Songbird (24 page)
“But you don't even know what that letter says, Charmaine. For all you know she could be telling you never to come around again.”
I hadn't thought of that. And why I didn't think of it already must say something, but I don't know what it is.
“Just promise me you'll wait until we get that letter, then you can go for as long as you need. Ruby can cover for you.”
“She sure can.”
So we decide that then.
And I feel a lifting of my soul. I hate hiding things from Harlan. But I’m finding that my initial instincts about him were right. He is more than equipped to carry my baggage. Letting him may be the truly difficult act.
See, this conversation isn't over. Not by a long shot. We'll be talking about this for weeks and months to come. Harlan will come up with all sorts of possible scenarios, and I’m sure they'll be nothing new. I’m sure I’ll have already thought of them, and then some. And it will be like being covered in skin boils and living in a salt mine.
But I did the right thing. I may not know much about much, but I know I did the right thing.
H
arlan and I sit in a Cracker Barrel with his pastor friend, Tony Sanchez. How a guy named Tony Sanchez ended up in Marietta, Georgia, still remains to be seen and I was more than bowled over when I met him a few minutes ago and he had a thicker Southern drawl than I do.
He's real nice. Youngish like Harlan, expanding around the middle, and he pulls out a string of pictures of his two girls. He's thinking about leaving his church because they care too much about the building. I listen to their conversation as I sip my Diet Coke through two straws and butter up saltines as fast as the kids will shove them in.
I look at those crackers and think about having some myself, but after MaryAnna Trench's remark, I’m being really careful.
“How long they been acting like this?” Harlan asks Tony.
“Ever since I got there. I thought maybe I could whip them into shape, and I’ve been preaching on what ministry really means until I am blue in the face, brother.”
“So how long you giving them?”
“Another year.”
“Well, I gotta hand it to you. You seem to know when a situation is hopeless.”
“Maybe it's not hopeless. Maybe I’m just the wrong guy.”
The waitress sets down our order. I looked at the side salad and bowl of chicken noodle in front of me and shook my inner head. Then the words that have been in my mind lately about this whole weight-loss thing echoed once more. “It's your job to look good, Charmaine.”
Not that it'll do much good, Myrtle.
Now why is that? What can't you be up in front of people and look like a regular human being? Look at Sandi Patty! She's done just fine that one. Course, I’m a good singer but I ain't no Sandi Patty!
Actually the soup isn't bad.
Harlan says, “I have to say that sometimes life on the road gets grueling. But at least I don't have congregational problems.”
Tony points his fork in the direction of Leo and Hope. “But you gotta be thinking about those little ones, brother. How old is that boy?”
“He'll be five this spring.”
“He needs to be in school.”
Harlan nods. “I know. We were thinking about home-schooling just for a couple of years. Until we find out where God wants us to settle.”
Where God wants us to settle? Oh, my lands. I felt hope and disappointment mingled. On the one hand, Harlan does want to settle down someday in the not too distant future. On the other, that means his surprise is NOT a house.
Or maybe he is just saying this to throw me off.
That would be just like him!
Leo eats like a dream, picking up his ham biscuits just fine. Hope's only remedy is to spray him off with a fire hose.
As we walk to the truck and Tony to his station wagon, he calls out, “Forgot! Here's a packet that came from your sister, Harlan. Let me get it out of the car.”
Dear Charmaine,
Forgive me for what happened the other day. It all just came out of the blue, so to speak, and I couldn't take it all in. I’m sorry you left so quietly the way you did without me at least summoning up the strength to thank you for finding me.
Your mother and I lost track of each other before you were born. We never really did get along though I’ve got to say we both tried to iron out our differences in our own unique ways. But how does a butterfly and an ant find common ground? That was Isla, a true butterfly. And yet at times she could sink down to the depths of despair over so little. I never knew what to do for her but I tried everything. I want you to know that, Charmaine. I want you to know that the reason she's disappeared has nothing to do with you. I know that better than I know my own name.
