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right side of her face has a huge mole or wart. Or maybe she was in an accident and her face is scarred. Maybe she had to have 179 stitches. Perhaps she even had plastic surgery. Suddenly, I feel an attachment to this painting. I stand back and give it another look. Then my cell phone rings again.
    “Where is the nearest store?” Dad asks anxiously.
    “What?”
    “Your mom wants to know what the closest grocery store to you is called. She forgot to ask you.”
    “Ingle’s,” I say.
    “Ingle’s,” Dad repeats, and I can hear my mother say, “Oh, okay.” I can’t tell whether she approves of this grocery store chain or not. I know her favorite place to shop for fresh produce is Publix. She will drive an extra ten miles for the opportunity to buy carrots, lettuce, red peppers, and peaches at Publix.
    My dad says that Mom thought this was Piggly Wiggly country. I wonder why she makes such a fuss over supermarket chains.
    Dad tells me he loves me, and suddenly I wish I were in Tifton, walking with him in thigh-high black rubber boots, feeding slop to the newest batch of rosy piglets and listening to him talk about the latest gadget he might buy. His “I love you” is tender, just like it was when he first came to see me in the hospital after the accident. There I was a mass of white bandages, and he found my cheek and gave it his signature kiss.
    I tell him I love him, too, and when he hangs up I still feel the warmth of his voice through the phone.
    I forget the kimono woman and her hidden face and head up the stairs to the bathroom by the loft. Earlier, I had my first breakfast (wheat toast with butter) in the cabin and I’m about to take my first shower.
    The bathroom is painted forest green with tan molding along the ceiling. From the window I see the gravel driveway where my Jeep is parked and the thin, winding road that took me up here yesterday afternoon. I shudder and back away from the view. Sometimes it’s best not to see just how high up the mountain you are.
    After my shower, I dry off using a towel I brought here, even though the cabin’s closets are stocked with fluffy, soft towels and rose-scented sheets and pillowcases. As usual, I’m trapped into looking at my ragged scars. I can cover the one on my abdomen with clothing and avoid short skirts or shorts so that the ones on my thighs are hidden. I wonder how I can make it through a summer without exposing my arms, though. I follow the deep indentations with my finger. Train tracks—I have my own set. Two long lines run from just above my wrist up to my bicep on my right arm. Sometimes I think of them as the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.
    “Do people ever name their scars?” I asked Dr. Bland one afternoon as the clouds filled the sky and the weatherman predicted snow by midnight.
    He smiled and told me my scars would fade.
    Chef B joked that it was good that Dr. Bland was a doctor and not a restaurant owner because who would want to eat at Bland’s Restaurant? “Not good for the business,” the chef said in his Spanish accent. “People think food won’t be spicy or very flavor.”
    I am still in my bathrobe with my wet hair dripping down my neck when Sally calls. At first I can’t find my cell phone again. I rush down the stairs to answer before it goes to voice mail. I have no idea when I placed my phone on the kitchen counter.
    “Glad you made it to North Carolina,” Sally says. “You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”
    “So far, so good.”
    “How’s the cabin?”
    I think of the first thing that came to my mind when I entered the cabin yesterday. “Sunny,” I say. Sunlight had filled every inch of the downstairs area as it poured through the windows, even the windows in the sloping ceiling. Light streamed across the hardwood floors—floors partially covered by a collection of round and square throw rugs. Even the purple Mexican hat with yellow tassels hanging by a nail on the wall by the hallway glistened festively. I was