Monday, the doctors insisted on moving Pa to a facility. Tuesday, I insisted he be moved from the facility. They diagnosed him with something called manic depression, but he wasn’t a lunatic. And that first place housed folks I considered to fit that description. Patients in wheelchairs randomly dotted the hallways. In comatose states, they just slumped in the chairs, as if they either gave up on their destinations or were left for dead by someone. Wails and high-pitched screams came from some unknown location as I had maneuvered around the wheelchair statues. The smell of urine and body odor did me in, and even though I added my own high-pitched fit, it took over a week to finally get Pa out of there. An ambulance picked him up and moved him to a nursing home with a small ward for high-functioning mental health patients. Whatever that meant. The place didn’t stink and the patients seemed to be cared for, so I felt okay with Pa staying there until I could find better accommodations.

In the meantime, I had a lot of research ahead, but that meant going to the Truett Memorial Library and coming to terms with acknowledging what the town had long suspected about Pa.

Swallowing my pride, I straightened my shoulders and walked up to the front desk at the library with purpose. Miss Jones looked at me with pity, but I ignored it.

Recalling how brave Miss Wise was to share about her past, I held my chin up and rounded up some gumption. “Miss Jones, would you please help me find books on manic depression?”

“Of course.” She didn’t hesitate with her response. “Whew. I was worried for a moment there you were going to ask me to pull books on UFO sightings.”

Brow furrowed, I stared at her, but when she winked, the tension dissipated as I realized she was cracking a much-needed joke. “What’s wrong with UFO sightings?”

She scoffed and readjusted her glasses before typing something into her new computer. “What’s wrong with them is they ain’t real.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it.” I fiddled with the stack of bookmarks. “After you round up my books, would you mind seeing about a directory or some kind of information about mental health facilities near us?”

“We can do that. Sure. Let me pull these books and we’ll get right on it.” Miss Jones stood from her chair and walked around the long desk, giving my hand a squeeze in passing.

An hour or so later, I had four books on mental health disorders, and a directory of mental health institutions would be delivered in a few days for me to check out. I stepped outside, retrieved my melted slushy I’d left under the edge of the magnolia tree. After taking a syrupy sip, I tossed the cup in the trash and started across the side parking lot.