“At 3:58, a woman signed the visitor log. Cream coat. Gardenia perfume. Relation to patient, she wrote: sister.”
Emily’s head came up.
“I don’t have a sister,” she said.
Pam swallowed.
“At 4:12, I came in to check your vitals. The bed table was swung across your lap. A handbag, a big caramel one, was sitting next to your water pitcher. The woman had her hand over yours. She was guiding the pen.”
“There was a man in the doorway holding a notary stamp.”
“I said, ‘Ma’am, she’s sedated.’”
“She said, ‘Family can sign.’”
“And then she leaned down to you, Emily, and she said it so sweetly. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“‘Sign, and the bills go away. And buy yourself a meal when you get out.’”
Emily closed her eyes.
“Tick,” she whispered.
“The clasp on her bag. It kept clicking against the tray. I remember that. I remember a smell like gardenias and a sound like a clock. I thought it was a dream.”
