The Signature That Didn’t Belong

“Why are you here?” I asked Mom. “Are you feeling sick?”

“No. I took a personal day.” She rubbed her wet palms against her sweatpants and looked somewhere past my shoulder. “There was a lot of house business to take care of.”

Dave came in behind me. His keys clinked into the little ceramic dish beside the front door.

“Where’s Gran?” I asked, turning toward the hall and the door to her room.

“She’s resting,” Mom answered at once, moving between me and the hallway. “This morning was hard on her. Her tremor got worse, and she felt weak. She’s asleep now. Leave her alone.”

“I only want to see her.”

“Lily, I said no.” Her voice snapped, thin and sharp. That was the sound she made when she wanted a discussion to stop. “Go do your math. Dave, will you take these boxes out to the garage?”

I lifted my backpack, my cheeks hot. I felt embarrassed, but I was still mad, too. I headed down the hall, listening to the grown-ups behind me.

At Gran’s closed door, I slowed down. Something about the quiet made me stop.

When Gran rested, the television was usually on low. She liked hearing the afternoon news even if she closed her eyes. Now there wasn’t a voice, music, or any other sound.

I put my ear against the door. The wood gave me nothing back.

I glanced behind me. Mom and Dave were carrying the flattened boxes through the side door, their arms full. Neither of them was looking my way.

I wrapped my fingers around the brass handle and eased the door open.

The curtains were mostly shut, turning the room a dim yellow-brown. Gran wasn’t in bed. She sat upright in her flowered armchair beside the window, dressed in wool trousers and a cream blouse.

Through a narrow opening in the curtains, she watched the side yard. Her hands lay in her lap. Her right hand gave a small, unsteady shake.

At the sound of the door, she turned. Her blue eyes, usually clear enough to seem lit from inside, looked dull and worn out.

“Lily-bird,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it.

I came beside her chair. “Mom told me you were sleeping.”

“Your mother tells people all sorts of things,” Gran said. Her voice was rough, but there wasn’t much anger in it. She reached over to touch my arm. Her fingers felt chilly.

“Are you ill, Gran?”

“I’m old, darling. That’s all. Old and tired.”

I pressed my teeth into my lip. I was thinking about the blue sheet at school, the one I’d noticed in the office. “Gran, did you ask Mom to have Uncle Dave pick me up today?”

For a second she looked puzzled. Her forehead wrinkled. “Have him pick you up? Is it Thursday already?”

“Yes.”

She lowered her eyes to her lap. Her left hand closed gently around her right wrist, holding it still.

“I told Sarah this morning I couldn’t drive safely,” she said. “My hands weren’t behaving. I asked her to see that you got home all right.”

“But did you sign the paper for school?” I asked.

Gran shut her eyes. She kept them closed for a few long seconds. When she opened them, she was looking past me, through the curtain gap, toward the yard.

“Does it make any difference, Lily? I asked them to take care of it. The family took care of it. That’s what people do when you can’t manage everything on your own anymore.”

She was trying to sound as if it didn’t bother her. I could tell by the way she picked each word and set it down carefully. Gran hated asking anybody for help. Maybe, if Mom had filled out the school paper because Gran’s hand was shaking, Gran would rather say the family handled it than admit she couldn’t do it herself.

Still, the answer didn’t make the odd feeling in me go away.

“Okay,” I said softly. I leaned down and kissed her thin cheek. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

I went back into the hall and pulled her door until the latch clicked. Outside, Dave’s boots crunched across the driveway. A moment later, he was gone.

When I returned to the kitchen, Mom wasn’t there. I could hear her moving around in the garage.

The dining table was in the next room. Gran normally kept its dark wooden surface clear, apart from a lace runner and a bowl of fake fruit. Today, papers covered it from side to side.

Manila folders, envelopes from the bank, and thick packets with staples lay in overlapping piles. They spread across the table like somebody had dealt them there.

I stepped nearer. My heartbeat seemed to bump harder with every small step.

A thick sheaf rested on a yellow folder. At its top, heavy black print read: Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare and Finances.

A letter from First National Bank lay beside it, its name printed above the address. On the other side sat a shiny brochure for a place called The Pines Independent Senior Living.

I looked down at the bank letter. Near the bottom, someone had signed Eleanor G. Vance in blue ink.

On the last page of the legal packet, I found the same name again. I bent over the table, holding my breath, and lifted my finger above the writing without touching it.

The marks flowed across the page without a wobble or a stop. They had none of the rough, uneven edges Gran’s hand made when she tried to write. Right in the middle of both names was a rounded, bubbly G that I knew from Mom’s handwriting.

I stared at the signatures, seeing Mom’s letters where Gran’s should have been. The paperwork looked signed by Sarah, not Eleanor.