“I need to read it first.”
I put the blue folder beside the silver key.
Then I moved both away from the edge of the table.
Daniel looked at the folder again.
“Why would she bring you paperwork?”
“I do not know yet.”
He reached toward it.
I put my hand over the cover.
“Not here.”
He withdrew his hand.
For the first time that day, neither of us tried to make Vivian’s request sound ordinary.
At three fifteen the next afternoon, Daniel loaded two empty car seats into the Buick while I stood beside the open trunk with the blue folder inside a plain envelope.
The Buick had 190,000 miles on it, and Daniel still checked the tire pressure before every hospital trip.
“Take a picture of the folder cover,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because I want a record of what she gave
us.”
He nodded.
I photographed the blue cover, then the envelope.
Daniel closed the trunk.
“I will ask her what she meant.”
“Ask exactly that.”
“What if she says it is only family paperwork?”
“Then ask why I am expected to sign it.”
He stared at me.
“You think there is a signature page?”
“I think there is a reason she wants my hands on those papers.”
He opened the driver’s door.
“I will find out.”
At eight forty-five, he came home with no clear answer.
He put his keys in the bowl by the door.
“She said it is paperwork about family arrangements.”
I was sitting at the living room table with the blue folder open in front of me.
“What arrangements?”
“She did not explain.”
I turned one page.
There were spaces for names, dates, and signatures.
Daniel came closer.
“Did you read all of it?”
“Enough.”
“What
does it do?”
I ran my finger down the first page.
“That is what I am trying to determine.”
He pulled out a chair.
“She said it was normal.”
I looked at the signature lines again.
“Normal for whom?”
Daniel had no answer.
I closed the folder.
The room was quiet except for the soft click of the heating system.
