“I didn’t sign this,” I said, my voice flat. “I was driving my car before the ambulance arrived. I was completely fine.”
“The date on the notary stamp is three weeks ago, Ms. Nora,” Vance said, his voice dropping an octave. “That was long before your accident.”
I stared at the page, my mind racing as I tried to make sense of the date. Three weeks ago, I was at home, tending to my garden, with no reason to think about hospital rooms or medical representatives.
“I need to keep this copy,” I said.
“That’s hospital property,” Vance said, though he didn’t reach for it. “You’ll have to ask the doctor about getting an official copy of your records.”
He handed me his black pen and pointed to the bottom of his police statement. “Just sign here so I can get this report turned in before my shift ends.”
I signed my name on his clipboard, my handwriting looking shaky and small against the white paper.
Vance took the clipboard back, checked his wristwatch one more time, and walked out into the corridor, leaving the photocopy of the proxy resting on my lap.
