Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (28 page)

“Cecelia Rose, your father didn’t agree to give me custody because he doesn’t love you. I believe he agreed because he
does
. Now, I know he’s made some terrible mistakes, and he wasn’t there when you and your mother needed him most. But as flawed as he is, I know he loves you.”

This was one of those times when Aunt Tootie’s eternal optimism grated on my nerves. She was always so chronically cheery and chirpy, so willing to look at the good in people that she ignored the bad parts—the parts that were unforgivable, the parts that were so raw they would never heal.

I looked at her and bleated, “He
doesn’t
care about me one bit. He never did.”

“People are aware of their shortcomings, though most times they don’t want to admit it. Your father knows he made a mess of things, and I believe this is his way of trying to do right by you. I really do.”

Barbed words formed on my tongue, and I couldn’t stop them from leaping from my mouth like spiny toads. “I hate him!”

Aunt Tootie reached for my hand. “Cecelia, no. Please don’t hate. Don’t ever hate.”

I yanked my hand away, anger flaring on my cheeks. “He has a girlfriend in Detroit. That’s where he was all those years when he left me alone to take care of Momma.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sure that’s just a terrible rumor. Taylor traveled a great deal because of his business, and there were times when he’d be gone for over a week. Believe me, I know certain people questioned it. Small-minded people can be so vicious and—”

“No. He
told
me so. He admitted it the day he brought my books.”

“What?” Aunt Tootie’s eyebrows shot up so high I could see them arch above her sunglasses. She pursed her lips and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“His girlfriend even called the house. I think Momma knew he had a girlfriend too.”

Aunt Tootie shook her head. “Oh, no.”

I looked down at my hands and picked at my cuticles. Before I knew it, the story spilled from my lips.

It happened the winter before Momma died. I had bundled up and walked to the grocery store to buy some things for dinner. The wind had blown the snow into great white drifts, and the sound of shovels scraping across the sidewalks fi lled the crisp, biting air. When I arrived home, I heard Momma talking. She sounded angry. I put down the bag of groceries, peeled off my coat and boots, and headed up the stairs.

As I moved down the hallway, I heard her say, “How dare you tell
me
what to do. I’ll show you. You no-good Yankee bastard.”

I peered into my mother’s bedroom. She was sitting on her vanity bench wearing a faded flannel nightgown and her red high-heeled shoes. Draped over her lap was a pair of my dad’s pants.

An angry scowl tightened her face as she dabbed something gooey over the zipper. “Pig-faced liar,” she said, furiously rubbing her fingers over the metal teeth.

I walked to the doorway. “Momma, who are you talking to?”

“Your father,” she said.

“But he’s not here.”

She shrugged. “Here, not here, what difference does it make?”

“What are you doing?” I asked, stepping into the room.

“Giving him a nice little surprise. He had the audacity to call and tell me to press his good suit so he could stop by and pick it up. Stop by?
Stop by!
”

She squeezed more gooey stuff from a tube and smeared it on the underside of the zipper. “He said he has to drive to Detroit for a big meeting on Saturday night—that he won’t be home all weekend. Well,
I
know better. That conniving, cheating, liar.”

She was so mad her pulse throbbed at the side of her neck. I reached out, picked up the tube, and held it beneath the lamplight. “Momma, this is glue!”

Slowly she turned and looked at me. And what began as a tight-lipped frown transformed into the biggest, brightest smile I’d seen in years. “Yes, it is.”

Aunt Tootie’s face turned pale. “Oh, Cecelia. I’m so sorry. Well, all I can say is shame on your father, just
shame
on him. Your poor, poor mother.”

She fell quiet, and as the wind whipped around us, I wondered what she was thinking. Maybe now she’d understand why I felt the way I did.

After driving in silence for several miles, she glanced at me and said, “Tell you what, sugar. Go ahead and hate your father for a little while. Not too long, but for a while. I believe I’ll hate him for a while myself.”

Then she reached out for my hand again, only this time I didn’t pull it away.

As we drove deeper into the countryside, the red dirt road unfurled ahead of us for as far as I could see. Occasionally a farmhouse and a barn would pop into view, but mostly it was an endless, sweeping vista of crop fields and orchards.

