Tender Graces (42 page)

“It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“So terrible. Poor little boy.”

“I had to tell. I had to.” My face felt hot.

“You did the right thing telling me. This isn’t a secret to keep alone.”

I went to my room where it was quiet. I stared in the mirror and it was as if every time I looked in the mirror, someone else looked back at me. But I was not my momma. I was Virginia Kate Carey.

I slept hard that night, so hard I had a gallon of drool dribbled on my pillow. Grandma Faith came to me with her hair blowing around, saying, “All will be okay. All of you.” When I woke up, I thought about people that I loved.

I saw little Micah pulling away from me in Daddy’s silly little car when Daddy took him from West Virginia. Then grown Micah when he stood by my bed and told me he was leaving for New York. And I wondered if I’d ever see him again, and I knew I would because I had to. I pictured him heading to his dreams, painting everything he saw, inside and outside of him.

I knew Andy would be okay, he was always laughing with his friends, telling the world to go goddamn. He was as slap happy as could be, with all his tears dried up. He never said a thing about Momma. I never said a thing back about her. But she was there all the same between us.

And how Bobby lost the baby sickness that made him seem like a ghost of a boy, and grew strong and tall. How one day he wouldn’t tag along behind anyone, since that’s what kids did to grow up, they set out to find their own way instead of tagging behind someone else. Andy-and-Bobby would be Andy and Bobby.

I saw Rebekha just as she always was. The same every year that passed. Her quiet ways. The way she made me feel safe. The way she took us in and gave us a place to call our own. Home. I saw her like a momma and like a friend.

There was Grandma Faith in the clouds. I wondered how it felt to stay around the earth instead of dancing around on the moon and stars. I didn’t want her to leave, so I kept her with me.

And then, I thought of my daddy and how he kept trying to do what he should even though he messed up. Sometimes in my dreams, I saw him getting smaller and smaller. I chased him, but he kept away from me, for every step I took, he went farther away. His Shakespeare plays fell out of his back pocket, and I picked them up and ran faster, the wind slamming against my face, until I caught up with him, and then he took my hand and told me what everything meant.

I thought how I had friends who saw me as solid. The Campinelles, Ms. Portier-turned-Engleson, and especially Soot, Miss Darla, Jade. I saw all this while between asleep and awake. I wondered what kind of man I’d one day marry and how many babies I’d have and what their names would be. I decided I wanted a husband who’d smoke a sweet-smelling pipe and I’d see the smoke in the air like happy spirits.

I was sixteen and I was wise as the moon.

My last known thought was of me riding Fionadala up my mountain with the smell of earth tickling my nose, the leaves brushing me as I passed the trees, and mists all around me, while the moon stained my face. I felt the wind rush against me, as I fell up, up, up into sleep. There was a release on the rise of the mountain, and I reached for it.

Chapter 33

Today

If Grandma makes the wind knock my stuff around one more time I’ll let out a scream and put up a big stomp hissy fit. I know it’s time to go into Momma’s room. She doesn’t have to keep on with her poking and blowing and being filled up with ornery busy-body-tell-me-what-to-do tricks. I know I can’t leave here until I finish, and I’m not finished until I go into Momma’s room. The curtains snap at me, and I know Grandma is losing her patience in the face of my stomp.

As I move down the hall, the wind flies through all the open windows, blowing in and out and through. I roll my eyes and say, “I told you I’m going.”

I look at Momma’s door, and then take a little side trip to the kitchen to get a big glass of water, slugging it all down in five gulps. I wipe my mouth and say, “I just needed a drink of water.”

Micah would bop me upside the head and tell me to stop being whirly brained and get down to the business of Momma. Andy would clomp right on in Momma’s room and shrug his shoulders. He’d say, “What’s the big deal anyway?” Bobby would tell them to give me time. He’d stand close by until I was ready.

I pull my family to me by the power of my want. By closing my eyes, I see them how they are now, instead of how we were then. I like knowing the ending of us kids, the ending so far anyway. It makes all this remembering easier, the knowing how things have turned out.

I know that Micah ran so hard from himself, he ran right into himself. I was at his first art show, wearing a fancy red dress, my hair pulled up into a french twist, my fingernails and toenails painted red, and Miss Darla’s locket shining on my chest with a note inside that read,
Let Micah’s night go well, old spirits
. Micah was all sassy and full with his own self. He swaggered over and said, “I told you! I told you this would happen.” He did the things he said he’d do, that’s my older brother. But I also know the addictions that plagued him, ones I hope he’s released, released.

Andy has his bookstore that smells like old books, coffee, and incense. He gives me books saying, “Read this, you’ll love it,” and I usually do. Andy owns fast cars, plays blues and jazz, and writes his own music. He takes chances sometimes, still. His jittery jitters. I was at his wedding to Beth Anne, and then when their son Benjamin Hale came squalling into the world. Ben is just like Andy was when he was a kid. All fearless and spitting at the world if it gets in his way.

And I was there when Bobby graduated from medical school, an orthopedic surgeon right smack in the middle of our family. He looks handsome in his white coat and wire-framed glasses that don’t hide the twinkly eyes. I ate wedding cake as I watched Andy dance with his new bride Angela. And I passed out bubblegum cigars when their three children came along quick, one two three—Rebekha Kate, Robert Dean, and Frederick Andrew. Their house is full-up to the top with noise and laughing. Now my brother has all these kids tagging along after him, just as he followed after Andy. And if he has secrets, he’s not telling.

I touch Miss Darla’s locket that I wear all the time. It’s empty right now. I didn’t know what I wanted to wish for when I came tearing up here to get Momma. Didn’t have time to think on it anyway. I was there when poor Sophia died, and I helped Miss Darla bury her in her backyard. She has a Boston Terrier named Marilyn Monroe to keep her company now. On hot Louisiana evenings, we still plop ourselves down on her swing and sip sweet tea and we don’t need to say anything at all. I want my Miss Darla to live forever. Silly me.

