After Dad left for the hospital, I curled up on the den couch with an afghan. Cleaning sounds kept me company: running water, a swishing broom, and banging cupboards. I didn’t have the energy to help Granny with her chores. I wished that I could fall asleep and not wake up until Robin was back home again.

For lunch, Granny made chicken pie, one of my favorites. I ate exactly one forkful and pushed my plate away.

“Honey, you should try to eat,” Grandpa said.

I moved some peas around with my fork and didn’t answer.

Once the plates were washed and dripping in the dish drainer, Granny said, “Sarah Beth, grab a bucket. We’re gonna pick blackberries with Miss Irene and Ruby Lee.”

I shook my head no, but Granny had already made up her mind. She said waiting for the phone to ring was driving us both crazy as bedbugs. Granny reached for her bonnet on a hook by the back door. “The fresh air will do you good.”

We set off for the berry patch, with Granny swinging her hoe and me trailing behind. Granny belonged in the Little House on the Prairie books with her bonnet and hoe.

Chickens squawked as we passed by the henhouse. Before long the chicken smell was replaced by the scent of flue-cured tobacco. It reminded me of a pipe only stronger. Though it would be another month before it was time to cure tobacco, the smell had seeped into the old wooden barns. I remembered the last time I was here. Robin and Rowdy had been with me.

Miss Irene and her granddaughter, Ruby Lee, were already picking berries when we got to the patch. Granny and Miss Irene had an arrangement. Miss Irene helped Granny butcher hogs, make quilts, and can vegetables. In return, Grandpa delivered milk and eggs to Miss Irene, and shared her vegetable garden and fruit trees.

“Lawd, child, you have been through a hard time,” Miss Irene said. She wrapped me in her strong brown arms. I had always loved Miss Irene, and Ruby too, but there was a fine line between our families. Granny and Miss Irene gossiped like best friends here on the farm, but only nodded and smiled when they saw each other in town. I had asked Granny about it once and she said, “The creek don’t care what color feet wade in it, but the town pool surely does. It’s easier to be friends away from wagging tongues.”

Ruby and me took our pails to the far end of the patch, away from our grandmothers. Ruby moved like a ballet dancer, slim and graceful. “How you doing?” she asked.

My eyes started to flood, and I wiped away tears. “Not too good.”

“Umm hmm,” Ruby said. “I can see that. Want to talk about it?”

I answered no, but if I ever did talk about the accident, it would be to Ruby.

She stuffed some berries into her mouth and held out her palms for me to see. They were stained a deep purple. “These berries taste like heaven,” she said, “heaven and sunshine.”

I dropped some berries into my bucket, and then ate a handful too. Ruby sang a spiritual while we filled our pails nearly full. She was a soloist at the Open Arms Baptist Church and made up lots of songs.

Pick me up, Lord

Trouble’s too hard to bear

Pick me up, Lord

Show me you care.

I wished I could spend all day in the berry patch listening to Ruby, but Granny and Miss Irene’s squabbling interrupted.

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you,” Miss Irene said. She picked up her own pail of berries and Granny’s too.

“You don’t need to carry both buckets,” Granny said.

Miss Irene insisted. “No trouble. No trouble at all.”

Ruby scowled. It embarrassed her when Miss Irene tried too hard around white people. If you ask me, that’s why Ruby was a tad bossy. She didn’t want to be like Miss Irene.

Back in the kitchen, Granny sat down and propped her right leg on a footstool. The veins bulged out like a knotted rope underneath her skin. “My leg is bothering me again,” she said. “I’m gonna sit right here and let you make the cobbler.”

Following Granny’s directions, I scooped two cups of berries into the bowl. “Pour right much sugar over them,” Granny said. “That makes them nice and sweet.”

“How much is right much?”

“Oh, ’bout half a cup.”

Granny rubbed her leg. “I got these varicose veins when I was pregnant with your daddy.”

Granny’s skin looked thin and shiny, like her veins could bust right through the skin. “That was a long time ago. Why didn’t they get well?”

“I don’t know,” Granny said. “Just never did. I guess I could show ’em to the doctor, but I’m like your grandpa with his cataracts. I don’t like doctors working on me.”

I looked up from stirring the melted butter. “What about the doctors working on Robin?”

“That’s a whole different story,” Granny said. “Robin’s injuries are life-threatening.”

Life-threatening. Those words sucked the air out of the kitchen. Neither Granny nor me moved a muscle. Finally, I whispered, “I’m afraid she’ll die.”

Granny took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “Sarah, turn off the stove. We need to talk.”

I knelt on the floor beside Granny’s stool, and she stroked my hair. “We’re all scared. Scared plumb to death, but we’ve gotta take it one day at a time. Keeping busy will help us through the rough patches.” Granny paused. “Do you want to talk about the day of the accident?”

I shook my head.

“I won’t try and make you,” Granny said, “but I think you’d feel better if you’d talk about it. Remember when you got that splinter in your backside sliding down the banister?”

“Yes, ma’am. Almost two years ago, when I was ten.”

Granny nodded. “You wouldn’t let me get the splinter out and it festered. That sore got worse and worse, until I dug the splinter out with a needle. The bad feelings inside of you are a lot like that splinter.”

I knew my granny was like King Solomon in the Bible, full of wisdom, but I couldn’t tell her what happened. I wanted to, but the truth stuck to my throat like lumpy mashed potatoes.

The phone rang while I was washing dishes. News … what if it’s bad news? A soapy mixing bowl slipped from my hands. It shattered against the porcelain sink and slivers of glass flew. I ran straight through them. “Hello,” I panted.

Dad’s voice answered me. “Hey, Sarah, are you hanging in there? Listening to your grandparents?”

My heartbeat slowed to its normal thud. Dad wouldn’t be making small talk if Robin had gotten worse. “How is she?”

Dad sighed, and his breath came out in a loud whoosh. “About the same. She’s still unconscious. I just called to check on you.”

I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “I want to see her.” Dad didn’t answer, and for just a minute I wondered if we had been disconnected. “Dad? Are you there?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he finally said. “Let’s wait until she wakes up.”

“But, Dad …”

“Sarah, I need to go. The doctor just walked in to examine Robin. Tell your grandparents there’s been no change. I love you.” And before I had the chance to say another word, he hung up.

Granny stood in the doorway between the kitchen and den, listening. “Robin’s all bruised and banged up. Your daddy’s afraid the way she looks will upset you.”

“Not seeing her upsets me more.”

“I know it does. Be patient, and I’ll have a talk with your daddy about it.” Granny motioned toward the bathroom. “Child, we need to get your feet bandaged up. You ran right through broken glass.”

I didn’t even feel it.