“I’m not sure yet. Do you have a bed-and-breakfast? Even a boardinghouse would do.”
“A couple B-and-Bs. And there’s a lodge, but they’re probably closed for the season and won’t open up again until late March or mid-April. When you’ve finished eating, you can borrow my phone book and call around. Maybe someone around here is open.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Several people sat down to order and the woman got busy filling orders. The venison she brought Susannah a few minutes later was delicious, the pumpkin and walnut soups interesting. The best part was the bread—simply out of this world. Susannah was glad she’d taken a chance on something different.
She was finishing her coffee when she felt a presence. She glanced to her side and found a young girl with huge brown eyes staring up at her.
“Hi,” Susannah said.
“Si yo,” the girl answered. Her front teeth on the top and bottom were missing, making her whistle slightly when she talked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.”
“I said hello.”
“Oh, well, then si yo to you, too.”
The girl pointed to the cast that protruded from the left sleeve of Susannah’s sweater. “Did you hurt your arm?”
“I broke my wrist.”
“How?”
“Mm, I guess you could say I tried to fly and found out I wasn’t any good at it.”
Actually, the flying part had gone well. She’d jumped from the bridge, her chute had opened perfectly and she’d drifted down toward the landing area without problems. At the last second the wind had shifted. In an attempt to stay out of the water, Susannah had overcompensated and hit the rocks.
“Does it hurt?” the child asked.
“Not so much now, but it did in the beginning. The doctor put this on to make it better.” The girl kept staring at it, seemingly fascinated. “Would you like to see?”
She nodded.
Susannah turned on the stool and pushed up her sweater. The cast covered her hand, except for her fingers and thumb, and went up to below her elbow.
“It’s white. My friend Iva broke her arm last year and her thing was purple.”
“That’s because this one’s made out of plaster. Your friend Iva’s was probably made out of fiber-glass and those come in purple and other colors.”
“How come you didn’t get a pretty one?” She reached out and lightly rubbed her fingers over it.
“Because the pretty ones cost a lot more money and I was being frugal.”
“Fruit girl?”
“Frugal,” Susannah repeated with a smile. “That means I was trying not to spend too much money.”
“How come you don’t got any of your friends’ names on it?”
“Well, that’s a very good question.” And one Susannah didn’t know how to answer for a child. How did you explain to someone her age that you didn’t have any friends? Fortunately she didn’t have to.
“We printed our names on Iva’s,” the girl said, forging ahead. “I put mine right there.” She placed her index finger in the middle of Susannah’s forearm.
“That sounds pretty.”
“I could only print then, but I can write my name in cursive now.” She looked up with expectation, her sweet face showing exactly what she longed to do. “I can write it real good.”
“You can already write in cursive? Goodness. How old are you?”
“Sudali.” She held up six fingers.
“Well, this must be my lucky day because I’ve been looking all over for a six-year-old to write her name on my cast and couldn’t find one. Do you think you could do it for me?”
Her eyes lit up. “Uh-huh. I even got a marker.” Hastily she took off her school backpack and rummaged around until she came out with two. Susannah held her arm steady in her lap while the girl slowly and carefully wrote the name Nia in black. Instead of dotting the I she drew a red heart.
“How beautiful. Thank you.”
“You won’t wash it off?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” The cast would be removed and thrown away in four to six weeks, but the child probably hadn’t thought about that.
Nia looked quickly over her shoulder, as if realizing she’d strayed too far from the person who’d brought her. “I got to go.” She returned her things to her pack.
“Are you here with your mother?”
“My daddy. My mama’s dead. She got the cancer in her stomach.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You got a mama?”
“No, not anymore.”
“Did she get the cancer?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Very much.”
“You got a daddy?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Who tucks you in at night?”
“I…” The question sent a sharp pain through Susannah’s heart. “I tuck myself in.”
“My daddy tucks me in. I got a Gran and a Nana Sipsey to help.”
“Then I’d say you’re a very lucky little girl to have so many people who love you.”
The child said goodbye and left. Susannah ordered another cup of coffee. “Anything else?” the waitress asked when she’d finished.
“No, thanks. Everything was delicious.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. Want that phone book now?”
“Yes, please.” Susannah paid for her meal, then Bitsy helped her look up numbers for places where she might stay the night. She wrote them down.
While she had the book, she flipped over to the W section and skimmed the listings.
“Do you know Ryan Whitepath, the artist? This lists only a post office address and I’d like to drop by and speak to him.”
“Sure. Everybody knows the Whitepaths. They’ve lived here all their lives. That was Ryan’s little girl you were talking to.”
“You’re kidding!”
“He usually picks her up out front when she gets off the school bus. Hurry and you might catch him.”
Susannah raced through the store and outside. She scanned the parking lot for Nia, but didn’t see her anywhere. Damn! So close to Whitepath and she’d missed him.
The one item on her Life List that had caused her the most concern was “Create something beautiful and lasting.” For months she’d pondered what that should be and the training she needed to accomplish it. A painting maybe? An exquisite photograph? A sculpture? None of those things seemed exactly right, but she couldn’t explain why. She wanted the whatever she made to be admired long after she died, but it also had to “speak” to her heart, to be part of her somehow.
While waiting in the emergency room in Fayetteville to have her