Chapter 11 - The Blue Folder
At Thanksgiving, Helen had pushed a blue folder toward me between dinner and dessert.
She said it contained boring estate-planning paperwork and asked me to sign wherever she'd placed a yellow flag.
I had refused to sign without reading it.
She accused me of distrusting my own mother.
To end the argument, I signed one sheet and took the rest home.
Now I searched our filing cabinet until I found that copy.
The page was a general authorization form for exchanging contact information with a local agency.
It had nothing to do with a birthday party.
But the signature looked exactly like the one on the vendor agreement.
I scanned both documents for Naomi.
She advised us to preserve the originals and avoid making claims about forgery until someone qualified could examine them.
The restraint frustrated me.
After a lifetime of being accused without evidence, I wanted to accuse my mother in return.
But I knew better now.
An accusation wasn't justice just because it came from an injured person.
Meanwhile, Emma began her first rehabilitation sessions.
She practiced sitting upright and following simple movements with her eyes.
Some exercises exhausted her.
She became angry when her body didn't do what it had done before the fall.
One afternoon, she pushed away a soft therapy ball and whispered, "I hate this."
I sat beside her.
"I know, honey."
The blue folder had seemed harmless at Thanksgiving.
Mom had presented it between dessert and coffee, calling it a set of papers that would make family finances easier.
I had pushed it away because Emma needed help with her coat.
Now Naomi spread copies of those same forms across her desk.
Some concerned permission to access accounts.
Others were drafted in language broad enough to create real problems if signed carelessly.
I remembered Mom's smile when she told me not to be suspicious.
"Everybody in a family trusts somebody," she'd said.
Naomi asked whether I still had the originals.
I searched the bottom drawer of my desk and found the folder beneath old tax documents.
The signature pages were missing.
I didn't know whether I'd misplaced them or whether they'd never been included.
The uncertainty was infuriating.
When I showed Marcus the empty tabs, he pointed at the top corner of the folder.
There was a faint impression left by a pen pressing through several sheets.
We photographed it instead of attempting to decipher it.
This was no longer a puzzle I intended to solve with guesses.
"Will I run again?"
I wanted to promise.
Instead I told her that the doctors and therapists were working with us and we would celebrate each step.
She leaned against my shoulder.
"Can we celebrate sitting up?"
"Absolutely."
We drew a tiny purple star on a chart whenever she reached a milestone.
That evening, Naomi phoned again.
The venue had confirmed that Helen submitted the booking documents from Charlotte's business email address.
The manager had also retained a voicemail in which Helen assured her that I would pay whether or not I agreed.
Naomi said there were now strong reasons to challenge the contract.
Then she told me something stranger.
May you like
Helen had tried to access an old joint bank account I thought had been closed for nearly ten years.
