Chapter 14: Luther's Study

"Why now?" I asked. "Why carry it twenty-three years and hand it to me today?"

"Because yesterday Marlena walked past me in the lobby with her face like milk," Luther said.

He glanced at Maybelle, then back at the paper band in my hand.

"I'm going home to tell my wife that I know," he said. "Don't come."

"Dad, don't go alone."

"I've gone alone for twenty-three years. I'd like to try it differently."

He squeezed my shoulder once, awkwardly, and left.

At 7:05 on Saturday morning a number I didn't know sent me a text.

Birchwood Hills. Roswell. Please come.

It was signed with his name, from the phone of a night aide who had lent it to him in a hallway.

Raylan drove.

Birchwood Hills Retreat had a stone fountain, a lobby of leather sofas, and a front desk with a bowl of mints.

Eight family members sat among the sofas with coffee, waiting for their own people.

The woman at the desk smiled the smile of a place that bills by the night.

"Mr. Luther Merriman is resting," she said. "His wife is his health proxy. No visitors without her signature."

"I'm his daughter."

"I'm sure you are."

"Could you ask him to step down to the lobby?"

"Mr. Merriman is not taking calls."

I took out my phone and dialed the aide's number.

It rang twice.

"Waverly," my father said, in a bathrobe voice.

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