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  My first instinct was to run out to meet him in the driveway, but I was struck with the need to live cancer-free for a precious few more moments. Instead, I moved in slo-mo, out to the backyard to watch the boys. They should have started their homework by now, but what did it matter? In six months they would be motherless. Like I had been fatherless. “Cooper … Jackson…” I wanted to scream and envelop them in my arms, but thought better of it, opting to relish their stellar athleticism from an iron chair on the patio.

  When I saw Haynes open the French doors, I held up my hand. “I do not want to see the look on your face. Don’t raise your eyebrows. Don’t purse your lips. And above all do not furrow that brow.”

  He walked toward me, expressionless, before bending down to scoop me up in his arms. I went completely limp in his embrace. “You don’t have cancer,” he said, slowly, no affect in his voice. I opened my mouth to speak but he placed a gentle hand atop my mouth. “We’re pregnant.”

  Eight months later, when Dr. Patterson announced, “It’s a girl!” my world went from bugs and balls to dollies and tea sets, overnight.

  SEVEN

  WILDA

  Now here we are in Oxford, eighteen years later, moving our baby girl into Martin Hall at Ole Miss. I welcome back the flood of nostalgia, like finding an old pair of bell-bottoms in my mother’s attic. I lived in Martin when I was a freshman. Haynes picked me up for our first date in the lobby. Lisa Murphey, my college roommate, and I had a garage sale in our room trying to raise money for our spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale. Hiding boys, skipping class to sleep in, prank phone calls, late-night room parties, flip-flops in the shower—now Ellie would get to experience it all.

  Finding a parking spot is worse than I thought. It’s like trying to park at the mall the weekend before Christmas, only it’s August and the hottest day of the year. Even though we’re moving Ellie in a day early, before most of the students, it still looks like a parking lot for crazies. All the SUVs and trucks are parked at careless angles, blocking one another in.

  The one bright spot is: Ellie will never have to search for a parking spot. Haynes told her she couldn’t take her car to college. I was totally in favor of her having it, but there are some things I need to let go and let my husband win. When I see all the brand-new Range Rovers, BMWs, and Lexus SUVs parked erratically, I’m glad Ellie left her 2005 Jeep Cherokee in our driveway.

  Once we finally find a spot, a football field away from the dorm, Haynes turns to Ellie in the backseat. “You sure you don’t want to change your mind? There’s still time to register at Shelby State, for free.”

  Dramatically, as if she’s onstage, she rolls her eyes. Haynes’s teasing drives her up a wall. Southwest Tennessee Community College used to be Shelby State in our day. Even though Tennessee kids go free for the first two years, Ellie Woodcock wants nothing to do with it. She’s hell-bent on the SEC experience.

  “Daaad.” Her tone is pure frustration. I see her struggling with the door handle. “Open my door. You’ve got the child locks on again. Hurry. Open.”

  He turns to me. “Damn thing. It happens every time I turn on the engine.”

  The locks click and Ellie bursts out of the backseat. Her long blond ponytail swings as she lifts her chin and gazes up at her new ten-story home. Her arms are stretched out wide, like she wants to give the world a hug.

  I roll the window down and turtle my head out toward her. “Honey!” My voice is shrill, full of jollity. “You’re having your Mary Tyler Moore moment. All you need is a tam.”

  Two freshmen are unloading right next to us. Both look up and stare. Ellie notices, whips back around, curling her top lip. “I’m having my what?”

  I lower my voice. “Your Mary Tyler Moore moment. Didn’t you ever see The Mary Tyler Moore Show?”

  “Uhhh, nooo.”

  Now I’m at a loud whisper. “Mary raises her arms and throws her tam in the air. She’s celebrating her independence.”

  Ellie’s murdering me with her eyes. Both hands are dug into her hips.

  “Never mind.” I retreat back inside, rolling the window up as fast as it will go.

  Not two minutes later, she opens the back door, leans across the seat, and mutters, “Please try not to embarrass me four hundred more times today.” After another eye roll, she grabs her backpack, slings it across one shoulder, and dashes away from our SUV. She’s wearing Lulu shorts and that oversize Rolling Stones T-shirt. We had taken her to Nashville to see them last summer, and she insisted on buying an extra large. She is so much prettier than I ever was. Thank You, God.