I could write an encyclopedia the way I feel right now, but I think I’ll spare both you and I and not do so. I do want you to know, however, that I’m happy you're alive, Charmaine. And if I had known you were in existence, I’d have done my best by you. I don't know what the condition of your heart really is by this time after all these years, but I’m hoping the fact that you saw fit to find me means that maybe there's room for a lonely old woman. I have so many questions. And I guess you do, too.
So here's my number and I invite you to call me anytime. You can even call collect because Frederick left a good pension and the house is paid off and my expenses are almost nil.
Your Grandma,
Minerva T. Whitehead
I look over at Harlan who's doing his best not to watch me as I read the letter in the Cracker Barrel parking lot. “She wants to see me, Harlan!”
“Oh, Shug.” And he hugs me.
Hope claps.
I’m nervous and excited and all sorts of things. And I am actually driving the motor home. I’m just hoping I don't have to back this monster up!
I called Grandma Min the night before. The conversation felt a little strained, but no more than I expected.
“I was thinking of coming on up tomorrow. The crusade can spare me this week. It would be a good time for me to get away”
“All right.”
“I’m bringing the children.”
“You've got children?”
“I do.” I didn't feel it was the time to explain just how I happened to acquire Hope and Leo.
Poor Leo. My heart breaks afresh for the little guy. Imagine having Grace for a mother. Harlan called several police stations on the line northward and they said they'd put out an alert or something so that the towns along the train route would be on the lookout for Grace. So far, we've heard nothing. Yet another missing person in my life.
So Grandma said there was plenty of room and staying until Sunday would be fine.
Doing my level best to avoid a travel pickle, I pull the motor home into the parking lot of a truck stop in Gaffney. “Let's use their bathroom, kids.”
I plan on making lunch in the RV but why use up our store of water if we don't have to?
In the bathroom a young woman asks me for some money. “You need something to eat, honey?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Well, hold on a second. Let me finish up with these kids. What's your name?”
“Penny.”
“Okay. That's my motor home out there. I’m just about to make lunch and you're welcome to join us.”
If she is an addict she'll refuse.
“That would be great. I haven't eaten since dinner on Tuesday.”
“You traveling?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Hitchhiking?”
She nods. “I know it's dangerous, but I had to get away.”
“You're a runaway.”
Fright skates across her glistening brown eyes and she begins to turn.
“No wait! I won't turn you in. I just want to hear your story.”
So now lunch is over and Penny, the kids, and I are back on 1-85 heading toward Charlotte. Praise the Lord, He's giving me an opportunity to spread His love. There seems to have been fewer of those times than usual lately and my role as redemptress has taken a backseat in these trying days of digging up my past.
But no matter. It just shows that God hasn't chosen to stop using me, sleeping pills and all, and I’m thankful.
I get in a few words about the gospel. After all, I am an evangelist's wife. She nods and says, “I grew up in Sunday school.” So I keep my mouth shut until Charlotte where she thanks me and gets out.
I can only hope some people are having compassion on Grace right now.
Too many loose ends, Myrtle Charmaine. You've got too many loose ends. Not that I expected any different from you.
G
randma Min hugs me tightly and says, “You're so real. Such a real person.”
I know exactly what she means so I say, “I thought I was alone in the world, too.”
And that pretty much says it all, and we understand. We eat supper amid all the antiques I failed to notice the first time I entered her home and she gives the kids some presents: coloring books and crayons and some blocks. The dishes, from her collection of antique china plates, still need doing so we get started.
Grandma hands me a tea towel. “Here. I’ll wash and you dry.”
I say that's fine.
We work in silence for a while, but it doesn't feel too awkward, only as if we're both lost in our own thoughts. We're almost on the pans when Grandma asks, “You want to try and find her, Charmaine?”
I shake out the tea towel. “Yes, I do. But I doubt she's alive.”
“I’ve been figuring that, too, but a mother has to hope. A mother is never supposed to give up until there's a body.” Her voice sounds calm yet her eyes are anything but. She wipes the back of her hand over her forehead, leaving a streak of dish suds.
