The Signature That Didn’t Belong

I found the yellow folder wedged in Mom’s tote, trapped between her laptop and the thick leather planner she carried to work.

I lifted it out and laid it on the cool granite. The Pines brochure slid aside when I opened the folder. Underneath sat the packet labeled Durable Power of Attorney.

My fingers turned to the last page. Gran’s name was there, but the G gave it away: round and bouncy, with a loop that looked too neat. Gran’s real G leaned forward and shook a little.

Next to the signature was an empty box where a notary’s seal belonged. Mom had not had it stamped yet. Maybe that was why she had tucked it in her bag. She could take it to work tomorrow.

I drew the packet from the folder. A small folded paper slipped free, brushed past my hand, and landed near my sock on the floor.

I picked it up and opened it beneath the microwave’s blue light. The paper crackled loudly in the quiet kitchen.

It was a collection notice addressed to Mom. The date was three weeks old. Big red figures said she owed more than forty thousand dollars on credit cards, and that her wages could soon be taken to pay it.

I kept staring at the amount. Suddenly, all the grown-up explanations sounded different. Mom had not come to live with Gran only because her marriage ended or Gran needed help outside.

Maybe she had moved here because she had nowhere else to go. Uncle Dave and Uncle Tommy wanted to sell the house and divide the money. Mom needed Gran’s money to keep from sinking under her debts.

I folded the notice and slid it into my pocket beside the Power of Attorney papers. Then I put the yellow folder back where I had found it, closed the tote, and zipped it up.

I carried the papers to my room without making a sound. On the bottom shelf, I tucked them inside a textbook with its pages cut out. Then I got back under my quilt and waited for daylight.

At six-thirty, the coffee grinder rattled through the house, loud enough to make me jump. Morning had started whether I was ready or not.

I went to the bathroom and soaked a washcloth with hot water. I pressed it against my forehead and cheeks until my skin felt warm. Then I went into the kitchen.

Mom stood there in her gray work clothes, filling her travel mug. Her eyes moved from my pajamas to my face. “Lily, why aren’t you dressed? We’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes.”

“My stomach hurts,” I said, keeping my voice faint. “I might throw up.”

She touched my forehead with the back of her hand. Her mouth tightened. “You’re a little warm,” she said, then checked the clock. “I have a required logistics meeting at eight. I can’t miss it.”

She picked up her phone and called Uncle Dave. “Dave, get up and come over. Lily’s sick, and I have to go in to work. Stay here with Lily and Mom until noon. I’ll take a half-day and come back.”

She ended the call before he could answer. “Go lie down on the couch,” she told me. “I have to get Gran breakfast.”

I curled up on the living-room sofa and pulled the woven blanket over my legs. From there I could see the kitchen island without sitting up.

A few minutes later, Mom came from Gran’s hallway with her hand around Gran’s elbow. Gran wore her pale blue robe. Her feet dragged, and she looked so small that the robe seemed to hang from her.

Gran did not look toward me. She kept her eyes on the counter while Mom helped her onto a stool. “Here you go, Mom,” Mom said softly, setting down a bowl of applesauce.

Then Mom turned her back to Gran. I watched her open the Friday slot in the plastic pill box and take out a bright blue tablet, small and round.

She put it on the granite and pressed down with the end of a heavy serving spoon. A tiny crack sounded. The pill broke into powder.

Mom tipped the blue dust into Gran’s morning tea and stirred until I could not see it anymore. Then she turned around and placed the mug beside the applesauce.

“Drink your tea, Mom.” Gran wrapped both hands around the cup. Her right hand shook hard as she raised it. She took a long sip.

My stomach twisted. I covered my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut for a second. I had seen Mom put medicine into Gran’s tea. I wanted to yell, but I knew Mom could call it a tantrum, take my phone, or shut me away.

I had to wait for a chance. A few minutes later, Uncle Dave’s truck turned into the driveway. He came through the side entrance in a rumpled flannel shirt and jeans, holding a large gas-station coffee. Mom had already given Gran the sedative. With Dave in the house, I needed to find a way to contact Mr. Abernathy.