At first, the words blurred together.
Medical release.
Placement.
Best interest.
Extended care.
At the bottom was my signature.
Thin.
Uneven.
Barely recognizable as mine.
Next to it was Watson’s.
“I don’t remember signing this,” I whispered.
Watson took the document from me.
His hands began trembling.
“I remember a clipboard.”
I turned toward him. “What?”
“At the hospital, sweetheart. Your mother handed it to me. She said you had already signed. She said they needed mine so Rowan wouldn’t suffer.”
My stomach twisted.
“Peggy said that?”
He nodded. “She said you couldn’t face it. She said I had to be strong enough for both of us.”
I stood so quickly the box almost slid from the bed.
—
For eighteen years, my memories of that hospital had existed only in fragments.
Doctor Jefferson walking toward us.
My mother putting her arms around me.
Someone saying, “He’s gone, Dawn.”
I had been sedated, devastated, and so physically weak that I could barely hold a pen without assistance.
Everything after that had dissolved into a blur.
I looked at Watson.
“I need the old folder.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
He followed me into the hallway while music continued pounding from the backyard.
I pulled the plastic storage bin from the closet and emptied the hospital paperwork across our bedroom floor.
Watson knelt beside me.
“What are we looking for?”
“Proof that Rowan died.”
His hands went still.
I found Riley’s discharge documents.
Rex’s feeding records.
Condolence cards.
The funeral receipt my mother had handled because I had barely been able to stand.
But there was no death certificate.
Mom had always told me the official documents were stored safely in her fireproof box.
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