Barely recognizable as mine.
Next to it was Watson’s.
“I don’t remember signing this,” I whispered.
Watson took the document from me.
His hands began trembling.
“I remember a clipboard.”
I turned toward 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 twisted.
“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 quickly the box almost slid from the bed.
—
For eighteen years, my memories of that hospital had existed only in fragments.
Doctor Jefferson walking toward us.
My mother putting her arms around me.
Someone saying, “He’s gone, Dawn.”
I had been sedated, devastated, and so physically weak that I could barely hold a pen without assistance.
