Three Days Before the Casket Was Delivered, My Son Asked Me to Sign a Document
I walked past the living room sofa and headed for the carpeted staircase in the back hall.
The carpet softened my footsteps as I climbed to the second-floor landing.
The heavy brass deadbolt high on Chloe’s door frame was drawn back, completely unlocked.
I pushed the door open and stepped softly onto the braided rag rug by the bed.
The bedroom was dark, the thick floral curtains pulled tight against the late-afternoon gray.
Chloe lay beneath two heavy wool quilts in the middle of her twin bed.
Her stuffed rabbit, Bunny, had slipped onto the floor by the wooden bed leg.
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Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.
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