1
Business was slow.
I hung out at home buzzing on coffee, thinking about what to do.
Missed a call, called back right away. A guy with a trebly voice picked up on the first ring and identified himself as Derrick Steele. “I’m in Arizona on business,” he said. “But my parents are in Winnetka. They live in an assisted living facility and need to sign medical papers, a Power of Attorney, and a HISPA release before they die.”
“Ok, I can help with that,” I said. Walking into my bedroom, I reached for a pen on the desk.
“My dad might not be able to sign,” Derrick continued, “He’s mostly unconscious.”
“Partially conscious?”
“Sometimes conscious. You can ask the social worker on site if he can sign. She’ll know.”
“What about your mother? I asked. “Is she conscious?
“Fully.”
“Does she know what she is signing?”
“Definitely.”
“And all the signers have a valid ID?”
“Yes, they have it.”
“For when would you like to schedule your appointment?”
“For today, if possible. Earlier the better.”
“I can do today around five.”
“Really? That’s the earliest?”
“That’s probably the best I can do. I’m coming from Lakewood.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Long Beach.”
“Oh, that’s far.”
“I serve all of Los Angeles County.”
I gave him my rate, a little more than usual because of the distance and the rush, and he agreed to it. Then he asked, “Can you print the documents if I email them to you? And can you bring them to the appointment?”
“Yes, of course.” I gave him my email address.
Now that I had a gig and dying clients, I moved quickly. I printed the documents off my phone. The pages spit out from the laser printer under the desk and I organized them into a binder and locked them inside my leather notary bag. I checked the map app. Right now it would take an hour and forty minutes to get to Winnetka. That’s a long time to be in the car. I should have charged more.
Derrick texted me the social worker’s phone number so I could ask about Steele Senior. I called, introduced myself, and asked if Steele Senior was able to sign. She said probably not. He hasn’t been awake all day.
“Is there anyone available to sign as a witness for the HISPA release?” I asked. Then, pressingly, “Could you do it?”
“I’m going home early today,” she said. “You can ask one of the other staff.”
2
I was still in my pajamas. I showered, shaved, and wiggled into a black polo shirt, black slacks, and black running shoes. I applied moisturizer and sunscreen on my face, arms, and neck. I removed the gray blazer out of the closet, keeping it on the hanger. I walked out to the car and placed the notary bag in the trunk and hung the blazer on the little hand grip hook in the back seat. I sat down behind the wheel, started the car. The sun was bright and powerful and I pushed open the built-in sunglass compartment above the rearview mirror, expecting to remove my sunglasses, the prescription black aviators, but they weren’t there.
I growled.
Quickly, I scanned the passenger seat and floor. They weren’t in the back seat either. I shut the engine, ran back into the house straight to my room and searched the cluttered desk but I knew, I knew they weren’t there. But just in case, I patted the black jeans hanging over my desk chair. Not there. I had worn my sunglasses on the way to my dad's last night, I recalled. I had visited just to use the hot tub in the backyard. I had worn a black windbreaker, the baggy, loose one with a gold zipper and studs that now hung on the door hook. I felt around the pockets and there was something there for sure. Sunglasses, I hoped. But when I reached in, instead of smooth plastic, I felt something soft and bulky. Something leather. I gripped it, my fingers curled around the rectangular form and I withdrew my wallet and froze. I stared at it, hypnotized, dazed. I flipped it open and looked at my Driver’s License, affirming it was there. Where else would it be? What else am I forgetting? Mr and Mrs. Steele were dying, I remembered, and snapped out of it.
I put the wallet in my back pocket and checked the time. The maps now said I would be arriving at 5 p.m. My traffic buffer, now depleted, meant that my eyes would have to fry. I ran back to the car and opened the trunk, double-checking that my notary bag was still there. It was. Of course it was. I unlocked it and double checked that I had plenty of pens. I did. Of course I did. I was prepared. I had everything. Everything except sunglasses.
I had to go.
