Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

by Beth Hoffman

  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.”

  School. I have to go to school.

  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.” S
he 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.”

  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.

  Over and over, my mother’s voice echoed around me, “You’ll be sorry if you don’t go . . . you’ll be sorry . . . you’ll be sorry . . .”

  I reached for the handle of the car door, my insides blistered with guilt. I crawled onto the seat, tucked my knees to my chest, and clamped my hands over my head. But the sound of her voice and the vision of her lying dead in the street stayed with me. Sweat poured off my forehead. I was burning up.

  Then, like sugar in the rain, the image of my mother melted away. And she was gone, just gone.

  In the distance I heard the jangle of keys. The trunk was opened then closed, and Aunt Tootie’s voice floated over my head: “I got some beautiful peaches. Oletta will be so happy. Just wait till—Cecelia? What’s wrong?”

  I felt her hand on my back. “What is it? Cecelia, talk to me.”

  Then everything went black.

  Twenty-three

  I woke to the chirping of birds and the fresh scent of cool morning air. My eyelids felt like they’d been sewn shut, and when I forced them open, something wavy and dark floated in front of me. Once my vision came into focus, I recognized Oletta’s face.

  She leaned close and smoothed her hand over my head. “Well, look at this. It’s about time you woke up. I told you a long time ago that I ain’t got time for no lazybones.”

  I looked around the room, feeling confused. I was lying in the four-poster bed in the bedroom Aunt Tootie had referred to as the Snowflake Room. I pushed against my elbows and tried to sit up, but my head flopped back on the pillow.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a moment later Aunt Tootie’s face appeared next to Oletta’s. “Oh, Cecelia, it’s so good to see you awake.”

  Oletta smiled. “I’ve got to check on the bread in the oven. I’ll be back a little later and bring you some nice apple-butter toast.”

  As Oletta left the room, Aunt Tootie sat on the edge of the bed and brushed my bangs off my forehead. “You just rest and let us take care of you.”

  My throat felt scraped and raw, and my voice sounded raspy when I said, “What happened?”

  She lifted a glass from the bedside table and held a straw to my lips. “Take a sip of this lemon and honey water. It’ll make you feel better.” After I took a long drink, she set down the glass and patted my hand. “You’re a little groggy, don’t let it scare you. Last night Dr. O’Connor gave you a shot to help you sleep for a while. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But . . . what happened?”

  She rubbed my arm and a shadow moved across her face when she said, “We’ll talk about it later. For now I think it’s best that you rest.”

  “How long have I been in this bed?”

  “Not all that long—just since yesterday afternoon.”

  A surge of panic washed over me. Is this the beginning? Am I losing my mind like Momma did?

  “Please, Aunt Tootie, I need to know. What happened?”

  She nodded and squeezed my fingers. “All right. Why don’t you tell me what you remember and we’ll see if we can piece things together from there.”

  “We went to the peach farm. I was petting the dogs, and then . . .” Words clumped in my throat. I looked away and chewed my lip. I ached everywhere, as if I’d been beaten up on the inside.

  “What is it, Cecelia?”

  “I saw things . . . bad things. They came at me like a storm. But now I’m here. How? How did that happen?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, rubbing my arm. “I brought you home from the peach farm.”

  I looked around the room. “But how did I get in this bed?”

  Aunt Tootie tilted her head. “You and I did it together, honey. We climbed the stairs and I got you into bed. Now, tell me, what did you see?”

  I closed my eyes and said, “I saw the day Momma died. It was like watching a movie. When she got hit by the truck there was a terrible thud, and then I saw her lying in the road. It made me hurt . . . everywhere. Then I fell into a black hole. That’s all I remember.”

  Aunt Tootie gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord. Cecelia, are you saying that you were with your mother when she died?”

  I swallowed hard and shook my head. “No, I wasn’t with her. I was at home. But in my mind I saw things as if I was there. And the sound of that thud, I never heard it with my own ears, but it echoed in my mind as if I did.”

  Tears burned my eyes. “It’s my fault. She wanted me to go to the Goodwill store, but I said no. And I said mean things to her too.”

  “Oh, honey. Is that what this is about?” Aunt Tootie tucked the covers around me and took hold of my hand. “Your mother’s death had nothing to do with you, Cecelia. I promise it didn’t. The human mind is an amazing thing. It protects us when we can’t protect ourselves. Sometimes
when we’re holding pain and it gets to be too heavy or goes too deep, we have to give in to it, let it knock us over and pull us all the way down. Once we hit bottom, we rest in a quiet place for a while. Then, when the pain eases and we’re ready to face the world again, we come right back up.”

  She leaned down, wrapped me in her arms, and held me for a long moment. When she sat up, she searched my face. “I called Gertrude last night. We had a long talk.”

  “Mrs. Odell? You talked to Mrs. Odell?”

  “Yes. I called to see if she knew anything about your medical records. I had asked your father to get them for me, but I guess he either forgot or hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Gertrude was so kind and helpful. She loves you very much, Cecelia. She said you’d always been healthy as a horse but that you had a tendency to hold things in.” Aunt Tootie looked deep into my eyes. “Gertrude gave me a clearer picture of what you went through with your mother. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I had no idea how ill she was.”

  I was mortified. That old familiar heat of embarrassment burned my cheeks. I looked away and covered my face with my hands. What had Mrs. Odell told Aunt Tootie? How could she do this to me?

  “Cecelia Rose, please look at me,” my aunt said, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “Will you do that? I want you to know something. Gertrude didn’t tell me about your mother’s problems to hurt you. She told me so I’d know more of your history, so I could understand and help you.”

  Is Aunt Tootie sorry she’d taken me? Is she worried that one day she’ll look out the window to see me parading down the sidewalk in some raggedy old prom dress?

  It seemed that no matter how far away I moved or how hard I tried to forget about all that had happened, my past would always be lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag me down. I rolled on my side and buried my face in the pillow.

  “Let me tell you a story,” Aunt Tootie said, stroking her hand across my back. “One afternoon I went to the grocery market. Taylor had been gone a little over a year, and though I was still grieving, I was doing a pretty good job of holding myself together. Or so I thought.