To John Scognamiglio, I am truly indebted to you for your inspiring words and the enthusiasm you express for my stories. Those moments are the fuel to the furnace of my imagination.
To John Talbot, my talented agent, you’ve shown nothing but rock-solid support over the years and it is so appreciated. Your dedication to me, and my writing, have enabled me to keep moving forward with my career.
Vida and Lulu, you make the magic happen behind the scenes. I am deeply grateful for your efforts, and tireless promotion on my behalf.
Kris, I am in awe of your talent. Your cover designs steal my breath away.
To Lauren, Paula, and the rest of the Kensington team, I am indebted to all of you for what you do, each and every day.
My fellow Kensington authors, Mandy, Eldonna, and Lynne, there is no doubt having you as part of my life enriches me beyond measure.
To all the independent bookstores and booksellers who strive to help authors connect to readers, you provide an important service to our communities; my profound thanks to you.
To the libraries that nurture and encourage a reading life that often begins for many in schools, and beyond, I owe you a lifetime of gratitude. Visiting the library as a child was the highlight of my week while growing up.
To all the book clubs, I am truly appreciative of your support for my work.
Jamie Adkins, of The Broad Street Deli and Market, you have created such a special place in our small town, and in my heart.
To the book cheerleaders who work so hard to diligently promote my work online through social media, I am grateful. It’s because of individuals like you that word of mouth about good books has taken on new meaning. From Kristy Barrett, to Susan Peterson, Linda Zagon, Susan Roberts, Leslie Hamod, Dawnny and Denise (the dynamic duo!). and too many more to name, thank you again and again!
A very special thank-you to a fierce writer, J. C. Sasser, not only for the use of your last name, but for all those phone calls, the friendship, and so much more.
I am forever grateful to my family for always being there and supporting me. I love you all very much.
To Blaine, my devoted husband, I know no words are necessary, but sometimes they are, and this is one of those times. You always tell me “don’t worry,” and I do anyway, but I still need to hear that because it means you have faith in what I do. All my love, always.
We wander, question. But the answer waits in each separate heart—the answer of our own identity and the way by which we can master loneliness and feel that at last we belong.
—Carson McCullers,
The Mortgaged Heart: Selected Writings, 1971
Chapter 1
The only memory I have of Mama, she was on fire.
I’d been watching my baby brother, Merritt, digging in the dirt, when I heard a subtle pop, then a loud explosion, and the big pot Daddy and Mama were always tending suddenly burst into flames, and so did Mama. The sight made me grip hold of Merritt’s hand hard enough to make him squeal.
Daddy would sometimes have to burn tent caterpillars. He’d hold a flaming end to the white cottony fuzz woven around the branches of the apple trees, and as the nests blazed, the black wormy bodies fell and hit the ground like the soft patter of raindrops. Fire always saved the fruit, but it’s what took Mama from us.
Mama took off running, going this way and that.
Daddy yelled, “Lydia!” and then, “Stay there, Jessie!” to me.
Merritt had already gone back to stabbing a stick in the mud over and over, making baby noises, completely unaware. Mama beat her hands against her head; then they caught fire too. She ran in a zigzag pattern, as if performing a strange and chaotic dance.
Daddy tried to catch her, yelling over and over, “Stop running!”
Somehow she evaded him, his efforts to help. He stumbled, twisted his ankle, and then he couldn’t run near as fast, staggering after her, limping badly.
She didn’t make any noise until the last seconds before she fell, when she shrieked his name, “Easton!”
The cry came long, and high-pitched, like a siren. She faltered, collapsed, everything from her head down to the tops of her legs consumed. Daddy threw himself over her, smacking his hands along her body. His movements frantic, he jerked his T-shirt over her head and pulled it down as far as it would go. If the flames singed him while he held her, he didn’t act like he noticed. Puffs of smoke curled and drifted around them like tiny gray clouds while an odd stench penetrated my nose, a distinct smell that held me rooted in place. The imprint of her face came through his shirt.
I quit crying and waited for them to get up, for her to start laughing and say, Did I scare you?
The fabric over her face where her mouth pushed against the cloth was a perfect oval. The only movement a slow sucking in and out of the now smutty material. That spot mesmerized me. In. out. After a few seconds, the area no longer moved. Daddy struggled to sit upright, still cradling her upper half. Her arms lay limp at her sides, hands blackened. He tilted his head like he didn’t understand what happened any more than I did.
He bent close, whispered in the area of her ear, “Lydia?”
Mama didn’t answer, didn’t move. I remained fixated, waiting. He pulled his shirt up and away. Where she’d been creamy-skinned, she was raw, charred, peeling. Her hair was mostly gone, and only a few wispy clumps still clung to her skull, while her blouse was near about scorched off. It didn’t matter though, because everything, her face, the lack of movement, was wrong, all wrong. It was as if she’d melted away, and my world turned as lopsided as the crooked bend of her torso in his arms.
Merritt had lost interest in his dirt digging and started toward them, steps unsteady as he made his way over the roots and leaves, dragging the stick along the ground.
He whispered, “Mama-mama-mama,” but this was overtaken by Daddy’s gasping.
He appeared to be trying to breathe for the both of them. He made noises such as I’d never heard before.
I mimicked Merritt, whispering, “Mama?”
This is what I remember. The three of us making our distress known while Mama lay forever silent.
* * *
I was four years old when she died, according to the date on her gravestone, July 10, 1948. It was twelve years ago, and although I’ve tried to remember her before that terrible day, I can’t. Her features before the accident are blurry, like a picture that’s had water dropped on it, smearing everything so it’s like looking through a frosty window. I also can’t say what happened right after, what we did, where we went, who came to help us. I can’t call to mind no service, or the burial. Obviously there was one because of that gravestone, which holds all I know, her name, Lydia Marsh Sasser, and the date of her death, both engraved within a heart.
New routines filled the empty gaps her passing left in our small world. Somehow, we made do. There’d be times when I’d purposefully recall what little I knew, and each image would flip by in my head, like the slide projectors teachers use in school. Sometimes there’d be moments when something from deep within would break through all on its own. Once was when I was around eleven, and Merritt and I’d gone to one of the stills tucked back in the woods where we were making sour mash. There’s an odor to it, and I came to realize I’d smelled that very same thing just before Mama caught fire. A puzzle piece fell into place. Merritt, who was nine, happened to bring her up as I was having this moment of clarity.
He said, “Jessie, you reckon our mama ever did this?”
My hands had gone sweaty