The Heart of Memory (23 page)

Savannah was six years old again, peeking into her grandmother’s kitchen in the hours leading up to a big family meal. It was the place where she first came to love the principles of good cooking—fresh ingredients, combined with skill and attention to detail, to nourish those you loved. Aniyah couldn’t have been more than forty, but her stout form conjured memories of Savannah’s Mimi, and she exuded a wisdom and authority that set Savannah back to feeling like a child eager to help and showcase her own budding abilities. But unlike her grandmother, who would shoo her from her workspace with a hand-embroidered tea towel when she spilled the flour or over-mixed the cake batter, Aniyah reached out a hand and said, “My sidekick is out sick, and I’m drowning in the details today. If you’re looking for something to do, come on in and lend a hand.”

Savannah smiled and let the door swing closed behind her. “It smells amazing in here. Seafood gumbo?”

“Aye-ya. And they need stirring. Spoon’s on the counter.”

Grateful for the chance to help, she stepped quickly to the range and located the hefty wooden spoon that rested on a coaster. She breathed deeply, savoring the scent of the gumbo as she stirred. Chunks of vegetables and shrimp were visible through the broth. Her stomach rumbled. “I don’t suppose I’ll get a sneak preview for lending a hand?”

Aniyah laughed as she cut the dough into four sections and spaced them out along the island top. “You dip in there early. I ain’t gonna stop you.”

“What else can I do when I’m done here?” Savannah asked as she stirred the second pot.

“Grab an apron from the drawer so you don’t get messy.”

Savannah grinned. “This sounds fun. What am I making?”

“Beignets.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those! I’ve always wanted to try one.”

Aniyah chuckled. “Aw, you in for a treat then! The dough is in the fridge. Take it out and dust up the island with some of this here flour. Then turn out the dough and roll it. Pin’s in the island drawer on the left.”

Giddy, Savannah followed Aniyah’s instructions, relishing the weight of the hefty wooden rolling pin in her hands and the feeling of usefulness that fed her hungry soul. She rolled out the dough until Aniyah’s practiced eye pronounced it thin enough, then hunted down a pizza cutter as her mentor instructed. “Two inch squares. Though I ain’t gonna smack ya if you make them a little bigger.”

“Only two inches? We’re going to have piles of these.”

“Oh yes, but they go quick! You’ll see when you have ‘em.” She
tsked
and muttered, “Never had a beignet.”

“Well, I’m from Colorado.”

“That accent ain’t.”

Savannah chuckled, pushing the pizza cutter through the dough. “No, that’s true. I was born in South Carolina. But my mother wasn’t a fan of fried foods.”

Aniyah gave her a look. “Was
she
from Colorado?”

“No, just health conscious.”

“Mm, mm, mm.” Aniyah shook her head. “A shame, that is.” She finished greasing the pan and set the French bread loaves on it. “Healthy is important, but enjoying food is underrated. And some foods, you just gotta ignore how bad they are for you so you can have a little enjoyment. Ain’t no one I know enjoyed asparagus the way they enjoy a cookie.”

Savannah chuckled. “True.”

Aniyah slid the pan into the oven, then carried her mixing bowl to the sink and ran the water onto the mountain of dishes. “So how come you in here and not in with the others? You skipping out on therapy?”

Savannah winced inside as she rolled another line into the dough. She hadn’t expected to get the third degree from the cook. “I’m not actually … attending The Refuge. I’m an old friend of Tabitha’s.”

“Ain’t that nice. That woman. Mm.” She put a sudsy hand to her heart. “She saved my life, she did. Lord bless her.”

“Saved your life? How? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“Aw no, I’s an open book. Nothing to hide, and maybe something I say helps someone else, right?” She scrubbed a pot, her strong arms flexing with the effort. “I’s born in the Bayou, see, and my mama be a sorceress.”

Savannah gaped. “Seriously?”

“Aw yeah!” She looked at Savannah and laughed. “Not a lot of backwoods witches in Colorado, eh?”

“Well, Wicca is pretty popular, especially up north, but … you’re talking about voodoo, right?”

“That’s right. She made up spells for folks, charms and dolls too.”

“Like, voodoo dolls? People actually use those?”

“Aye-ya. All the time.” She rinsed off the pot and set it on the massive drying rack. “Anyway, she got real sick, and neighbors took her to the hospital one night, even though she didn’t want to go, kept saying she’d heal herself. But she’d been getting real bad real quick, and they didn’t wanna take the chance of her dying. They asked me later did I want to visit her, and I knew she’d be wanting some of her charms and talismen, so I brought them with. The doctor, he saw them, because I wasn’t careful enough — I didn’t know that most people thought voodoo was evil. Well, next day, these people show up at my door and take me away!”

“Into foster care?”

“Yup. They put me with an auntie I never knew I had, and she knew about my mama being a sorceress. She insisted I was doing voodoo too, even though I wasn’t. She figured I was as evil as my mama just from living under her roof. So she tried to make me holy so’s I wouldn’t go to hell. Drug me to her church and dunked me in their pool, made me copy out the Bible whenever I did wrong, and whipped me something merciless when I did something real bad. Which wasn’t too often, I can tell you, but she thought it was more often than it was.”

