Steven and a man I didn't know stood beyond the threshold. He was young and tanned and gripped the handle of a small black bag in his left hand. It seemed an extension of himself rather than an addition.

"Hey," I said, looking from one to the other, finally focusing on Steven.

"Kimberly, this is Dr. Willingham. After we hung up, I remembered that he and his family were here from south Florida." Dr. Willingham reminded me of a young Ryan O'Neal, an actor my mother had swooned over. I extended my hand in greeting, thanked him for coming, and then stepped aside. "The bedroom is this way," I said.

Patsy continued to sleep.

"I'm more concerned now than before," I said to Dr. Willingham, who was dressed as casually as Steven: polo shirt and loose-fitting shorts. "I just noticed that the Nyquil she took has expired."

"By how long?" he asked as he reached for Patsy's right hand, presumably to take her pulse.

I went to the bathroom and came back with the bottle. "Over a year."

He shrugged. "A number of studies have determined that if medication has been stored in optimum conditions, there's little reason to worry. But, with it being a year over expiration, worst case scenario is that it just isn't working as well as if it were new."

"Her respirations are shallow but her lips and nails show no signs of cyanosis."

Dr. Willingham looked perplexed and impressed at the same time. "You sound knowledgeable."

"My father and sister are doctors. And I helped take care of my mother before she died. When it's important, you pay attention to details, right?"

Dr. Willingham placed his bag on the bed, opened it, and drew out a forehead thermometer. Without answering my question he swiped it across Patsy's forehead. I watched to see if she had any reaction, even the slightest movement. She didn't. I held my breath in wait before glancing over to the chair Steven now occupied. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands were clasped together.

"One-o-two-point-six," the doctor said. He looked at me as he returned the thermometer to his bag. "Tell me what you know."

"Yesterday she was coughing. She said it was just a silly summer cold. Nothing to worry about. But with her age . . ."

"Do you know how old she is?"

I didn't. I shook my head.

"What's her name?" he asked.

"Patsy."

"Last name?"

I couldn't see that it mattered.

"Milstrap," Steven answered for me.

Dr. Willingham leaned over the bed, cupped Patsy's shoulder, and shook it. "Mrs. Milstrap!" he shouted. "Mrs. Milstrap! Can you hear me?"

Could she hear him? The dead could hear him.

Patsy's eyes fluttered as he called her name one more time. "Who in the land of the living are you?" she asked.

A breath escaped my lungs and I laughed, then glanced at Steven, who winked at me.

"I'm Dr. Willingham," he answered, his voice still elevated.

"Well, my goodness, why are you yelling at me?"

Dr. Willingham's smile was broad. "Mrs. Milstrap, can you tell me how old you are?"

"Of course I can," she said. She looked at me. "Do you know this man?"

I nodded. "Patsy, your fever is a little high. And you've taken cold medicine that is outdated. I called Steven," I said looking over at him, "who knows Dr. Willingham."

Patsy's lips formed an O. She looked at Dr. Willingham and said, "Well, I'm seventy-eight years old. And if the good Lord allows, on my next birthday I'll be seventy-nine." She sighed. "I do admit I don't feel so well."

I rubbed my hand along the comforter, where her legs stretched out like two short sticks. "We're going to get you better."

"Mrs. Milstrap, how long have you had this fever and your cough?"

"Just a couple of days. I thought it was just a summer cold. But I ache pretty bad, doctor. I clearly do."

Dr. Willingham smiled at her. "Well, I think you're probably right there. But at your age, a bad summer cold can turn into something more." He smiled again. "Don't you worry now. We're going to take care of that," he said. "In the meantime, no more expired Nyquil for you."

He straightened and turned to me. "Can you stay with her?"

"Of course."

He looked at Steven, now standing. "Steven, I'm going to write a prescription for Mrs. Milstrap. Not sure where you'll fill it," he muttered under his breath.

"I can handle it," Steven said.

"Kimberly, I'm going to leave my phone number with you. If her fever doesn't break or she gets worse, do not hesitate to call." He pulled a business card and pen out of his bag and jotted his number on the back of it. "This is my personal cell."

"Thank you," I said as he dipped his hand back into the bag and came up with a prescription pad. "I really appreciate this."

"Here you go," he said to Steven as he tore the top page from the prescription pad. "And I'll call you in the morning if I don't hear anything from you."

"Thanks, Doc," Steven said as though they were old friends. "I'll walk you out."

The doctor told Patsy he'd call in the morning, but she was sleeping again. I followed the men into the living room, where my phone glared, lit up, from the end table. "Oh," I said. "I'll bet Dad has been calling."

While Steven walked the doctor to his car, I called Dad, who was worried sick, he said. "I had all kinds of visions running around in my head."

"Don't worry, Dad. Steven came with a doctor who is vacationing here and took care of Patsy. I'm sorry I haven't called you back . . . the doctor is actually just leaving."

"Steven?"

My legs grew weak; I hadn't told Dad about Steven. About seeing him . . . dating him . . . feeling a little bit crazy when I was near him. I took a deep breath and tried to sound nonchalant. "Steven Granger. You remember him, don't you?"