I opened the car door and heat bellowed out like an oven. I sat down and clicked the seatbelt. Light flooded in through the windshield. Squinting, I started the car and turned on the air conditioning and drove down Paramount Boulevard to the 91 freeway and entered the West ramp. Traffic flowed initially but then slowed on the 710 freeway, then stopped completely. Using voice-to-text, I emailed Derrick, saying that I’d now arrive a little after five because there must be an accident. He replied back saying okay. He’ll let his mom know.
Air conditioning set on high circulated through the cabin, and my lean veiny hands flushed crimson-caramel on the steering wheel, and I drove. I drove and drove and drove. Winnetka was far. Traffic moved again, slowly at first, then faster and when I passed Burbank, it cleared completely. There was no accident. I exited Winnetka Ave off the 101 and steered into a quiet, not so nice, not so bad, suburban neighborhood with single-story homes and rundown strip malls. It was like a drier, smaller, dirtier version of Lakewood. I pulled up to the address and parked. The assisted living facility was just a regular stuccoed white house in the neighborhood with no signage. Just an ordinary house like any other.
I slipped into the gray blazer, grabbed my notary bag out of the trunk and hung the strap over my shoulder. It was 5:12pm when I walked up an incline wheelchair ramp and knocked on a white screen door.
An old woman’s voice on the other side squeaked, “Hello?” The voice was thin, trebly. Kinda like Derrick’s.
“Hi,” I said and waved, smiling, thinking she could see me better than I could see her, “I’m Jonathan.”
The screen door creaked open. Air conditioning seeped out and it was cool on my perspiring forehead. A woman with white hair and a bowl cut stood there, less than five feet tall, smiling a sort of painful smile. She wore a baggy cotton shirt and loose denim pants.
“You must be,” she began, struggling for words, “Oh, you know.” And instead of saying notary, she made a signing gesture with her hand in the air.
“Yes,” I said, giggling. “I’m Jonathan, the notary.” I wanted to give her a
balloon.
“Of course you are. Who else would you be?”
“I don’t know,” I said, mystified. “But you must be Sandra.”
“Sandra Steele. My son told me you were coming. I heard,” she paused, looking at me gravely, “there was traffic.”
“Yes, but I’m here now.”
She smiled, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Another woman approached behind Sandra. A nurse in panda scrubs. She had short brown hair down to her neck, and her round face held dark, worrisome eyes. She knew who I was, plus I look like a notary; the blazer always gives me away.
“Hi,” I said.
“The social worker just left. Come inside,” she said.
I entered. Sandra closed the door.
In the foyer, there was a small white receptionist desk. The social worker’s, I thought. White waiting chairs lined up against the living room window where vertical beige blinds hung shut. The living room, just past the foyer, was a good, mid-sized lounging area with worn pink corduroy couches and wood bookshelves in the corners. Dull, creamy walls framed a sliding glass door that was open and I could see, between a slit in the same beige blinds, a large backyard.
I turned back to the nurse in panda scrubs. Her name tag said “Theressa.”
“I’m Jonathan, the notary” I said.
She nodded.
I detected slight annoyance, impatience. She knew I needed her help, but she also had a thousand other things to do.
“How’s Steele Senior doing?”
“Not too well,” she said.
“Do you think he can sign some documents?”
“I don’t think he can sign,” she said. “He hasn’t been awake all day. But we can check.” “Always good to check,” I nodded.
Sandra and I followed Theressa down one of the dim hallways. My heavy loafers with heavy rubber soles made a deep clunky tone on the hardwood floor and we entered a large primary bedroom with stainless steel medical equipment and heart monitors. Steele Senior was propped up on a hospital style bed with his mouth wide open, a slack black hole. I thought he was dead but his breathing was just infrequent and shallow. I stood away from the bed, feeling like I didn’t want to get closer than I had to because there was a smell, something old and rancid. His eyes were shut and a blue blanket covered his body up to his bare white, veiny shoulders.
“Is he asleep or unconscious?” I asked, then realized I didn’t know the difference.
“He’s not really asleep,” Theressa said, “but not really conscious either.”
“So when he is conscious,” I asked, “he’s only partially conscious?”
“He hasn’t been awake since yesterday.”
