“Leo?”
“She has mentioned him twice.”
“Only Leo?”
“Mostly.”
I waited.
Daniel’s expression changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. What did you just remember?”
“She asked whether the baby had to stay in the hospital with you.”
The question sat there.
“Did she ask that before or after she asked for the room number?”
“After.”
I photographed the cover again.
“Ask her what she expects me to sign.”
“I will.”
“And ask why she needsthe room number.”
“All right.”
He picked up the second car seat.
His phone rang before he reached the garage.
He looked at the screen.
“Mom.”
He answered.
“Hi.”
I could hear Vivian’s voice only as a low murmur.
Daniel turned away from me.
“Yes, I have it.”
Another pause.
“No, I have not given it to her.”
He looked toward the house.
“I will call you back.”
He ended the call.
“What did she say?”
“She wants to know if you have opened the folder.”
I put my phone down.
“She already knows I have it.”
Daniel stared at the phone in his hand.
“I did not tell her.”
Neither of us spoke for a second.
Then he said, “I should have asked her how she knew.”
I looked at the blue folder.
“Call her back.”
He did not.
Instead, he carried the second car seat into the garage.I followed him with the folder under my arm.
By 8:45, the living room table held the blue folder, my photograph of its cover, and a grocery receipt for 83.17 dollars that had been under the kitchen magnet for three days. Daniel came through the front door carrying his coat and set his keys in the bowl.
“What did she say?” I asked.
He sat down.
“She said it is just family paperwork.”
I opened the folder.
“That is what she told you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she explain the blank child’s name?”
“No.”
“Did she explain why my signature is on the page?”
“No.”
I turned the first sheet over.
