Prologue

Dolly Belle Dixon

Twelve Years Ago

It had been two days, and Momma hadn’t come out of her bedroom. Once the church folks and neighbors stopped coming by with casseroles, cakes, pies, and their condolences, she’d shut herself off in her room. The only sound I heard from her was the crying. Her door was locked, and I couldn’t get her to answer me when I knocked.

I sat outside her room in the hallway. My arms wrapped around my knees as I rocked back and forth. “One hundred twenty-two, one hundred twenty-two, one hundred twenty-two.” I whispered the number over and over again, trying to block out the sounds of her sobbing.

My own eyes burned with unshed tears, and I feared the lump in my throat had become permanent. It had been there since the moment I’d found Daddy. It had thickened as I made the way from the garage, where he hung—his neck bent at an odd angle, face blue, and body limp—to find my mother in the kitchen.

“One hundred twenty-two,” I said louder this time through clenched teeth, trying to keep from remembering.

Nothing truly helped though. That day had been burned into my brain. I couldn’t get it out. Not the way Daddy looked or how Momma had run past me to the awful scene in the place where our car should have been parked. The horrific sound that had torn from her chest when she saw him in there. Hanging from the ceiling. The green rope—the one he used to tie the Christmas tree to the roof of the car every year—around his neck.

The smell of his favorite meatloaf in the oven would always haunt me. Momma had been making Daddy’s birthday meal. We were gonna celebrate it after church. She’d even invited the reverend and his family to join us. I had been looking forward to the buttercream cake she’d made fresh, sitting on the cake plate.

I never wanted to see buttercream cake again. I didn’t want to smell it. I hated the idea of meatloaf.

“One hundred twenty-two.” My voice cracked this time, and I closed my eyes tightly.

Momma’s crying turned into wailing. She hadn’t eaten since the funeral. I looked down at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had made her yesterday, still sitting outside her door. The bowl of peaches and cream oatmeal I had brought her earlier today was cold now and looked unappealing. The fridge was full of casseroles and pies, but the idea of eating any of that made my stomach turn. That was sad food. It meant my daddy was gone. That he was buried deep underground. That I would never hear his deep laugh, that he would never call me Twinkle Toes again.

“One hundred twenty-two. One hundred twenty-two. One hundred twenty-two.”

Momma needed to eat. I should call someone, but who would I call? No one had called the house. I wasn’t sure who could help me get Momma out of her room. I wished Daddy were here. When he had been alive, he’d handled all our problems.

“One hundred twenty-two. One hundred twenty-two. One hundred twenty-two.”