I squeezed his hand. “Neither did I, baby. Until right now.”
Part Six: Not Proof, But Enough
The next morning, I asked to speak with the hospital social worker.
She was a kind woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain. She sat down beside my bed with a clipboard and a careful
expression.
“Has my daughter tried to get custody of Walter?”
She paused. “She’s asked about temporary guardianship.”
“Already?”
“She’s consulted about it, yes,” she said carefully. “Your medical situation raised some questions about Walter’s immediate care.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Whether you’d be physically able to resume full responsibility for him.”
“Because of the crash.”
“Among other things.”
I looked at her. “My eyesight.”
She hesitated a moment too long. “That was mentioned.”
Of course it was.
That afternoon, when Walter came back with a juice box and a coloring book he had no intention of using, I asked him one more question.
“The morning of the accident. Did you see Aunt Lisa anywhere near my glasses?”
He scrunched up his face. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“She was by your purse. On the table by the door. I think she had something in her hand.” He shook his head. “But I don’t
know what. I wasn’t really watching. I was looking for my shoe.”
It wasn’t proof. A nine-year-old half-remembering a morning while he hunted for a sneaker would never hold up anywhere that mattered.
But it was enough to make me stop telling myself stories.
So I did the only thing I could do. I got stronger. I ate the terrible hospital food. I walked the hallway with the physical therapist until my legs stopped shaking. I smiled at Lisa when she visited, and I said nothing at all.
And I waited.
Part Seven: The Camera by the Door
The day I was discharged, Lisa offered to drive me home.
I thanked her and called a cab.
The moment Walter and I were back inside my house, I went straight to the table by the front door and searched. Then the kitchen. Then my bedroom, my coat pockets, the car’s glove
