2

Brook Hill, West Virginia
April 1948

PERLA WALKED OUT ONTO THE PORCH of her aunt and uncle’s house. She needed some air and a moment to herself. Coming to help out while Uncle Chuck was laid up with a broken leg had sounded like a good idea when her mother suggested it, but was turning out to be more difficult than she anticipated. Uncle Chuck was a terrible patient, forever trying to get out and work the farm, and Aunt Imogene—often described as “high-strung”—seemed determined to live up to the label.

At least spring had finally come. After a long, harsh winter, the deep purple buds of the lilac bush at the end of the porch were about to burst open. Perla closed her eyes and leaned into the branches, hoping to catch the sweet scent on the verge of release.

“Howdy.”

Perla jumped a foot and whirled toward the voice. A young man who couldn’t be any more than Perla’s own eighteen years stood with one foot on the ground and the other braced against a step.

“I’ve come to help,” he said in a voice deeper than Perla expected. And for a moment she thought he meant to help her in particular.

“Help?”

“Cousin Imogene sent Ma a message saying she couldn’t keep Chuck in bed and needed someone to see to the chores, so he can put his mind to rest as well as his leg.”

Perla smoothed the apron covering her simple cotton skirt. She hoped she looked presentable. “I’m a fair hand with chores. Not sure why we need anyone else.”

The young man shrugged. “I’m not saying you do or you don’t. I’m just following orders.”

Imogene walked onto the porch with a hand shading her eyes as though the light were too much for her. “That you, Sonny?”

Perla saw a flicker of annoyance cross his features. He glanced at her and then back to Imogene. “It is. Ma sent me to help out.”

“Humph. Is that what she said.” Imogene’s comment was a statement rather than a question. “Well, we can work you sure enough. Perla does a fair job, but there’s always more than one person can do on a farm.”

Perla bristled. If Imogene helped, there’d be more than one. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when she saw a look of amusement on the man’s face.

“Come on in then. Perla’s got supper on and she cooks like she has an army to feed.” Imogene disappeared inside.

Perla let her shoulders sag. Why did that sound like criticism? Maybe she was being too sensitive. She started for the door when Sonny stepped forward to open it for her, making the springs creak.

“My name’s not Sonny,” he said. “That’s a pet name my mother uses.”

Perla looked at him sideways. “Well then, what is your name?”

He gave her a sly grin. “Maybe I’ll see if you can guess it.”

Perla flipped her yellow braid over her shoulder and flounced through the door. “Maybe I don’t much care to know it.”

Perla tried to process what was happening to her. For a moment she thought she was back on Chuck and Imogene’s farm that fateful summer. But no. She’d been reaching for the glass cake stand with the cover when her right hand began lowering of its own volition. She’d watched it droop like it belonged to someone else, but then her right leg seemed to give out. It hadn’t hurt; she’d just felt surprised to find herself on the floor. Henry came in after that—she wasn’t sure how much later—and when she’d tried to explain, her words didn’t make sense. Henry did a double take and grabbed the phone. She knew he was calling 911 and tried to tell him she’d be fine if he would only help her up, yet the words wouldn’t come.

Now she was at the hospital where doctors and nurses kept peering and poking at her. They’d put her in that awful machine that made her feel trapped, but coming out hadn’t been much better. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask questions, and didn’t know where her family was. She closed her eyes—well, the left one anyway—as the right one wasn’t cooperating and had been drooping closed since her hand gave out. There wasn’t much she could do at the moment other than pray. She asked for what comfort God could afford and must have slept after that.

When Perla awoke, she lay in a bed with beeping machines attached to her. The smell of rubbing alcohol burned her nose. She opened her eyes, although the right one continued to droop. Henry, Margaret, and Ella stood around the bed with stricken looks on their faces. Perla tried to lift her right hand, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She found the left one more amenable and reached out to grasp Ella’s hand, looking into her granddaughter’s blue eyes—so much like her own.

“Bllphtt, murrgh.”

Oh dear. That wasn’t it at all. Perla tried again, but much to her horror the sounds she made were no better than a newborn baby’s blather. Ella’s hand tightened, tears welling up in her eyes. Perla willed herself to speak slowly, clearly, but it was no good. She couldn’t do it.

