Spinning the Moon (41 page)

“John, she's awake!”

I recognized my mother's voice as I focused my eyes on my parents by the side of the bed.

A nurse hurried toward my bed and checked the readout on a machine by my head, then rushed from the room.

“Laura? Do you know who I am?”

I stared into my mother's familiar face and I reached for it. “Oh, Mom. Of course.”

Her tears drenched my cheek as she gathered me to her. She smelled of Colgate and Chanel No. 5, and I clung to her silk blouse. “Laura, what happened to you? Where have you been?”

I had no desire to spend countless hours with therapists questioning my sanity. I blurted out the first thing that came to me. “I don't remember.”

My mother leaned over me and whispered, “But you're pregnant, Laura. Surely you remember something?”

I shook my head, and my father, who had been hovering in the background, came to the other side of the bed.

He held my hand, his palm warm and rough. “Laura, it doesn't matter to us. You're here now, and we'll stand by you. We'll be ready to listen when you're ready to tell us.”

I nodded, not sure if they'd ever be ready to hear the truth.

“Did I have something in my hand—like a sprig of rosemary?”

My parents glanced at each other, and my mother spoke. “We wondered what that was. We had it put with your personal effects—including an unusual ring we've never seen before. But it must be an antique, because it looks very old.”

I said nothing.

I spent the first week at my parents' house being coddled and fed. My mother scheduled an appointment with an obstetrician. He must have been coached beforehand, because he didn't mention anything about the baby's father. He poked and prodded and pronounced me fit, if a bit undernourished. He sent me home with instructions for my mother to put some weight on my bones.

My parents had kept Phoenix Hall, not willing to accept the fact that I might not come back. It still stood, the paint a little worn and dust sheets over the furniture, but still glorious in my eyes. Amid huge protests from my parents, I moved back in to the house that held so many memories for me.

My mother hired a housekeeper, Mrs. Beckner, to cook and clean for me and, I'm sure, report back to her if I wasn't taking care of myself. My father brought in the suitcases of all the maternity clothes they had bought for me and set them inside the foyer. I tentatively walked up the steps and hovered in the doorway.

I took a deep breath and walked inside. I examined the polished banister, the gleaming wood floors, the electrified chandelier. I heard the central air shut off and the hall clock steadily marking off the minutes. The piano stood in its same spot in the parlor, the veneer still missing from the G key. I smiled, remembering how it had happened. I half expected to turn and see Stuart standing behind me, his blue eyes smiling. I slammed my hand down on the keys, making my father jump.

“What's wrong?” He rushed to my side, his hands firmly on my upper arms.

“Nothing, Daddy. Nothing that can be fixed.”

He put my head down on his chest and patted my back. “In time, sweetheart. In time.”

Mrs. Beckner left at five o'clock, leaving me blissfully alone to enjoy the long shadows creeping along the floor. I resisted turning on the electric lights, finding their glare too bright, as if they might illuminate things in the corners I did not wish to see. So I walked slowly through the darkened house, imagining I could hear the brush of long skirts against the wooden floors, and listened for a footfall.

I woke in the middle of the night with a furious kicking from my womb. I sat up and placed my hand on my swollen belly and felt the roils of limbs pressing at me from inside.

“Mama's here, little one. You're not alone.”

My voice seemed to calm the baby, for the kicking ceased. I looked across the moonlit room, gazing at the familiar furniture. It was then that I noticed the strong scent of lavender. I sat straight up in the bed, wondering where the smell was coming from. The windows were all shut, and I could hear the humming of the air conditioner. I slid from the bed to look out onto the front lawn. My throat went dry when I realized there was no moon. The glow was coming from inside my room.

I turned, my back against the window, and heard the distinct sound of rustling skirts. The glow began to shrink and take on the vague form of a person. It undulated with small light bursts until it bore the unmistakable resemblance to a woman wearing an old-fashioned long dress.

“Julia,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. The temperature had dropped by at least fifteen degrees and I began to shiver, despite the sweat trickling down my spine.

She stood at the foot of the bed, and I saw her smile. She then turned, and with a glowing hand pointed to the armoire.

I left the window, no longer afraid, and stood next to her.

“What, Julia? What are you trying to tell me?” The smell of lavender was stronger now, as if I were in a field full of it.

She looked directly at me and then pointed at my chest. My fingers flew to my neck, and I realized the chain holding the key was gone. And I suddenly knew what she was trying to tell me.

“The secret drawer?” I whispered.

She nodded. I reached out my hand to touch her, but my fingers only grasped cold, empty air. The apparition faded into nothingness, and I could almost hear a whispered goodbye as the room closed in on darkness.

I flipped on every light switch in the house as I raced downstairs to the foyer table. I remembered my mother putting my few personal effects in the drawer when I had moved back in. With shaking fingers, I pulled it open. Light from the chandelier glinted off the metal key still attached
to the chain Stuart had given me. Gingerly, I picked it up, then clasped it tightly in my palm.

As I began to slide the drawer back in place, the corner of a picture frame caught my attention. I lifted the picture from the drawer and stared at it. It was undoubtedly the picture Mathew Brady had taken of me on my journey to Dalton. With trembling hands, I shut the drawer, and, clutching both the picture and the key, raced back up the stairs.

I threw open the doors of the armoire, sneezing at the faint aroma of cedar mixed with lavender. I knelt in front of the massive piece of furniture and my fingers, like spiders, crept along the inside wall to the back, where I felt the outline of a drawer in the false back.

The overhead light barely reached to the back of the cabinet, and I had to use my sense of touch to open the lock with the key. I grew frustrated feeling the key slip at the outside of the keyhole. I was about ready to give up and wait until morning when I felt the key slide home. I turned it and heard a click. Pulling on the key, I heard wood slide out. I grabbed the entire drawer and lifted it out into the light.