  “Are you ready for this?” Haynes reaches over to caress my knee.

  “I suppose,” I say with a loud sigh.

  “Let’s do it.” He jumps out of the driver’s seat.

  I just sit there. Truth is, I am not ready for this. As happy as I am for Ellie, I’m dying inside. The thought of empty-nesterness spells misery to me. Most of my friends have been empty-nesters for years. Lilith Whitmore, from Natchez, Mississippi, an Alpha Delt sorority sister of mine—actually more of an acquaintance—is the only older mother I know. When she learned through a mutual friend that Ellie was going to Ole Miss, she called and suggested that her Annie Laurie and my Ellie room together. At the time I thought that would be great. I still do, I suppose, but it’s obvious the Whitmores are extremely well-to-do. That, of course, makes me feel inferior, but my biggest concern is for Ellie. I hope it doesn’t cause her any unnecessary jealousy.

  By the time I step outside, Ellie is waiting impatiently at the back of our Expedition, ready to unload. Haynes opens the tailgate. “Hang on. Let’s not get started with all this yet. Why don’t we go inside and get you checked in first?”

  “I’ll go,” Miss Independence says. “You and Mom wait here.”

  Obligingly, Haynes and I stand at the truck and watch our daughter disappear inside the front door of Martin.

  Between the blazing hot temperature and the high humidity, I can actually feel the halo of frizz hovering over my head. A quick touch proves I’m right. I extend a hand toward Haynes. “Give me your keys, please.”

  He peers at me, confused.

  “If you think I’m standing out here in this steam bath you have another thing coming.” That’s another thing: I am a slave to my hair. It’s naturally curly, and I’m not talking cute curly. I’m talking gross curly. It takes me thirty minutes to blow it out straight, and when the barometric pressure drops I might as well stay home. You would never know I had touched a blow dryer.

  On top of that, I’m staying away from hot-flash triggers. I’m not having all that many anymore, but I’m not taking chances. I hop back inside, reach over, and start the engine. Pressing the high button on the AC, I point all four vents directly at my face.

  Glancing out the window I see Haynes talking with another dad. Lord have mercy, he looks half our age. When his wife comes up, I know they’re half our age. She looks like she could be a student. Without realizing it, I’m pushing up my cheeks with my thumbs and lifting my forehead with two fingers. I look down at my wrinkled knees and dream, just for a moment, of another day. When my legs were my best asset—at least that’s what I was told.

  Thirty minutes later, Ellie finally comes back with a report that we have to stand in line to get the key, but there are helpers from the University ready to “make our move-in hassle free.” So the three of us begin the unloading. Considering what most people have to haul in on move-in day, we have it easy. Someone else is meeting us here with the furniture and bed linens. Lilith put us in charge of the microwave and the coffeepot. All in all, between her clothes, shoes, toiletries, and God knows whatever else, there are a total of ten boxes and suitcases. Haynes had rented a dolly before we left—smart man—and loads a tower of boxes atop. I have Ellie’s Vera Bradley weekender bag on one shoulder, and the handle of a roll-away suitcase in my hand. Ellie is rolling two more suitcases behind her.

  When we finally make it to the lobby, I’m
floored by how little Martin has changed. The chairs have been updated and there’s a new coat of paint on the walls, but other than that, it’s circa 1976. It even smells the same—a mélange of dirty laundry and the scent of dirt after a rainfall.

  Lines to each of the three elevators have been taped off, and once Ellie finally gets her room card—no such thing as keys anymore—we learn that her and Annie Laurie’s room is all the way up on the ninth floor. We’re left with no choice but to wait in line for the elevator. Lilith was the one who insisted we pay a one-hundred-dollar up-charge and move in a day early. But by the looks of the place, many others have done the same thing.

  “Can you imagine what tomorrow will be like if it’s this crowded today?” Haynes asks. “Best hundred bucks we’ve ever spent.”

  “I agree,” I tell him.

  Looping an arm through his, Ellie sidles in closer. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I wonder if Annie Laurie’s here yet?” I say as we peer up at the floor indicators above the elevators.

