“Did you read the paper?” I asked.
“It was a small white card,” he said, his voice steady but formal. “Vanessa held the top of it so it would not slide on the table. She said my hands were shaking too much to hold it myself.”
“Did she let you read the text?”
“She said it was just the standard terms,” Arthur said. “I trust my son, Clara. He has been helping me with the lawn. He even drove me to the grocery store on Friday.”
I looked at the blank power of attorney form on the counter, the crisp edges white against the yellow laminate.
“Did you sign the front or the back of the card?” I asked.
“The back,” Arthur said. “She had a piece of yellow tape over the top half. She said it was to show me where to write my name.”
I walked to the far corner of the kitchen, near the humming refrigerator, and dialed the home number for Frank, our family attorney.
