“I saved up lunch money.” He shrugged his shoulders.” It’s to remind you how much I care about you, Violet.” He turned his gaze to the street. “I know you don’t understand, but I was just born too late to be with you now. Someday, though...”

“Chet, you’ll find someone who is perfect for you. Wait and see. In the meantime, I’ll cherish this gift and hope to see you when you visit your dad.” Violet stood and held out her arms. “Give me a hug before you leave.”

He held on for a long time, then looked up at her, biting his bottom lip. “Promise me you’ll think about me.”

“Promise me you’ll behave for your Aunt Junie,” Violet responded.

Chet shook his head like a freshly bathed Labrador Retriever. “I doubt that’s gonna happen. See you, Violet.”

She watched until he turned the corner, where he looked back one last time with a wave.

.

seven

RONNI

The photo on the newspaper’s website was five years old. He stood next to a smiling blonde goddess with thoroughbred legs—she wore a cream lace dress the size of my ankle socks. The caption read, “Sargent Richard O’Shea named Alabama’s Trooper of the Year after heroic rescue.” The accompanying story identified her as his wife, Victoria. Sargent O’Shea had risked his life to pull a three-year-old boy from a burning wreck on I-20. When I reached the part about his two young sons, I closed the laptop and cried for twenty minutes.

I spent a snotty, phlegm-y week writing Violet’s story. I missed her every day, and wondered what she’d have said about Rick O’Shea.

Returning to work saved me. I was grateful to be focused on something other than writing about Violet’s glorious love life and pondering my own, dismal one. I had missed my patients, who greeted me with kindergarteners’ enthusiasm.

Kait was happy to see me, too. We were mired in incident reports and trying to figure out why Mrs. Meyers kept hearing a cat in her room in the middle of each night. She’d risen to feed it and fallen twice. Her alarm did no good, as it only went off after it was too late. Her face was covered in bruises. No amount of reassurance could convince her there was no cat, and the bedrails didn’t slow her down at all.

Kait and I stood in her room.

“Mrs. Meyers,” I began, “we’ve checked everywhere and there is no cat. Maybe you’re hearing one outside the building.”

“It’s not outside,” she said stubbornly. “My hearing is very good and I’m telling you, the cat is in my room. I can’t just ignore it.”

“Do you hear it in the daytime?”

“Not usually. It’s only in the middle of the night. You have to find it. I know it needs food.”