“Is it possible to wake him?” I asked.
“Maybe. But when he wakes, he moves only a little. Opens his eyes, but not for long.”
“He can’t sign. No way.” I felt like I had to get out of there. The smell. Theressa agreed but also didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
We walked out of the room back to the foyer. I thanked Theressa. And she, done with me, walked away down another hallway, on to something else, another dying body. I looked at Sandra. We had work to do. And I already knew where to do it. I sat behind the white desk and adjusted the chair. Sandra, following my lead, pulled up one of the white chairs and sat on the side. She folded her white hands on the desk, her fingers curled and knotty with arthritis. Her veins showed. Blue veins, bulgy rivers of blood.
I opened my notary bag and pulled out a stack of documents.
“Is there a lot to sign?” she asked, eyeballing all the paperwork.
“Not that much,” I said, confidently. “There’s a lot of words, but only a few signatures.”
“Ok, good.”
“May I see your ID?”
She pulled out a wallet from her baggy pants, removed her ID, and handed it to me.
“The photo is from when I didn’t have these dark circles under my eyes,” she said.
“You look great,” I lied.
“No I don’t,” she fired back.
I let it go, moved forward.
I pulled her ID close and filled out my notarial journal with the information while Sandra talked about her husband. “He was fine until he fell down the.stairs. He’s been in and out of consciousness ever since. He was a wonderful man.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
I reviewed the documents with Sandra, describing in plain language what she was about to sign. I’m not a lawyer and was careful not to explain or tell her what to sign. That would be a misdemeanor, a non-authorized practice of law. I showed her where to sign, date, and initial. There were a few boxes to check too.
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” she said. “The clock is ticking, I could die anytime, too.”
“I heard,” I said, although I didn’t know from what. To me, she appeared okay. But maybe there was an underlying condition.
I filled out notarial certificates, signed my name on them, and stamped with my official notarial seal. We reached the HIPPA release, the document that two witnesses needed to sign. I could be one of the witnesses, so that’s one. But I needed another. The social worker had said earlier that we could use one of the nurses on staff. Theressa, I thought. She’s the only one.
“Where is Teressa?” I asked Sandra. And just then, Theressa walked past the living room, heading towards the other wallway. She was making her rounds. Sandra called out to her, waved her down. Theressa approached us at the desk. Sandra asked her if she could sign something real quick. I explained a little more, saying that she would be serving as a witness to Sandra’s signature. We both were, her and I. Theressa backed away and said she was going to call the social worker and ask if it was okay for her to sign. Sandra and I waited, looking at each other.
After the phone call Teressa said okay, she’ll sign. I knew it would be fine. So Sandra signed and we watched. I signed and printed my name next to Sandra’s, then Theressa did the same.
“Is that it?” Theressa asked.
“Yes, thank you Theressa. You saved the day,” said Sandra. Theressa smiled, but that smile passed quickly.
“I can go?” she asked.
“You may. Thanks Tee.”
We, Sandra and I, sighed together, relieved to have passed that important, crucial step. I continued going over the paperwork, flipping through the pages. The whole process was taking longer than anticipated. There was one page that asked her to check a box as to whether she wished to prolong life artificially if she became unconscious.
Sandra reacted, “Why would I want to prolong life? The suffering! No. End it.” The next box asked if she wanted to donate her organs. “They’re no good!” We skipped it and continued.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” she said, as I was turning pages, my eyes scanning carefully for important information and signature lines. “At this point, I could be gone any day.” Her distant, weary eyes showed me how afraid she was. Then: “Where am I going to go when I die?”
I looked at her, face calm. “Nowhere.” I whispered.
“Oh, thank God! I’m ready. I don’t want to be anywhere.”
Sandra began massaging her left hand with her right, wincing with pain. “My hand is getting tired,” she said. “Arthritis is such a terrible disease.” I looked at her knotty white hands, the curled fingers. She asked, “Are we almost done?”
In a comforting, soft whisper, “So very close.”