“Cecelia Rose, I know you’re hurt and angry, and you have every right to be. I’d like to help you sort through your feelings. Talk to me, honey.”

I looked away and mumbled, “I just want to have a happy day. That’s all.”

Aunt Tootie let out a heavy sigh. “All right, tell you what. Today
will
be a happy day. We’ll enjoy the beautiful weather, get ourselves some peaches, and then tonight we’ll go out to supper and a movie. But tomorrow we’re going to sit down together and talk. Will you promise me?”

I studied a squashed bug on the windshield and nodded.

“All right, since this day has been declared a happy day, I have something happy to tell you,” she said, relaxing against the seat. “I spoke to the principal of your school back in Willoughby, and he mailed me all your records. They arrived last week, and I sat down and went through them. Cecelia Rose, you are a
very
bright young lady. I knew you were smart as a whip, but I had no idea what an exemplary student you’ve been. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, glad to be off the subject of my father.

“So, I have an offer I’d like to make. There’s a fine private school that has a wonderful curriculum. It’s called the Rosemont School for Girls. It’s small, only for grades seven through twelve. Iris Fontaine is the headmistress, and she’s an acquaintance of mine. I went to see her yesterday and showed her your school records. And guess what she said?”

“What?”

Aunt Tootie winked. “She said you’re a perfect candidate for Rosemont. So, how would you like to take a look at the school and see what you think? Iris would love to meet you. The school year will be starting up in no time and we’ve got to decide where you’re going.”

I’d spent the summer living in a breezy, flower-scented fairy tale, a world that had swept me so high above normal life that I’d forgotten about school altogether. But girls from rich families were sent away to boarding schools. I knew that for a fact. On the outskirts of Willoughby there had been just such a school. Every September the students arrived, driven to the front door in fancy cars. When June came, the cars lined up along the shady driveway and took the girls away.

I chewed my lip and looked at Aunt Tootie. “Is it a boarding school where I’d have to move away from you and Oletta?”

“Oh, no, honey. You’d keep right on living at home with me. Rosemont is just a short walk from our house. I thought I’d call Iris first thing Monday morning and make an appointment to show you the school. Would you like that?”

Relieved, I looked at her and smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Wonderful,” she said, turning down a bumpy dirt road and almost losing her hat in the process.

The miles rolled by, and just when I wondered how far this trip to get peaches was going to be, she slammed on the brakes so hard I slid from the seat and nearly smacked my head on the dashboard.

“Oh, good heavens, Cecelia, are you all right?”

I pulled myself back onto the seat. “I’m okay.”

“I’ve been here dozens of times and still forget where the driveway is.”

Up ahead to the right was a pale yellow farmhouse with a wide front porch, and to the left sat a saggy red barn surrounded by all sorts of outbuildings. We stepped out of the car, and three tail-wagging dogs greeted us with whimpers and squeals, acting like they knew us well, had missed us terribly, and were sick with happiness to have us back. While I loved up the dogs, nearly getting knocked to the ground by their nuzzling and rubbing, Aunt Tootie headed for the barn. “The peach coolers are in here,” she called over her shoulder.

When the dogs calmed down and loped off through the tall grass, I brushed their dusty paw prints from my dress and looked around. Beyond the barn was a small pond, the water so still the blue sky reflected on its surface like a mirror. Butterflies sailed across the open field, and the air was tinged with the sweet smell of peaches and warm earth. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, letting the scents travel through my body. I was in the middle of an accidental kind of happiness that made me grateful for having a nose.

“Want a peach?”

I turned to see a boy, no more than five years old, standing at the side of the car. His skin was honey-dipped from the sun. In his hands he held a basket of peaches.

“Best peaches in Georgia,” he said, holding up the basket. “Go ahead, take one.”

I selected a peach and thanked him.

“Gotta go now. Pa needs me to help sort today’s pick.” His bare feet made tiny imprints in the dusty driveway as he trotted toward the barn.