“Where do we begin?” I say and I wipe off the streak with my dish towel.
She doesn't recoil. She acts as if having your face wiped is the most natural thing in the world and it is in this moment that I know all is well between us. It is in this moment I know that I am her granddaughter and she loves me, even though she doesn't know me, simply because of that.
I am changed.
“Tell me everything you know.”
And I do. The second time in less than a week.
Now why is that? Why does life sludge along like a molasses river and then suddenly you're being swept out to sea?
The kids are asleep. Grandma Min made us pork chops with gravy, sweet red cabbage, brussels sprouts, and rice for dinner and they ate like crazy. Well, not the cabbage. Or the brussels sprouts. Or much of the pork chops for that matter. But they loved the rice and gravy!
“I’m really not much of a cook,” I feel led to confess as I pour the hot water into a waiting teapot. “I wish I wasn't the Hamburger Helper-type, but I am.”
“Don't apologize. Judging by that business card of yours I’d say you've got other talents. I love that little songbird on there.”
We smile at each other. I tell her all about Mrs. Evans. I tell her about Richard Lewellyn and the trip to Vermont. Now, I’ve never shared that with anybody. But this is my grandmother, one of the people whose blood flows in my veins and that means something.
How can I describe Grandma Min? Since our arrival yesterday, all during the beginnings of our search today, I’ve been watching her. Obviously if there is insanity in the family as Ruby insists, it must have skipped this woman. Talk about wise and calm and giving. Yet I naturally wonder if these aspects of her came after Mama left, due to the lessons learned. But it certainly isn't something I’m going to ask.
First of all, she likes the kids and admires me for taking them in. I can't help but feel so good at that. Having your own relative admire you just fills your soul. Family approval is new to me and now I can see why kids that don't have it strive for it their whole lives. I’ve asked her all sorts of questions and never once has she said, “Don't even ask!”
I’m trying so hard to recognize something of Mama in her, but so far I can find only physical characteristics. She shows me a wedding portrait of her and my grandfather.
“Oh, my lands!” I say. “You and Mama favor each other so much!”
“We sure did look alike. But she took after my sister. Rachel had that wild streak, too.”
“What happened to her?”
“Ended up committing suicide when she was fifty years old.”
“No!”
“It was horrible. And she meant to die. This wasn't one of those warning things. Blew her head off with a shotgun.” The words were spoken dispassionately but I knew better.
“Do you think that maybe Mama committed … ?” I wince. This was a scenario that had never entered my mind.
Grandma Min takes my hand. “It's what I’ve supposed for a lot of years. I didn't want to think that, but I couldn't help but remember Rachel.”
“Were you the one that found her?”
“Thank God, no, even though she was living here with me at the time. The gas and electric man did.”
For some reason that seemed so sad.
We sip on our tea and sit in the small kitchen, the windows black against the autumn night. A heavy breeze shakes the panes in their grid, a slight clacking sounding in our ears. I love gusts of wind as they seek you out through the smallest openings of the house, whistling your name.
Grandma pours a little more into her cup from the pot that sits between us. “Remember in my letter I told you that your mother's disappearance had nothing to do with you?”
I nod.
“I want to tell you something about Isla. She started exhibiting the symptoms of a manic-depressive early on. Eight years old, in fact.”
“My lands!”
“It's in our genes, Charmaine.”
“What about you, Grandma?”
“Nothing so far. I get a little blue now and again, but it always passes in a day or two. What about you, Charmaine?”
“I deal with depression, I think.”
“You think?”
“Uh-huh. Right now I’m just on sleeping pills. I can't bring myself to get on medication.”
“You should consider it.”
I rest my chin in my hand. “Would it have helped Mama?”
“It did help her. But she always went off of it. She was stubborn that way.”
I tell her all about Harlan's messages.
“I think he's talking about blaming real sin on other things,” Grandma says.
