It’s been a bit since we had a Willie story.  

We should probably check in on her. 

Our check-in begins this morning, when I was recounting to my husband the plot of Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. 

He was, as you might imagine, enthralled. If there is one thing better than watching a ’90s teen comedy, it’s getting the verbal CliffsNotes on a ’90s teen comedy. 

So I’ll summarize the plot for you, too. 

When the babysitter for a family of tweens and teens dies early in the summer, the kids find themselves in one hole after another as they lie to everyone about their lack of adult oversight. 

Willie is the kids from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. All of them. All of the kids. 

Willie finds herself in hole after hole. Well really, I find Willie in hole after hole. If you ask Willie, she’s never been in a hole. There is, in fact, no such thing as a hole. Willie will say the holes I discover are not holes at all, merely minor concavities of no consequence whatsoever. 

Let’s take, for example, the checks. 

The first check came to my attention the day after Indy went to Marion’s bar in Nepal. I notified Indy and Willie’s financial advisor of Indy’s passing. This financial advisor oversees their retirement account and life insurance. 

Indy and Willie had each just received their required minimum distribution checks. 

I’ve known this financial advisor for years. So I felt very comfortable asking him what, exactly, required minimum distribution meant. 

Except I used language Indy often told me I was too pretty and too smart to use. 

And never used around him. 

Except that one time I forgot and he smacked me upside my head and I never forgot again. 

Boy, do I miss him. He was the only person who could smack you upside the head in a way that was loving and painless, yet straightened you out faster than a hard yank to the steering wheel. 

A required minimum distribution, or RMD, is a percentage of a retirement account the federal government requires your investment firm to pay out to you annually when you reach a certain age. 

Willie had no idea where Indy’s check was. She had never heard of an RMD. Had never had an RMD paid out. Had, in fact, never heard of a check. Checks are just constructs. Constructs I had invented. Who, exactly, was I to invent such nonsense? 

A thorough search of the Temple of Doom yielded nothing. No check. 

I texted that financial advisor, explaining the circumstances. No problem, he told me. He’d have the account issue another check.  

The only sticking point might be that Indy’s check could no longer be paid out to the deceased Indy. It would be made out to his estate.  

His estate. Like we’re saddling horses and eating canapés. 

The missing check would, of course, be canceled. I felt that wise as it appeared to never have circulated in Willie’s orbit. 

“Found it!” Willie exclaimed triumphantly, the day after the check had been canceled and a new one issued. “Found the check!” 

I explained to Willie the check no longer had value. The financial advisor had canceled it. 

“Why would you let him do that?!” Willie sputtered. Not only had that been a perfectly good check, but Willie had known where it was the whole time. She had, in fact, been expecting it.  

No hole here. No hole at all.  

I let slip my best eye roll, which Willie assured me she saw. Then I put a daily reminder in my phone for two o’clock. 

Two o’clock is when Willie picks up her mail.  

At two every afternoon, I called Willie. I asked after the RMD check. 

And I asked after the other check. 

The other check. 

The other check was a funeral benefit from the United States Department of Veterans Affairs. As a disabled veteran, Indy was entitled to extra money for his funeral. I applied for that money. I told Willie to watch for that money. 

Each day, Willie would assure me she had the mail, right there in her hands. And each day, she’d tell me no checks had arrived.  

When March rolled around with still no checks, the financial advisor canceled the errant check and issued yet a third check. 

“Found it!” Willie declared a day after the “errant” check was canceled. 

She handed me the check, along with “something from the military.” 

That “something from the military” was a letter stating the VA had approved the funeral benefit. It stated Willie had been issued a check. 

In January.  

I know Willie’s finances better than I know Star Trek. That check was never deposited.  

Willie, meet hole. Hole, Willie.  

I believe you’re acquainted. 

I called the VA to reissue the check, which is easier than you might think, and certainly easier than handling Willie. 

Last week, Willie and I sat down with her lawyer. Willie wanted to update her will.  

“How did he know Indy died?” Willie asked me. 

Having become an expert at detecting developing holes, having become a master at filling those holes before they become chasms, I had told the lawyer myself, knowing Willie never would. 

She explained to the lawyer that once the military “found out” about Indy’s Parkinson’s disease, they had paid for his treatment. 

Found out. 

They found out because I spent nine months filing paperwork to get Indy compensated. They found out because I scoured the Temple of Doom for Indy’s military records. They found out because I spent a Saturday early in the pandemic ill-advisedly meeting with a friend experienced in such matters. 

You don’t have to tell Mom the babysitter’s dead. 

I already did. 

Hole, averted.