The Last Odd Day by Lynne Hinton Page A

family, no one to care for, no one to depend upon. Maybe I let her in because for the first timein such a very long time I was painfully unattached. I was lonesome; and I let her into my heart just because she arrived at the exact moment when the last one who took up space had gone.
    There is no doubting the fact that she looks just like O.T. She has his narrow lips, the smooth Witherspoon brow, the stern chin. There is the loose way she stands that reminds me of his rangy, long, poised profile when he used to stop in the field and measure how far he had to go, eager and unassuming.
    O.T., of course, was bigger, stronger than Lilly, but there was still a clumsiness about them both that made him and makes her easy to approach, comfortable to talk to. And it was more than just these physical attributes that they shared. There’s a way about them, an air of comfortable familiarity like an old pair of shoes, that in the beginning made me want to be around her, keep her near, so that my good-bye to my husband didn’t feel so final.
    Maude said that there was discussion and even a vote at her church women’s meeting about whether or not Lilly had the right to come into our lives. “It was six to five,” she said, “that she should have stayed away.” And then she added, “but you really can’t count Marcella’s vote since Janice Smith told her when to raise her hand, and because, after all,” and here she cleared her throat, “she was only recently widowed.”
    She said this without even realizing that she was talking to another one of these women whose brain everyone assumed was now missing in action. After she said it I couldn’t decide which part of Maude’s stupid report made me the angriest. But I guess it was the part about making judgments about Lilly and what she did or did not have the right to do because this is the part I would not let go.
    â€œAnd people wonder why I quit going to church.” I said, hot and fast. “If that’s all you women have to do on a Tuesday night during your so-called Bible study, then I suggest you examine the choices those in the group made.” Then I was loaded and shooting.
    â€œWhy didn’t you take a vote as to whether or not Masie Reece should have had breast reconstruction or just used a prosthesis? Or whether Carol Ingle should have bailed her son out of jail on the third time he was arrested? Or whether Linda Masterson made the right decision to raise her sister’s child like she was her own? Maybe you should spend your time judging the choices you all have made rather than picking apart the lives of those you know nothing about.”
    She was backing out the door, but I drew her in. She had started it, and I was going to finish.
    â€œDid you know your daddy?” I asked, already sure of the answer because her parents lived with her untilthey died. She had always been close to both her mother and her father. Say what you want about Maude, she was a dutiful daughter. She nodded.
    â€œDid you know how he looked when you pleased him? What you did that made him laugh? Do you remember how he picked you up when you were a little girl and danced you around the kitchen table or helped you climb a tree? Do you recall how it was to be wrapped up in his arms, feeling so completely safe that you were not afraid of anything? Of anything?”
    I was not to be stopped.
    â€œDo you remember when you were angry how he teased you in just that silly way that made you forget why you were mad in the first place and the special name that he only had for you? Can you say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, because of all these things you alone have, things that are only yours, things that you pull out to cushion your withered heart that confirm for you what you had always suspected, that he loved you?”
    I was a streak of anger.
    â€œYou answer me that, and then you tell me that a child doesn’t have the right to