“It’s okay, Gran. The doctor said you—” she hesitated—“that you had a stroke. Dad must have found you soon after. They say your chances of making a full recovery are really good.”

Perla thought she might suffocate under the horror of her granddaughter’s words. A stroke? Merle Donaldson had a stroke and had to be institutionalized. Oh, to be able to ask questions, to get someone to talk to her. She wanted to thrash and cry out, to demand someone tell her exactly what had happened and what would happen next. She swallowed—even that was hard to do—and did her best to look her questions at Ella. She felt like she could almost see the jumble of words fly through the air and hoped somehow her granddaughter could sort them out.

Ella smoothed Perla’s hair with her free hand. “You’re getting the best treatment possible. They say the most dramatic improvement will likely happen over the next few days and then you should keep improving over the next few months. If everything goes the way they hope, you might even be able to go home soon.” Ella’s eyes seemed to reach deep inside Perla to the place where words flowed smoothly before they hit a jagged shoreline of confusion. “Either way, I thought I’d stay with you for a while.” She laughed softly. “I’ve been wanting to get away lately so it’s a win-win situation.”

Tears flowed down Perla’s cheeks. She hadn’t even known she was going to cry until she felt the moisture. Yes, Ella needed to know her story—she could sense how important it was. She’d tell her, too. Just as soon as she could.

Ella insisted on spending the night at the hospital with her grandmother so that Dad could go home. The nurses were kind, providing extra pillows and blankets for the chair that folded out into a semblance of a bed. Gran, of course, had nothing to say about anything, though Ella could tell she was grateful to have someone there. She moved her makeshift bed as close to Gran’s as possible without being a hazard to the nurses. She kissed her grandmother good-night and settled down to pretend to sleep.

Even with the overhead lights off, it wasn’t dark. Light filtered in from the hall, and there were lights on the machines hooked up to Gran. There was a low, steady beep that Ella tried to tell herself was soothing. And the smell of . . . Ella couldn’t quite identify the mix of medical and cleaning odors, but what it boiled down to was not home. She wished for a bar of Dove soap to wash her hands and face—Gran always used Dove. Maybe she’d find some tomorrow.

A nurse crept in, checked Gran’s vitals, gave Ella an apologetic look, and slipped back out with a little wave. Oh well, she hadn’t expected to sleep. Without meaning to, she let her thoughts wander back to Mark.

She probably should have seen Mark’s true colors sooner than she did, but she’d been so smitten at the time. She finally recognized how important status was to him when he competed for a spot as clerk with the chief judge of the Virginia Court of Appeals. He’d spread rumors and half-truths about the young man he was up against. Chad was his name. Then when Chad died in a mysterious drug overdose, Mark became a shoo-in. He wanted Ella to celebrate with him on the same day as Chad’s funeral, and Ella knew then she needed to end the relationship.

Mark didn’t take it well. She rubbed her arm, remembering how the impression of his fingers lingered as dark bruises.

She’d taken the coward’s way out. Instead of being up front about what really bothered her, she claimed Mark’s lack of faith meant they weren’t suited for each other.

Ella rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. She might have even quoted that Scripture about being “unequally yoked.” Although what she’d said was mostly true, her intent had been to get out of the relationship without a lot of fuss. Jesus was just a convenient excuse.

She sighed and sat up, too uneasy to sleep. She hoped that, in spite of Gran’s illness, a visit home might give her the distance she apparently still needed from Mark, and—she smiled in the dark—as an extra bonus she hoped it would provide inspiration for some new art quilts. In the past, the beauty of the farm with its abundance of earth, sky, and water would set her mind to spinning with images of rich corduroy, soft linen, and slippery satin.

She eased out of bed and pulled a plastic chair close to Gran’s side. She leaned her head against the cool sheet near her grandmother’s hand. She closed her eyes and felt Gran’s fingers tangle in her hair.

Gran sighed. And then, against all odds, they both slept.

Perla opened her eyes—well, she opened her left eye and hoped her right would get the idea. She was surprised to have slept as long as she did. She even felt somewhat refreshed. A nurse bustled in and fiddled with things, then made notes in a computer. Ella, who had moved back to her bed at some point, sat up and watched with interest.