She shook her head, rinsing off a steel bowl and setting it beside the pot before setting in on another. “I never did see my mama again. I’d never left the Bayou before going to see her at the hospital, and I didn’t know where auntie’s house was compared to home. Mama had done my school at home, and so did auntie, so I didn’t have the chance to run away until I was older. But soon as I could, I did. I was sixteen. Just took off, middle of the night, with my sewing bag full of food and an extra change of clothes. Well, and the money I stole from her — I’d started taking a dollar here, couple quarters there, for two years, knowing I’d need something when I finally had the chance to go.

“I knew how to get to town from her place, so’s I just started walking. Got there at dawn and waited at the bus depot ‘til it opened. Bought a ticket to New Orleans and told myself I was never going back.” She ran her hands beneath the water to rid them of suds, then dried them and nodded to the island in front of Savannah. “You done with those?”

“Oh—yes, sorry. Do we fry them now?”

“Aw no, I do that when y’all are finishing your dinner. Want them to be nice and hot when you eat them or they just aren’t as good.”

“Can I help you?”

“No need, no need. But thank you for the offer.” She dampened a towel, rung it out, and laid it over the dough squares. “You oughtta get cleaned up for dinner. You got flour on your face.”

“Is it time for dinner already?” Savannah lifted the apron over her head. “Thanks for letting me help you out. I’ve been going a little stir crazy lately.”

Aniyah raised her brows, giving her a look. “Stir crazy? Here? Aw, you ain’t digging deep enough if you be getting bored. This place is touched by God. He changes you here. But you gotta want to be changed, I think, before he does it.”

Bristling but not wanting to show it, Savannah hung the apron on the back of the door before backing halfway out of the kitchen in retreat. “I’m looking forward to trying that gumbo.”

Aniyah’s grin grew wider and she chuckled at her with a shake of her finger. “That’s right, you keep running, sister. Run out that door and get yourself spiffed for supper. Just remember God can always run faster than you.”

A
NIYAH HAD BEEN RIGHT
—the beingets were heaven. After having what she justified as a reasonable serving of them, Savannah went back to the kitchen to help with the clean up. It was a quick job with both of them working—Aniyah had cleaned all the baking dishes while the Refugees had been eating, and there were hardly any leftovers. After turning on the dishwasher Aniyah hung up her apron, packed a canvas shopping bag with the remains of dinner, and went home.

Savannah stole back to her room, eyes trained on the floor as though deep in thought to avoid conversation. Once safely alone, she sat heavily on the bed and sighed. Two hours until bedtime at least—what to do until then?

On the small writing desk in the corner sat the yellow envelope she’d gotten from Marisa. She still hadn’t opened it. She avoided thinking too much about A&A. But it had to be done eventually, and sorting it would be a decent way to pass the time.

She emptied the contents onto the bed—eight letters altogether, but one in particular caught her eye. The envelope was pink, with an embossed flower in the corner. It smelled faintly of a perfume that seemed familiar, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. She ripped it open and slid out the single sheet of paper—pink and embossed liked the envelope—covered in both sides with slanted blue cursive. The scent of the perfume was calming.

Dear Mrs. Trover,

This is a very difficult letter to write, mostly because I will be very embarrassed if I am wrong. But I feel in my heart that I’m right, and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t follow that impression.

My brother, Charlie, was living in Boulder at the time of his death back in August. As his only living kin, I was notified of his passing by the hospital where he was taken after his car accident. They told me he had chosen to be an organ donor, and I was pleased to hear that— his life had not amounted to much, and I felt like it was a second chance for him, to be able to help someone else to live their life.

A month after the accident I was at a women’s tea at my church, and your ministry came up in conversation. Someone mentioned you’d undergone a heart transplant, and I can’t explain why, but I felt compelled to find whatever details were public about your procedure. I bought your new book, and when I discovered your surgery occurred the night my brother died, I couldn’t help but think it was more than mere coincidence.

I’ve done a little bit of research about transplants, and I’ve learned that the recipient often wishes he or she could contact the family of the donor. I don’t know if you feel that way or not, but if you do, I want you to know I would love to meet you. I’m including my contact information, but please do not feel any pressure to write or call. I’m just sure you received Charlie’s heart, and I’m content knowing that it went to someone like you; I will not be offended if you don’t want to contact me.

I pray that every day is a blessing, and that Charlie’s heart allows you to live a long, full life in service to the Lord. (It would be quite the irony if it did, believe me. But with God, all things are possible!) God bless you and your ministry — I pray for you every day.

Sincerely,

Lori Bates

A torrent of emotions rolled over her. She’d stopped consciously wondering about her donor weeks ago, but faced with the chance to learn about him she felt almost desperate for information. And an inexplicable fondness for this Lori drove her to inhale again the scent wafting from the stationery.

But this woman believed Savannah to be—well, who everyone thought she was. She sounded so happy to know Savannah was a good Christian woman — would Lori be angry if she knew Savannah wasn’t? Didn’t her life count for something even if she wasn’t speaking to capacity crowds and writing bestsellers? Or even if she didn’t believe in God?

Her hand hovered over her cell phone. She’d have to fake the good Christian woman stuff if she went to meet her—and she definitely wanted to meet her. Could she do it?

Only one way to find out.

Hand trembling, she dialed the number. When a woman answered she knew it was her without even asking. “Lori, this is Savannah Trover.”