She did not stop, folding the yellow silk scarf she had worn to our anniversary dinner.
“Are you going to your sister’s house?” I asked.
She tucked the scarf into the corner of the suitcase. “I am going where I need to go, Arthur.”
I reached to touch her shoulder, but she shifted to evade me, pulling a long white envelope from her handbag. She laid it on the dresser.
“I need you to sign the second page,” she said.
I did not touch the paper. “What is that?”
“The custody agreement,” she said, her voice barely a breath.
As afternoon faded to evening, we moved into the nursery.
The yellow light of the sink lamp cast a narrow beam across the floor. Leo lay in his crib, his small fingers curled against the blue plastic baby blanket.
The blue plastic baby blanket was a gift from my mother, printed with tiny yellow ducks that seemed to fade in the dim light. Goldi had spent hours washing it before we went to the hospital.
Goldi stood by the wooden railing, her hands pressed flat against her lap. She let one finger hover an inch above the blue blanket, then quickly pulled her hand back.
“He looks so much like you when he sleeps,” she whispered, taking a step backward.
“He has your nose, Goldi,” I said, waiting for her to lift him, but she kept her hands flat.
She set the custody papers on the changing table and took out a black ballpoint pen. The paper of the agreement was crisp and white, bearing the seal of the county court.
“I am signing these because it is the only way,” she said, her breath catching on the last word as she handed me the pen.
“There is always another way,” I said, lowering my voice. “We can figure this out with Dr. Vance.”
She pressed the pen to the signature line. “Dr. Vance is a pediatrician, Arthur. He cannot fix what is broken.”
