Chapter 31
— How the Form Was Got
Oliver did not rush when he turned to the question of how the form had been got, and I was grateful for his slowness, because the truth of that day was not in a single dramatic moment, but in a series of small, ordinary details that added up to deception. He began by asking me to stand and take the oath, and I did, my voice sounding strange to my own ears in the quiet of the courtroom, and I promised to tell the truth, and I meant it, because the truth was the only thing I had to offer that day. Then Oliver asked me to tell the court, in my own words, about the day I had been in hospital, and I took a breath, and I began.
I told the court that I had gone into hospital for a minor procedure, nothing serious, but enough that I had been given medicine that left me groggy and slow, and that I had spent the morning in a hospital bed in a gown, with a drip in my arm and a nurse coming in and out to check on me. I told them that Veronica had come to visit me in the afternoon, carrying a folder, and that she had sat beside the bed and talked about ordinary things first, about the house and about Poppy and about the wedding plans, and then she had taken a paper from the folder and laid it on the blanket in front of me, and she had said, lightly, that it was just paperwork, routine paperwork that the hospital needed, something every family signed. I remembered the exact lightness of her voice, the way she had smiled as she said it, as if it were too dull to bother explaining, and I remembered believing her, because I had no reason not to believe the woman I was about to marry.
Oliver asked me if anyone had explained the words standby guardianship to me, and I said no, that no one had used those words at all, that no one had told me I was naming another person to care for my daughter, and that no one had told me the form would be filed with the court. He asked me if I had read the form before I signed it, and I said honestly that I had tried, that I had looked at the page, but that the print was small and my head was thick from the medicine, and that Veronica had kept talking while I looked, pointing to the line where I should sign, telling me it was just a formality. He asked me if I would have signed it if I had known what it meant, and I said no, clearly and without hesitation, that I would never have signed a paper giving anyone else a claim over Poppy, least of all in a hospital bed, least of all without a proper conversation, and least of all without my lawyer present.
Then Oliver asked about the filing, and I told the court that I had not known the form had been filed until he had discovered it himself, weeks later, when he had gone looking for it after the engagement ended. I had thought the paper had stayed in a drawer, or had gone back to the hospital, or had been forgotten, the way routine paperwork is forgotten. I had never received a copy, I had never been told it had been lodged with the court, and I had never been asked to confirm it. The first I knew of it as a legal document was when Oliver had sat me down in his office and shown me the court stamp on it, and I remembered the shock of that moment, the cold feeling in my stomach, as if a door I had not known existed had been opened in my own house.
Veronica's lawyer cross-examined me then, and his questions were sharp, designed to make me look careless, or forgetful, or ungrateful. He asked if I was in the habit of signing papers I had not read, and I said no, that I read contracts for my workshop carefully, but that a hospital bed was not my workshop, and that I had trusted my fiancée. He asked if I had asked any questions at the time, and I said I had asked if it was important, and she had said no, that it was routine. He asked if the nurse had been present, and I said I did not remember, that nurses came and went, and that Veronica had chosen a moment when we were alone. He asked if I was now claiming I had been tricked, and I said yes, that I was, because that was the truth, and I would not dress it up in softer words for the court.
When I stepped down from the stand, my legs felt unsteady, and Oliver helped me back to my seat, and I sat down and put my hands flat on the table again, and I felt drained, as if I had carried something heavy a long way and had only just set it down. The judge was writing, slowly and carefully, and the room was quiet, and I looked toward the door, thinking of Poppy at home with Dolores, and thinking that she did not know any of this was happening, and that she did not need to know, and that my job was to keep it that way, by telling the truth here, in this room, so that she would never have to hear it anywhere else.