The peach was warm and fuzzy, as if a small animal had curled up in my hand and fallen asleep, and when I held it beneath my nose and took a deep breath, it smelled more wonderful than anything had a right to. With my thumbnail I pierced the top, peeled back a piece of its skin, and took a bite. Juice ran down my chin, and I quickly licked it away so it wouldn’t stain my dress. I was about to take another bite when I glanced toward the farmhouse, and that’s when I saw her.

She was standing in a patch of sunlight hanging laundry on the line. Her shiny brown hair was pinned at the nape of her neck, and her apron billowed in the warm breeze. On a patchwork quilt in the shade of a tree sat a baby with a pink bonnet on her head. The woman shook out a pillowcase, hung it on the line, and said something sweet to the baby. As the baby laughed and clapped her hands, the mother bent down, picked her up, and twirled her in a circle.

The vision of them was like a gunshot to my chest. I tried to close my eyes, but they were pressed wide on the image of the mother and her baby girl.

A low hum vibrated in my ears, and I started to shrink, to fold in on myself, until I was the baby and it was Momma holding me. “You’re my one and only honey-bunny,” my mother cooed. She twirled me in circle after circle, and soon the leaves on the trees became a blur of green. “You can never leave me, Cecelia. Promise you’ll never leave me.” She pressed her nose to mine and looked into my eyes. “No matter what happens, we’ll always have each other.”

My hands began to tremble, and, like a slow-motion clip from a movie, I watched the peach fall from my fingers, sending droplets of juice whirling in the air as it spun toward the ground. I hurt way down deep, in a place I never knew existed.

And then the unspeakable truth of Momma’s last day spread out before my eyes.

I was lying on my bed, absorbed in
The Swiss Family Robinson
, when I heard my mother’s footsteps in the hall. I glanced up to see her standing in the doorway. Black eyeliner circled wild blue eyes that revealed the fragmented radiance of her madness. Red shoes. White dress. Tiara in her hand. Her mouth was a smear of pink lipstick.

“Let’s go shopping,” she said. “I need a new gown for tonight’s pageant.”

I rolled my eyes in disgust. “Stop it, Momma. There is no pageant. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not next week or next year.”

“Of course there is,” she said, walking to the mirror and adjusting her tiara. “I want to buy you a pretty party dress too. I’m signing us up for the Mother-Daughter Beauty Pageant.”

Momma giggled. “It’ll be so much fun. I can’t wait to see you all dressed up. We need to wear the same color. What about pink?”

When I didn’t answer, she turned and looked at me. “C’mon, CeeCee, let’s pick out dresses.”

I glared at her, and not for the first time I wished her dead. “No. I can’t take it anymore. I’m not going to wear a party dress, I’m not going to be in any stupid beauty pageant, and I’m
not
going to be like you!”

“Fine!” she snipped, walking across the room. “If you’re
that
jealous then I’ll go alone.”

I called after her, “Don’t buy me a dress. I mean it, Momma!”

There was no mistaking the hurt in her voice when she called back, “You’ll be sorry if you don’t go.”

The screen door slapped closed and a moment later the sharp clicking of her high heels sounded on the sidewalk. My eyes narrowed as I pushed myself up on my elbows and glanced out the window. I watched her walk away, swinging her arms like she didn’t have a care in the world—like she was as normal as could be with that ridiculous tiara on her head. The thought of another summer of her escapades was more than I could bear. I flipped over on my back and stared at the ceiling, hating her, her illness, her party dresses, her red shoes—hating all of it—hating the shame she brought me every day of my life.

“Just keep on walking, Momma. Walk yourself to China for all I care. I hope you never come back,” I said, tasting the acid bite those words left on my tongue.

But I knew she’d come back sooner or later—she always did.

The sound of a furious wind howled deep inside me. I heard the sickening sound of a dull
thud,
and in my mind I saw Momma’s feet leave her shoes as she soared through the air, landing on the pavement in a brutal twist of broken limbs and blood-spattered chiffon. Eyes wide open. Lips parted. Fingers twitching as if typing out her final good-bye on the hot surface of the road. It was as real as if I’d been there, as if I’d witnessed the entire thing.