Old papers, their edges yellowed and ragged with age, had been placed inside the narrow drawer. They had all been rolled together to allow them to fit inside the tight compartment. I spread them on the bed, using various items from my dressing table to hold the pages flat.

Many of the documents appeared to have been removed from ledger books. My eyes widened as I stared at the numbers reflecting dividends from the Coca-Cola Company. The handwriting wasn't Julia's. Instead of her small, flowery style, this was much tighter and bold. I didn't believe I had seen it before. I smiled to myself, realizing Julia had heeded my advice and had indeed invested in Asa Candler's fledgling company.

There were more documents pertaining to peach orchards and peanut production and even a recipe for peanut butter. I sat back for a moment to rub my eyes. Julia had obviously prepared this drawer with meticulous care to let me know what had become of them all. It struck me then that they were all dead now—even my Annie. I hastily wiped back the tears, not wanting the wetness to smudge the ink on the pages. The baby kicked again, and I was once more reminded of the endless cycle of life and death. It was through this child that these people I
loved could live again. I picked up another page, unrolled it, and began to read.

August 21, 1867

My dearest sister,

It has been three years now since we have last seen you, and a day does not go by that we do not think of you or wish that you were here.

You would be so proud of the children. Willie and Sarah continue to grow strong and sturdy—due mostly, I am quite sure, to their great fondness for peanut butter. Sarah promises to be a great beauty, although most of the boys here are a bit humbled by her brains and wit.

As you can see by the enclosed papers, we are surviving, thanks to you. It is still a bit of a struggle, because nobody has anything, much less any capital to invest in a new farming venture. Matt Kimball's gold has helped considerably. But we are managing, and the future of our new ventures seems most promising.

We have not heard from William. I assume he is either dead or in the western territories. Either way, I have no husband and my children have no father. But I am not sure if it isn't for the best.

Stuart returned home from the war thin but otherwise healthy in body—but not in spirit. It is heartbreaking to see him, Laura. On the night you disappeared, we told him the truth. I know you didn't want that, but I don't think we had any choice. He wanted to know if you planned to return, and when we told him no, he has not asked about you since. But I know you are never far from his thoughts. His eyes are so sad. Fighting in this war nearly killed him, and I almost think he wishes it had. He moves about his daily business, but his heart isn't in it. He loves you desperately, Laura, and if he could see you but once again, I know that the wonderful spirit of him would return.

Laura, I also told him about the armoire, and he asked if I might include a letter from him. It is contained herewith. I have
not read it, as I am sure the private matters between husband and wife should remain private. I hope it somehow heals your heart.

I cannot bear to think that we may never lay eyes on you again. You will forever remain in our hearts. May God go with you, Laura, wherever you may be.

With great affection,

Your sister, Julia

A tear dripped on the bottom right corner, and I hastily brushed it aside with the sleeve of my nightgown. I turned back to the drawer to find Stuart's letter. After sorting through several pages, I saw the familiar handwriting, and my heart leapt. I unrolled it carefully and anchored the corners.

April 28, 1867

Dearest Wife,

How much longer am I expected to live through this torture of not knowing where you are? Julia has told me why you had to leave, but I know that I am solely to blame for your reluctance to return. I begged for your forgiveness on the night you left, and I am begging for it now.

I have no idea how the mechanism of the thing that took you away works, but because you have not returned to us, I can only assume that you have no desire to see me again—and for this I cannot blame you. You think that I have believed the worst of you, but I have always known in my heart that you would never betray me. It was only my stupid male pride. And for that, I have lost the most precious thing in the world.

How is our child? I do not even know if I have a son or a daughter. If it is a daughter, I hope she is like you—full of fire and spirit. And if it is a son, I hope he will grow strong and proud and be there to watch over his mother since his father cannot.

Come home to me, Laura. I will wait for you until the end of time and even beyond, for my love for you is deathless.

With all my love,

Stuart

I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling fan and its ceaseless rotation. The tears rolled down from the corners of my eyes to my ears and hair, saturating the sheets beneath my head. I could never forgive myself if he had gone to his grave believing I had stopped loving him.

I rolled up all the documents and put them back in the drawer. Except for Stuart's letter. I held it close to my chest and fell asleep clutching it between my arms and our baby.

When I finally awoke the next morning, Mrs. Beckner was knocking on my door with a steaming tray of eggs, bacon, and homemade biscuits. She poked her gray head through the doorway, her pale blue eyes expressing concern as I saw her register my puffy eyes and dark circles.

“Bad night, was it?” She clucked her tongue like a mother hen. “I remember being pregnant with my last child.”

She continued chattering as she bustled about the room, opening curtains and placing my tray in front of me. As I smoothed the blanket down on either side of me, my hand touched something hard and cold. It was the picture frame. I stared at the image for a minute and then reached for my iPhone to look up a name and phone number.

She was the only Margaret Ann Cudahy listed. Her address was on West Paces Ferry Road in a posh condo building in Buckhead.

I introduced myself as Laura Truitt, and she recognized my name immediately. She didn't seem in the least surprised that I had called.

“Mrs. Cudahy, I hope you don't take these questions as too personal, but I've been trying to do a bit of history on this house and was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“I'd love to help you, dear. Ask away.” I heard the sound of opera music playing from a stereo in the background.

“All right. Are you by any chance related to the Elliott family?”

She chuckled into the mouthpiece. “My maiden name was Elliott. Until you, Elliotts have owned Phoenix Hall since it was built.”

My hand shook a little as I held the phone. “And your great-grandmother, the one that gave you the picture of the woman that looked like me, what was her name?”

“Oh, these are too easy, Laura. You should find her name very simple to remember since you have the same first name. Her name was Laura Elliott.”