Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
“We’re at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta,” Peyton explained.
“But . . . why? And . . . where’s your . . . your mother?”
“She’s here, Daddy. She’s been right here the whole time. Goes to physical therapy with you twice a day. You don’t remember?”
His father frowned and shook his head slowly.
“She just went down to the cafeteria while you were sleeping,” Peyton went on. “You had an accident. On Bootlegger. You hit your head, and Doctor Roth did surgery a couple of weeks ago.”
“Doctor Roth . . . Eli?”
“Yes, sir.”
His father slowly raised his hand to touch the bandages on his head. Peyton gently pulled it back. “Prob’ly shouldn’t touch that, Daddy. Not just yet.”
“Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t you be . . . in school?”
“No, sir, Mama got ’em to let me finish up at home since the school year’s almost up. Don’t go sending me back to Loony Luetrell till fall.”
That brought a weak smile to his father’s face. Lucy Luetrell had been terrorizing Savannah students since the 1920s and didn’t show any signs of slowing down. “Wouldn’t . . . wish . . . ole Loony on you.”
“Daddy, the doctor always asks you what year it is when he talks to you. Do you know?”
“It’s 19 . . . 47 . . . 1947—is that right?”
“Yes, sir. It’s May the second, 1947.” Peyton ventured another question. “Do you know how old I am, Daddy?”
His father frowned again. “Not old enough . . . to drive . . . yet. You turned fifteen . . . last June.”
Peyton felt it immediately, like one of the chemical reactions he had watched in the lab at school, first a slow bubbling—a minor disturbance—and then a roiling and churning—
He ran to his father’s bathroom just in time for the heaving. Never in his life had he felt so violently ill. When at last it stopped, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, gargled with cold water, and then splashed some on his face. He took a few deep breaths before returning to his dad, who was looking at him the way he used to before he explained whatever it was that needed explaining.
“Don’t know what that was about,” Peyton said with a shrug. “Must be the hospital food.”
He knew his dad was watching his every move, the way he used to study players on the ballfield. “It’s not really . . . the food . . . is it, Peyton?”
He looked into his father’s eyes, which saw clearly now, the way they used to. He had never lied to his dad, not just out of respect but because it would’ve been pointless. His father could always see through any falsehood—probably what made him such a good attorney.
“This has all been . . . just a little . . . too much . . . hasn’t it, son?”
Peyton only nodded at his father, who had been functioning for some time now—carrying on conversations with the hospital staff and answering all their questions—without even being fully conscious of where he was or what he was doing. And now he had come to, fully and completely.