  Ellie looks at her phone. “I just texted her. She and her parents got here an hour and a half ago.”

  Haynes clears his throat, looks straight at her. “They didn’t have as far to travel.”

  “Dad,” Ellie retorts, “Memphis is way closer than Natchez.”

  “Not by air. I’m sure they flew in on their private helicopter and landed on the roof.”

  “Stop, Dad.”

  I shoot Haynes my not now look. He shrugs and pulls on the bill of his Memphis Grizzlies ball cap.

  Evidently, Lilith and Gage Whitmore are loaded. One of the wealthiest families in Natchez, from what I hear—possibly one of the wealthiest in the state. Even though we’re the same age, she pledged Alpha Delt as a transfer from Randolph Macon a year behind me, and I vaguely remember rumblings about her family fortune. The word is her husband is a trust-fund baby himself. From our telephone conversations, I gather he’s usually at home during the day, “managing their portfolios.”

  It takes a full hour for our turn on an elevator to arrive, despite the fact that our move-in times were staggered. The whole way down to Ole Miss I’d been thinking about what Haynes would say when he saw Ellie’s dorm room. He was usually oblivious to such things, but there was no hiding this one.

  Just thinking about that phone message I received back in June has me frozen in fear. I had just finished my water aerobics class when I checked my phone for missed calls. Sure enough there was one from a 601 area code. Mississippi. When I checked the recording I had a voice message from someone named Rhonda Taylor from Chic Small Spaces. She said she needed my address to send me an invoice. I remember thinking, An invoice? And who the heck is Rhonda Taylor?

  I pushed redial.

  She answered on the first ring. “Rhonda Taylor. Hotty Toddy.”

  “Hi Rhonda, this is Wilda Woodcock. You left a message on—”

  “Hey, Wilda, how are you?” She definitely thought she had the right person.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Great. I need your address, girl. To send you an invoice.”

  I put on my best semi-confrontational tone. “You mentioned that in your voice mail, but I think there’s been a mistake. You must have the wrong Wilda Woodcock.”

  “Aren’t you Lilith Whitmore’s friend?”

  An ultra-big pit constricted my stomach, near one of my sphincter muscles right under my breastbone. “Yes.”

  “I’m her dorm-room designer.”

  Silence. Shock. Shit. Every inch of me, every tiny pore of mine was dying to scream, “Lilith Whitmore has a dorm-room designer? Are you freaking kidding me?” But I am well versed in the art of polite Southern-speak. So I told a little white lie. “Of course,” I said, in a breathy tone. “Now I remember.”

  “See, I do have the right Wilda Woodcock.” She giggled, and I couldn’t blame her. “Now. We need to talk install. What date is your daughter moving into Martin?”

  “August sixteenth.” I had that date branded into my heart. The day I would become an empty nester.

  “Lilith told me she’d be happy to pay me an up-charge to get the exact move-in date y’all want. I’m assuming you’re good with that?”

  Oh great, I thought. Lilith wants me to pay yet another up-charge. “How much is that? Out of curiosity.”

  “Two-fifty.”

  I took a deep breath, tried to remain calm. “Oh … well, okay.”

  “I assume the girls have been chatting about their colors and designs.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Great, because I’m running out of time. If y’all want a move-in-ready dorm room I’ll need y’all to pick out your fabrics and decide on your room design by next Thursday.”

  That pit in my stomach had grown into a boulder. “Okay.”

  “I sent Lilith several fabric samples. Have you not seen them?”

  “That must have been what she was calling me about.” Lilith had left a message from the Cayman Islands wanting to talk about the design of the girls’ room. Never once had it crossed my mind she had hired a dorm-room designer. Heck, I never even knew they existed. “We haven’t connected yet, but I told Ellie to call Annie Laurie.” I paused. “To be honest, I wasn’t planning on getting all that involved. I like to let Ellie make her own decisions.”

  “Some moms are like that.”

  “So, Rhonda. You said you have an invoice. I assume you charge a design fee?” My voice was interlaced with trepidation.

