I never heard a word from Jocelyn, nor did I want to try to locate her. My mystery father had no idea I existed. I used to daydream about him, and had assigned him Robert Downey Jr.’s face and voice years earlier. He probably looked more like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

Friends from high school had all moved on and away. I was grateful for Kait and a few others at Fairfield, though we rarely found time to socialize.

My first job out of nursing school was juggling bedpans in Nashville, where I’d followed a boy who believed he was the next Kenny Chesney. Looking back, my main attractive quality was Ruby’s ability to transport us and our few belongings to a squalid apartment he’d rented, as far from Music Row as Siberia and about as appealing. He called himself Dakota Pine and carried a guitar when he went to the bathroom. I had known him in high school as Pete Turner, acne-plagued and awkward. Dakota was much smoother and managed to find a barmaid/singer/ songwriter/whore named Daisy to replace me while I was working the night shift. I headed back to Birmingham, crappy lyrics ringing in my ears, and began to plot my next escape to a better place. The following day, though, I found an online ad hiring for Fairfield Springs. It was nursing home heaven.

On the other hand, my love life was pathetic. I had an awkward relationship with a guy named Kenny throughout high school, a military nut with testosterone to match. His jealousy and possessiveness drove my parents crazy. I’m sure they celebrated when he managed to get through Army basic training and boarded a flight to Iraq two years after graduation.

My five months with Dakota/Pete was followed by a series of interchangeable domineering males and older men—father figure, anyone?—none of whom lasted very long. My most recent dating experience was a short-lived fling with a musclebound egomaniac named Todd. Kait fixed me up with him in a fit of desperation over my endless whiny complaints of loneliness. He stopped calling or texting me after two weeks of romantic splendor (that’s sarcasm), and was now obsessed with a redhead he’d met at his gym named Ashlee, sleek as a seal with large, incongruous boobs that looked like a coconut bra on a skinny tree.

I didn’t meet a lot of men through work under the age of eighty. I had my choice of great-grandfather figures any day of the week.

I double-checked the address as I pulled up to the building. Mr. Sobel must be a fancy lawyer indeed; the converted mansion serving as his office reeked of courtroom conquest. It was framed by leafy magnolias and azalea banks. I checked my face and hair, then patted Ruby’s dashboard for luck.