“How are things looking this morning?”

“Her vitals are good. The neurologist and rehab folks will stop by this morning, and Mrs. Phillips here can start down the road to recovery in earnest.”

Ella smiled and it was like the sun coming out. Perla felt her own lips curve in response, although she could tell the right side wasn’t coming along for the ride. Thank goodness she couldn’t see herself. She must look a fright. And her hair—oh, she didn’t even want to think about her hair.

Ella stretched and stood up. “Let’s get you pretty for company,” she said.

Perla had always been a bit vain about her hair. A pale yellow when she was younger, Casewell said it looked like spun sunshine setting off her sky-blue eyes. And now it was a pure silvery white. She’d never resorted to permanents or hair color like so many women approaching eighty. But her fine, thinning hair was likely sticking straight up now.

Ella pulled a hairbrush from her bag and gently smoothed Perla’s hair. She usually wore it in a low bun at the nape of her neck, but it was obviously down at the moment. Ella worked out the tangles and plaited it, patting the finished product where it lay across Perla’s shoulder. Then she fished out a compact, powdered Perla’s nose and cheeks, and dabbed some lip gloss on her mouth.

Perla would have laughed if she could. It was silly, putting makeup on an invalid, yet she was grateful and somehow the simple act of being made presentable gave her the courage she needed to hear whatever it was the doctor would tell her today. She put her good left hand on Ella’s arm and squeezed.

“You’re welcome,” Ella said.

The doctor came in soon after. Perla was surprised to see Sadie trailing in his wake. Her daughter must have arrived late the day before. The pair were deep in conversation, and Perla wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Sadie could be . . . daunting. But then the doctor smiled, and his faded blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Maybe Sadie hadn’t worn him out yet.

“Good morning,” he said. “Don’t you look lovely?” Perla pinked, even though she felt silly about being flattered. “I’m Dr. Endicott.”

Perla worked her mouth, and he held up a hand. “No, no, that’s all right. Speech should return, but it will take some time. Be patient. What you’re experiencing right now is aphasia. Probably expressive aphasia, which means you have trouble speaking and finding the right word, but you can still think clearly.” He hitched his pant leg and sat on the edge of her bed. “We’ll set up a therapy regimen for you. The most dramatic improvement is typically seen right away, so we’ll start you as early as this morning.” He winked at her. “You’ll earn your lunch today.”

Based on breakfast, Perla considered that lunch might not be worth earning, but she nodded her agreement just the same. It felt like her head was listing to the side. She supposed that might be the aftereffects of the stroke.

The doctor patted her hand and stood, facing Ella. “Depending on how she does, moving her to a rehabilitation facility is always an option.”

Perla felt alarm rise and spread through her like spilled milk. He was talking about a nursing home. She darted a look at Ella, who made eye contact and then refocused on the doctor.

“I feel certain Gran will do what’s needed here and then we’ll take her home to continue working with her. Aunt Sadie and I”—she darted a look at her aunt—“will be happy to stay with her as long as needed. I don’t think she’ll need to go to a . . . facility.”

Perla exhaled a stuttering breath. Ella understood. She would be fine. All she had to do was focus on getting better. And avoiding a nursing home was all the incentive she needed.

Dr. Endicott smiled and nodded. “You do look like capable women. Perla is lucky to have such a supportive family.” His brow wrinkled slightly. “Of course, you ladies need to be aware that you’re also at increased risk for stroke—it’s often hereditary.” He looked to Sadie. “What about your father? Does he have any history of heart disease?”

Perla stilled inside and out. She focused on Sadie, who visibly stiffened at the question. She watched her daughter remove a bit of imaginary lint from her sleeve.

“I wouldn’t know. I only ever knew my stepfather.”

“Ah.” The doctor pondered that. “Well, if you know”—he glanced at Perla—“or can find out your biological father’s whereabouts, it wouldn’t hurt to look him up and learn his medical history. Stroke isn’t something you want to take lightly.”

Sadie pursed her lips. “I’ll take that under consideration.”