Although there were only three signatures total, Sandra was slow and I reviewed every page with her, not rushing her or pushing her too fast. The trick to patience is presence. My blazer held in heat, my arm pits were wet. I pushed my glasses up and reviewed the documents one more time, including my notarial certificates. I scanned for errors, missing dates, or signatures, then grouped the documents together and stapled them with a stapler that was right there on the desk. How convenient.
Sandra looked at me eagerly, desperately. “Are we done?”
“We’re done with that part, but now I need three more signatures in my journal, plus three thumbprints.”
She gasped and immediately reached again for the pen and I positioned my notarial journal for her and pointed exactly where to sign. While she signed, I pawed inside my notary bag, looking for the thumbprint ink pad. I couldn’t find it. I searched every pocket. I sighed and widened my eyes, groaned. Sandra finished signing and was now watching me, aware that something was wrong.
“I seem to be missing my thumbprint pad,” I said.
“Should I spit on my thumb or something?”
“No, I don’t think so. Ah, here. We can use this instead.” I pulled out an ink pad, not the one for thumbs but the one I use for the date stamp. “This will do,” I said. “The ink might not rub off as easily, though.”
“That’s okay. Let’s do it.”
With care and precision, one by one, Sandra finished printing her thumbs into the journal, then looked at me, into my eyes.
“Is it done?” she asked.
I took the journal and reviewed her prints. They were clear. “It is done,” I said, smiling.
“Oh! Thank you!”
I smiled and bowed my head like a magician.
But my work was not yet complete. I packed up, putting my stamps and journal back into the bag. “I’ll call Derrick,” I said, “and will send these documents to him right away.” I handed her a square white card, the one I designed with a True Signs logo on one side, my notarial contact info on the other. I thanked her, wished her the best, and Sandra walked me to the front door.
“Drive safely,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Months later, I would learn from Derrick via text that they both had died. First it was Senior Steele. Weeks later, Sandra had a heart attack in her sleep.
3
Sunlight pierced my eyes like needles. I hung my coat in the backseat and called Derrick. I told him what happened. Dad couldn’t sign. No way. He understood, no problem.
“How much would it cost to FedEx the documents?” Derrick asked.
I searched my phone for a local FedEx Office location. “There’s a FedEx sixteen minutes away. I could send you quotes when I get there. I can pay for it on my card,” I said, “and we can just add that to my fee.”
“You can do that?”
“I trust you, Derrick.”
He agreed and thanked me. I got in the car and drove off with Derrick still on the line. The streets were bare and the sun was strong but setting, casting long blue-black shadows across narrow streets.
“Can you email me photos of the documents?”
“I can scan them with my phone and email them to you as a PDF when I get to FedEx.”
“Great, thank you.” He was nervous, I could tell. He wanted everything to go smoothly. We hung up, but seconds later he called back again. “Did you say the FedEx was six minutes away, or sixty?” he asked.
“Six-teen minutes,” I clarified.
“Oh ok, that makes sense.” He thanked me again and we hung up.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Fed Ex in a strip mall. It was the size of a 7-11, maybe a little bigger. Inside I scanned the documents with my Adobe app and emailed them to Derrick, then sealed them into a FedEx envelope and went up to the front desk for shipping quotes. The clerk quoted me prices based on which day the package would arrive. I called Derrick back and gave him the breakdown. He asked if photos of the documents were enforceable. I said I wasn’t sure about that. I’m not a lawyer. He asked for the docs to arrive in Arizona on Wednesday, which was only eleven dollars. I texted him the total bill and my Venmo handle and he paid me right away. I thanked him through text. He thanked me back and I could feel he was deeply satisfied with my careful, thorough service.
The sun drooped down, a rich golden orange, and I was still irritated about losing my sunglasses. Blue spots flickered across my vision and on the long, long drive home, while I played yesterday backwards in my mind, I could think of only one possibility of where they might be. I called Dad. He answered, coughed, and I asked him if he saw my sunglasses.
“They might be around the tub,” I said. He checked while I waited on the line.
When he returned to the call he said, “They were on the grass outside by the tub.”
“I’m coming over right now.”
“No, don’t.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, I stepped on them. Now they’re broken.”