  A long pause followed. “Is the Pope Catholic?” She laughed out loud. “So far I haven’t figured out how to volunteer for a living.” Her voice was strong, snappy, ultra confident.

  “Oh no, I … wasn’t suggesting you’d do it for free. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Girrrl. No offense taken. My business has gone through the roof. My phone has beeped twice during this conversation. I don’t know if I need to thank Panhellenic or Obama.”

  “Gosh. Congratulations. I wish I’d thought of it.” My mind floated off to the job I would have to get. To pay for Ellie’s unexpected expenses.

  “I’ve always been ahead of the curve. It’s a gift.” She laughed again.

  “Good for you. I’m assuming you have a total for all this?”

  “I have your invoice right here in my hot little hand.”

  “Great. How much is it?”

  “Ten K.”

  I was positive I had misunderstood her. “Excuse me?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Apiece?”

  “Yes, honey, yes. But that includes the furniture, the comforter and monogrammed shams, the extra pillows, bed skirt, draperies, the throws. Wait, what am I forgetting?” She paused. “Oh yeah, the woven blinds, the rugs and mirrors, the art, the desk toppers and chair covers. And a dorm-warming gift. It’s turnkey.”

  I was utterly gobsmacked. Heart palpitations kick-started into motion. I broke out in a cold sweat and if she said something else, then I never heard her. All I could think about was Haynes and what he was going to say when I told him we owed ten thousand dollars to Ellie’s dorm-room designer.

  It had taken me a week to convince him she should move in early—to the tune of one hundred dollars—another of Lilith’s suggestions. But at this point, I couldn’t disappoint our daughter. I’d cooked that goose last February when I encouraged her to room with Annie Laurie Whitmore in the first place.

  “One more important thing before I let you go,” Rhonda said, snapping me away from my thoughts. “Y’all are in charge of the fridge, the coffeemaker, the TV, and the microwave. Those are the only things I don’t include … unless you want to pay extra. Heck, I’ll buy the girl’s toothbrushes if you want me to.”

  “Oh no,” I said, quickly. “We’ll bring the appliances. And the toothbrushes.”

  “Alrighty then.” There was laughter in her voice, like she knew perfectly well she had stepped into a goldmine. “If you’ll send me a deposit check of six thousand, we can get this started. L
ilith’s already sent me hers, so don’t worry, I’ve got your install date on the calendar in ink.”

  Oh sweet Jesus. A sudden surge of overwhelming panic griped my chest as I hung up the phone. Bump-bump-bump—I could hear the banging of my heart. I felt nauseous. I couldn’t breathe. I was either dying or going crazy. A vision sprung to mind of me, lying in my coffin, with my family peering sadly over the side. Then another replaced it with me, at Bolivar, our West Tennessee mental institution, with a drool cup dangling from my neck.

  EIGHT

  WILDA

  When we finally make it up to the ninth floor, an hour and a half after our arrival, the door to Ellie’s room is half open. “Knock, knock,” I say, poking my head inside, “Woodcocks are here.”

  The first person I see is a woman, whom I assume to be Rhonda Taylor, giving instructions to an older African American gentleman about centering an oil painting over a gorgeous gray-and-white floral couch. The Whitmores are off to the side, seated in Lucite chairs watching them work.

  “Hey, y’all!” Lilith exclaims, popping up to hug me. Gage Whitmore stands up, too. He puts his breakfast sandwich down and shakes Haynes’s hand. Annie Laurie is nowhere to be found.

  Ellie scans the room, wide-eyed. I can tell she is both in shock and in awe. I certainly am.

  Rhonda looks over her shoulder while hanging yet another oil painting over Annie Laurie’s bed. She’s holding a drill. I read somewhere only peel-and-stick picture hangers were allowed, but obviously I was wrong.

  “Hang on, y’all; I’ll be riiight there.” She lays the drill on the bed, straightens the painting. After wiping her hands on her pants, she shakes all of ours. “Hey, I’m Rhonda. Don’t mind me, I’m a little cray-cray today. I usually look a whole lot better than this.” She looks fantastic to me. Blue jeans and a cold-shoulder top. Gorgeous jewelry. A nice, shoulder-length hairdo. She’s a beautiful woman.