“No.”
He set the phone on the counter and rubbed his wedding ring with his thumb.
The toast popped up. One slice landed crooked, and I fixed it with the corner of a butter knife.
“Did she ask for the
room number when you told her the date?”
“Not then.”
“When did she ask?”
“This morning.”
I put the butter back in the refrigerator.
Daniel picked up his phone again. “I can tell her the hospital has visitor rules.”
“Tell her that.”
Inside was a blue hospital folder, the kind with a clear pocket on the front. A typed page showed through the plastic.
I pulled it out.
The first paragraph used the words parental authority.
I read it twice.
Daniel leaned over my shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“It means somebody wants my signature.”
He reached for the page.
I gave it to him.
At the bottom were two blank lines, one marked Parent and the other marked Witness.
“This is not a birthday card, Daniel.”
He read the page again.
“I thought she meant paperwork for the babies.”
“These are not hospital admission forms.”
“Could they be something
the hospital requires?”
“No.”
I placed the page beside the keyboard.
Daniel looked from the page to me.
“Then what is she asking you to sign?”
“I want to read the rest before I answer that.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on the folder.
I opened the second page.
It referred to a temporary family arrangement and the care of a minor child.
There was no child’s name on that page.
That bothered me more than a name would have.
“Why would she leave this blank?”
Daniel pulled out a chair.
“I do not know.”
I turned another page and found a signature line.
My name was printed beneath it.
Not signed.
Just printed.
I put the pages into a neat stack.
“What did she tell you this was?”
“Family paperwork.”
“That is not an answer.”
He looked down at the floor.
“I know.”
I slid the pages back
into the folder.
Daniel stood.
“Do you want me to ask her?”