And Jade. She dances her way to eating disorders and too many men, but I love her.

And I was there when Adin came needing a momma, since her own Momma didn’t want her anymore. I was there when she cried all night for her own momma, holding on to a stuffed animal with chewed on ears. And later, when she asked me if she could live with me, I was scared, but now I don’t know what I was scared of anymore. She came right after my marriage crashed and burned into a big fiery smoke of ugly. He found someone he loved more, someone who could have his children. But I don’t care. Not one speck do I care that he found someone else, has five kids, and lives in a big house he built in California. I don’t care. I have Adin and I have my family. I wish they were here in the holler right now, but I know they can’t come.

I open my eyes wide open, put down the water glass I’ve been holding in the air. I say in a clear, loud voice, without frogs, “You’re stalling, Virginia Kate.” And I sound like Grandma Faith. And I sound like Momma. But, mostly, I sound like me.

Back at Momma’s door, I turn the knob, open the door. There’s her new radio. There’s her favorite cross-stitched pillow. There’s her scatter rug. Crossing over and into the room, I open her window and let come the wind. It rushes in and knocks over her little glass swans. I think back to so very long ago when she sat at her vanity and brushed out her hair one hundred strokes plus two to grow on.

I turn and am flabbergasted into a big open mouth stare when I see two of Micah’s paintings on her wall. One is of all of us kids, grinning out of the painting like prime fools; we have our butts parked on the top of a cedar trunk that I imagine holds all our yesterdays. In the other one, he’s painted Momma at her most beautiful. She has on her lipstick and her shoulders are bare from the gypsy top she wears. Her hair spills down her back, but pieces of it fly in the invisible wind all around her. Her eyes are so dark I could fall in and never be found again, just explore around in them to figure out her mysteries until the end of time.

My cheeks are wet and I wipe them dry. I’m too silly for my own good with my silly little girl tears. I open her closet and there are her dresses hanging like shades of the day and night sky, and the sunrise and sunset, except for her favorite red one she died in. Pulling out a blue one with a cinched in waist, I press my face into it, taking in Momma’s smells. Up on the shelf are two shoeboxes and a hatbox. I take them down and look to see that they are filled with photos, letters, pieces of paper with Momma’s writing on them, Micah’s drawings when he was a little boy, rocks from the creek we used to bring her, our school papers, and ribbons she put in my hair. I put them aside to take them back to my room.

I turn and there’s Momma at her vanity, brushing out her long dark hair. Shalimar fills up the room on invisible clouds. I catch my breath in and out and in and out. Her beauty is always evident. Even though she was an old woman when she died, I will never see her in any way but young and alive, and wanting. In my memory she will remain younger than I am, always. But I can’t help wondering what she would have been like as she aged, what our days together may have been like as she grew older and I grew older with her, until finally the spaces between us didn’t make a difference anymore.

I walk to her vanity dresser and pick up the silver-framed photo of when I was born, the one where Momma holds me, posing for the camera with parted lips. I know that on the back, in Daddy’s handwriting, are the words:
Baby-Bug Carey, born August 14, 1957. What Dreams May Come to her
. Fifty-one years flown by. And so few of them were spent with Momma. Beautiful-wild, Momma’s face reposes in still life. I never untangled the mystery of her need. Neither did she, or anyone else who loved her. The realities are only weaved from the evidence.

I trace my finger over our faces. All my life before me as I snuggled in her arms. I set the picture down beside a rose from Mrs. Mendel’s garden. Maybe Mrs. Mendel gave it to her to cheer her up. I pluck a petal and fold it inside Miss Darla’s locket. There, now I have what I want inside the locket, a rose petal the color of Momma’s lips.

I then notice the envelope with my name on it tucked in the mirror frame. Hands trembling, I open it, read,

Dear Virginia Kate
,
I’d hoped for you to come. If you are reading this, then you surely did come home. Guess that means you don’t hate me, that you might even still love me. Means I’ll see you from wherever I am and can touch your hair soft and sweet like I did when you were little. Well, I’m not too good with words, but maybe now that you are grown you see what I had to do? Maybe now you can forgive me so I can rest. Be sure to find all the things you need to find while you’re here. Then you can rest, too. Love, Momma.

I blink back the stinging in my eyes, finish reading her instructions, fold the letter and put it in my pocket. I stare at the painting of Momma. I think of Grandma Faith and Momma, how maybe they let their children go to keep them from fates too sad to imagine. I know I’ll read everything I found in the boxes from her closet, and on the story will go.

The room cools and warms. The Shalimar becomes strong. I’m startled by a wind ruffling my hair, soft and sweet. I never question the ghosts. Why should I do so now?

I call out, “Momma?” There’s no answer, just a short burst of wind to pull the curtains in a dance and she’s gone, floating up up and up until I can hardly remember the feeling, even though it was just here. But I do remember. I do.

I take all the things I want back to my room. I go back to Momma’s room one more time and turn around in a full circle. One full slow circle, and then I leave and shut the door behind me.

On my bed, the piles of memories have grown. I pass my palms over all the past; my hands become warm and tingly again. Which one?
Where to now, Grandma
?
Now that you led me where you knew I needed to go.
I hear voices and sounds. I close my eyes to wash away old dust. I press my palm on what I can’t see.

Ghosts call my name, stronger, closer, louder. The voices are so real; I think I’m going insane. I’ve been too lonely here. Someone is walking through the house, calling out to me.

Not ghosts or mountain spirits, but real voices.

“Vee? Hellooo?”

“She’s in here somewhere.”

“Is this where y’all lived?”