On the last page, the line for the petitioner's signature was blank. But beside it, in the margin, in my husband's blocky handwriting, was a note.
Sat. 11/14 — after dinner.
I had seen that handwriting on birthday cards. On grocery lists. On a love letter he slipped into my coat pocket on our third anniversary.
The last item in the suitcase was a single yellow sheet of paper. It was a list, and every line of it was in Derek's writing.
1. Tea — 3 wks (done). 2. Witnesses — church, school. 3. Alan's letter. 4. Family dinner, Sat 11/14. 5. Petition Mon 11/16. 6. Eli stays w/ Mom + me during treatment.
And at the bottom, apart from the others, a line that made no sense to me at all.
Linden St. — 412K. The number was circled twice.
Linden Street was my father's house. It was the small brick house where I grew up, and the only thing I had left of him.
I put my hand over my mouth.
Tea.
Every night for three weeks, my mother-in-law had made me a cup of chamomile with honey. She called it her "sleepy blend." She'd put it into my hands with a gentle smile and say, Drink up, sweetheart. You need your rest.
My phone buzzed against the carpet.
It was a text from Derek. PT went quick. Grabbing Mom a smoothie, home in 15.
I stopped breathing.
Fifteen minutes.
I grabbed my phone and started taking pictures, page by page, faster than I've ever done anything. The photographs. The binder. Dr. Voss's letter. The pill bottle, the label turned toward the light. The forms. Derek's list. My hands were slick with sweat, and twice I had to retake a page because I'd shaken the camera.
Eleven minutes.
I put everything back in the order I'd found it. Photographs in tissue paper. Binder on top of the photographs. Letter tucked into the binder at the last page. Bottle in the sock. Folder flat. Blouses. Nightgown. Slippers.
Seven minutes.
I zipped the suitcase, turned the lock, and spun the dials back to zero, three, one, nine.
I stood up. My knees screamed. I closed the closet door until it was open exactly as far as it had been before, one inch, and I walked out of that room without looking back.
Downstairs I took an onion out of the pantry and started chopping it with a hand that wouldn't stop trembling.
Four minutes.