The Signature That Didn’t Belong

I lifted the bottle from the lowest shelf. The label said to take one tablet each morning.

Through the amber plastic, I could see the pills inside. They were small and white, not blue.

I put the bottle back where I had found it. If that blue pill wasn't Gran's usual medicine, where had it come from?

I crouched beside the toilet and opened the little wicker wastebasket. There were a few tissues and an empty toothpaste box, but something crumpled lay beneath them.

It was a pharmacy bag. I took it out and flattened it against the tile.

An empty amber bottle had been tucked inside. I turned it until I could read the label.

The patient named there wasn't Eleanor Vance.

It said Sarah Vance.

The prescription was for a sedative. Beneath the directions, bold letters warned it could cause drowsiness, confusion, and trouble coordinating movements.

My stomach seemed to drop right through me.

Mom might be giving Gran her own medicine. The thought came together with a click I could almost hear: the blue pill, Gran's heavy sleep, the way she had struggled to hold things.

Maybe the pills were making Gran look sick. Maybe Mom was using them to make her confused and unsteady, then telling Uncle Dave, Uncle Tommy, and the bank that Gran could no longer manage for herself.

That could explain why Gran's tremor seemed worse lately. It could explain why she couldn't keep a pen steady.

Soft steps sounded along the hall.

“Lily?” Mom called. Her voice was getting closer. “Are you in bed?”

I jumped up and shoved the bottle and bag back beneath the tissues. The cabinet clicked shut. I switched off the light and slipped out of the bathroom.

Mom had appeared at the far end of the hall, a towel wound around her wet hair. She stopped when she saw me by Gran's door.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I was saying goodnight to Gran,” I said. My hands shook, so I squeezed the straps of my overalls.

“I told you she was asleep,” Mom replied, her voice flat. “She needs to rest. Tomorrow will be busy.”

She put a hand on my shoulder and turned me away from Gran's room. Her fingers pressed hard enough to hurt.

“Bed. Now.”

I didn't argue. I went into my room, shut the door, and switched off the light. Still dressed, I climbed under the quilt and pulled it up to my chin.

I heard Mom's footsteps return down the hall. The floor creaked as she went into Gran's room. After a little while, she came out and headed toward the living room.

I sat up and looked at the papers I had tucked away in my room: the brochure and Tommy's email. I gathered them quickly and slid them into the deep pocket of my overalls.

I was nine. I couldn't drive or call anyone from a phone of my own. But on Monday, they wanted to take Gran to a facility, sell her house, and get at her money. Tomorrow morning, Mom could give her another blue pill.

I couldn't fix this alone. I needed help from an adult who wasn't part of our family.

I tried to remember the man who had visited when Gran changed her will the year before. He drank his tea black and called her Ellie. Gran had told me I should remember his name.

Mr. Abernathy.

He was Gran's lawyer. He was supposed to look after her interests.

But if I told a lawyer my mother was doing something wrong, a pill and Tommy's email might not be enough. I needed the forged Power of Attorney. I knew Mom had hidden it somewhere.

Sleep wouldn't come. I lay under the quilt, watching the ceiling and listening to the house creak, until the red numbers on my clock changed to 2:14 a.m.

The hallway was quiet except for the refrigerator's low hum. I pushed off the covers and stood. I left my slippers behind because their rubber soles might squeak on the floor.

In my socks, I crept out of my room and down the corridor.

Mom's bedroom door was shut. I leaned close and waited until I could hear her slow, even breathing through it.

Then I passed her room and entered the kitchen. The ceiling lights were dark; the microwave clock cast a thin blue glow over everything.

Mom's black leather work tote sat on a stool beside the island, packed for the morning. She always left it there so she could take it straight to the garage.

My hands trembled as I reached for its brass zipper. I eased it open a little at a time, listening for any sound from down the hall. Then I began searching the bag for the forged Power of Attorney.