Page 50 of Her Hidden Smile

My bottom lip started to tremble when it went to voicemail.

I listened to Irv’s thick Tennessee accent. It was usually soothing, but not this time.

“Hey. Gone fishing. Try back later.”

I wiped away more tears.

I didn’t want to call 9-1-1. I didn’t. There was only one other person in town who I could call, not that she could come and drag me back to my house, but she was wise. She would think of something.

It was lunchtime. Little Grandma would be answering the phone for the Down Home Café. I pressed in that number.

“Down Home. We don’t take reservations.”

My snort of laughter resulted in tears and snot. “Little Grandma? It’s me.”

“Millie. You don’t sound right, girl. What’s ailing you?”

I sucked in a deep breath. I wasn’t a victim anymore. I was not going to cry like a baby, I was stronger than that.

“I’m in a bit of a pickle.” I was proud at how level my voice sounded.

But she must have heard something in my voice. “What’s wrong? What do you need? Is it your leg? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Answer me.”

How a woman who was over one-hundred years of age could sound like a drill sergeant was beyond me.

“I’m fine,” I said, offering up my go-to phrase. Then winced. “Not really,” I amended as fire streaked up my leg, then up my side until even my ribs burned.

“Baby girl, talk to me. Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“No!” I shouted. Then, “No,” I repeated in a calmer voice. “No ambulance. I’m at the orchard, and I overdid—” The last word ended in a high squeak as another lightning strike of pain shot up my thigh. Dropping the phone, I gripped my thigh with both hands, trying desperately to stop the spasms that were bouncing against every nerve in my body.

“Millie! Millie! Talk to me!”

If I could have, I would have. All I could do was pant and whimper through the pain. I heard Little Grandma talking to someone. It was a man.

“Christ!” The man shouted.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Now get moving.”

“Millie, can you hear me?

“Millie. Talk to me.”

Red. All I could see was red. It was like I was in the fire again; the pain was back. The flames were eating my flesh.

“Millie, talk⁠—”

Black.

Blessed black.

I lowered my forkful of chicken pot pie when I heard Little Grandma mention Millie’s name. I dropped my fork and pushed up from my table. I wound my way past the other tables filled with lunch diners and went to stand next to the hostess station where the white-haired lady sat on her specially made chair.

“Baby girl, talk to me. Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Little Grandma practically growled the question into the phone. I approved.

“Where is she?” I demanded to know.