I pulled out a copied form.
The words blurred at first. Medical release. Placement. Best interest. Extended care.
At the bottom was my signature.
It was thin, crooked, and barely mine.
Beside it was Watson's.
"I don't remember signing this," I whispered.
"What else is in there?"
Watson took the page. His hands started to shake.
"I remember a clipboard."
I looked at 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 turned.
"What?"
"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 fast the box nearly fell.
***
For eighteen years, I'd remembered pieces of that hospital night.
Doctor Jefferson walking toward us.
My mother wrapping her arms around me.
"She said you couldn't face it."
Someone saying, "He's gone, Dawn."
I was sedated, broken, and too weak to hold a pen without help.
After that, everything blurred.
***
Now I looked at Watson. "I need the old folder."
"Now?"
"Right now."
He followed me to the hall closet while music thumped outside.
"I need the old folder."
I pulled down the plastic bin and dumped the hospital papers across the bedroom floor.
Watson knelt beside me. "What are we looking for?"
"Proof that Rowan died."
His hands stopped moving.
I found Riley's discharge papers, Rex's feeding chart, condolence cards, and the funeral receipt my mother had handled because I could barely stand.
"What are we looking for?"
But there was no death certificate. My mother had always said the official papers were safe in her fireproof box.
"Watson."
He looked at the empty space in the folder.
"There's nothing," I said.
"Maybe Peggy kept it."
"Of course she did."
But there was no death certificate.
Then I found Doctor Jefferson's old card with a message written on the back:
"I hope one day you find peace with the decision made for Rowan."
Watson read it twice. "Decision?"
