“Who’re your grandparents?” I say. I don’t remember ever meeting her when we’ve visited before. And I think I’d remember.

“They live next door—in the trailer with the pit bull. Don’t mind Daisy, though. She’s a scaredy-cat of a dog. It’s the cockatoos you have to worry about.”

Somebody shouts over the fence and I flinch, but Coralee acts like she doesn’t even hear it.

“What cockatoos?”

I try to remember what a cockatoo looks like. Is she messing with me? I wonder if these are the neighbors who had to help Mema bust her window. I’m about to ask, but the shouting gets so loud, Coralee huffs and says, “Whoops, gotta run. Come over tomorrow or the day after and I’ll give you the grand tour. And hey, welcome to Trailerland.”

“What’s Trailerland?” I ask, but she’s already disappearing behind the holly. And I’m a tiny bit glad and a tiny bit sad that she’s gone, because on the one hand, meeting new people wears me out, but on the other, I’m alone in the dark again.

Mom pulls up in the van. Mema’s right behind her in their nicer, nondented Buick. Mema calls it their “church car.” Somewhere in between getting me buckled in and our pulling out onto Route 9, I decide I’m going to take Coralee up on her offer to come over. Because she wanted to know my name before she wanted to know about my chair. That’s saying something. And I want to see if those cockatoos are real.

Bethlehem Methodist is a one-story brick building with a steeple stuck on the top like an afterthought, or a candle in a birthday cake. Everybody wants to shake the hand of the “sweet child” in the wheelchair in her Christmas dress. Despite the embarrassing meet and greets, I do love this church. It sits underneath a bunch of huge oak trees all shouldered together, and behind it there’s a creek and tables for picnicking in the summer.

We make our way up the ramp on the side, and Grandpa claps the greeters on their backs like he’s the mayor. I see Mema rolling her eyes.

“Well, hello, young lady. It’s nice to see you again,” says a woman in a hat covered in fur and berries. “I used to work with your grandma down at the bank in Midwest City.” She’s got bright red lipstick on her teeth.

“They sure do get big quick, huh, Marianne? Oh, not that you’re big, darling. You’re just a tiny thing. Not that you’re small, not that I can tell. I mean…” She stops and lets the sentence dangle like the end of a rope. It’s kind of funny.