"I remember him, yes. How is it that Steven Granger knew about Patsy?"

"I know what you're thinking, Dad. He just happened to call after I talked to you and-"

"Why was he calling you?"

I swallowed. "Because, Dad. We have a date tonight and-"

"You have a date tonight?"

"Dad, are you going to interrupt me every three words or are you going to let me finish?"

A moment of silence pa.s.sed before he said, "I'm listening."

I turned toward the door to see Steven stick his head in and say, "I'll be right back."

I nodded. He closed the door behind him.

I walked briskly into the kitchen and sat in one of the chairs at the table. "Dad," I said, crossing my legs. "I don't understand the tone in your voice. Steven Granger is living here now. His father had a heart attack last year and he moved back down to help with the business."

"I know all of that, Boo."

"Okay. Well, then." I took a breath and spoke quickly through the exhale. "We ran into each other, he asked me out, I said yes, and that's that."

"Not a good idea and you know it."

"Dad-"

"Hear me out on this one, Kim."

My jaw flinched. "Okay."

"I've never seen you so hurt in my life as you were at the end of your senior year."

"You mean other than when Charlie left me and the boys?"

"Well, of course. But you were older then. Steven was your first love, and he ripped your heart out."

"You sound more like a mother than a father."

"A father doesn't forget that kind of heartache when it's his little girl who's crying."

I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. I leaned over as though in pain. "That's sweet, Dad, but I'm not a little girl anymore."

"I know that. But you're still my little girl."

I smiled but remained silent.

I heard him sigh. "Well, then. Does it feel like it did twenty years ago?"

I straightened as I laughed. "Honestly? It's not as hormonally driven."

"I didn't need to hear that."

"I know you didn't. But . . . we had our second date last night. He got me to take pictures with his camera, Dad. And he made me laugh." And cry.

"I haven't seen Steven since you were kids."

"Well, he's not a kid anymore. Neither am I. And I don't know what all this means or where it will lead, but I have to tell you. I'm more than a little willing to find out."

"Just be careful, sweetheart."

"I will." I heard Patsy coughing from her bedroom. "Dad, I need to go check on Patsy. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Take it easy, Boo."

22.

Summer 1946 With the war a lasting memory and the manufacturing of appliances back in full swing, thirty-year-old Bernice Liddle went to town and splurged on a new Maytag wringer washing machine. Not so much for herself, she told her husband, Ira-a man as tight with a penny as he was firm on her role as wife and mother-but to enable her to bring in other people's wash. It was for a good cause too, she'd told him, what with so many women still working outside of their homes.

"And goodness knows," she told her thirteen-year-old daughter Patsy, who rode with her to Gibson's Department Store on the day of purchasing, "we could use the extra money." She cut a sharp eye toward her daughter. "You tell Mr. Liddle I said that and I'll deny it, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Patsy replied. Not that her mother had to tell her. She was smart enough to know the rules of the house. No one demeaned Ira Liddle, not to his face, that is. Not to mention this was the first time her mother had said anything in confidence to Patsy, making Bernice's quiet firstborn feel all the more close to her mother.

"You're a good daughter," she said after several minutes.

Patsy knew her mother had been thinking. Thinking about what she'd just let slip. Thinking about what would surely happen if Mr. Liddle found out she'd said it, even to her own child. Her words of praise were no more than a line of insurance, but Patsy felt pleased to hear them anyway.

Patsy looked out the open pa.s.senger window of the oversized black 1936 Chevy coupe Mr. Liddle had purchased for his wife the year before. "To use when you have to do your shopping or if the kids get sick," he told her when he brought it home. "Not for any running around to visit with your friends."

As if Bernice Liddle had friends for visiting.

"Sure is hot out there," Patsy now said. "The beans are near about drying up before I can pick 'em."

"You just have to get out there earlier, is all."

Patsy's eyes scanned lazily from the side of the long dirt road they traveled to the woman behind the steering wheel. She was only seventeen years her senior, yet she looked and seemed so much older. Like a grandmother instead of a mother.

"Yes, ma'am."

They purchased the washer for $54.95 plus tax. As her mother counted out the last of the loose change, Patsy ran her fingertips along the wringers of the floor model. She listened when Mr. Gibson told Patsy's mother someone would deliver it to the house within the next few days. Then, Mrs. Liddle gave their address and phone number-931-and asked that someone call before they arrived. "To make sure we're home," she said, as though they had such a social schedule.

Patsy looked up, wondering where else they'd be when the washer came. She heard her mother whisper, "Will you let others know, Mr. Gibson, that I'm taking in wash now?"

Patsy walked away from the embarra.s.sment of the moment. Not that she was ashamed of taking in wash; she merely felt the sting of her mother's humiliation. But a week later, that machine became her own cross to bear. While her friends from school met at Ca.s.sel Creek in the hot summer afternoons, Patsy stayed busy washing clothes for her family while her mother took care of what felt like the rest of Ca.s.selton, Georgia. Her days became endless hours of caring for her little brothers, five-year-old Harold and four-year-old Billy, picking and putting up vegetables, helping to keep their two-story bungalow clean, and washing clothes.

The washing was one thing. The ironing and the folding and the putting them away was another.