfaces.  Lies are like that.  They're like retching.  Sound and fury with no results. 

This is why I always try to tell the truth even if it reveals something uncomfortable about myself, some poor behavior or embarrassing lack of knowledge, some deficiency.  I'd just rather deal with the short, intense discomfort that have to face that slow burn of a suspicious mind.