by Beth Hoffman
“I was standing in the checkout line and glanced down at my basket. And there on top of my groceries was a carton of Taylor’s favorite ice cream—Strawberry Surprise. I used to buy him a carton every week, and he loved it so much it’d be gone in three or four days. I never cared for strawberry ice cream, and I’d have never bought it for myself. Now, I can assure you I had no recollection of putting that ice cream into the basket, but I knew I must have—how else would it have gotten there? I stared at that ice cream for the longest time, and then a horrible pain took hold of me. It was so awful I couldn’t breathe. Next thing I knew, I dropped the basket and ran from the store.
“That’s all I remember of that day. How I drove home is something I’ll never know. It was Oletta who found me on the floor of my bedroom the following morning. I was so out of sorts I couldn’t even talk. But with some rest and Oletta’s care, I eventually came around. Before too long I was back in the middle of my life, doing things and going places with my friends. But I had to plunge deep into my pain and grief before I could move on.”
I rolled on my back and rubbed my eyes. “But, Aunt Tootie, I never even cried the day Momma died. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I feel terrible because all she ever talked about was moving back to Georgia—it was her dream. But now I’m here instead of her. And I’m scared.”
Aunt Tootie furrowed her brow and looked at me thoughtfully. “Why, honey? What are you scared of ?”
I stared at the ceiling. Visions of Momma swam through my mind. I could see her standing at the bathroom mirror, wearing a slip and her red shoes, screaming at my father who wasn’t even there. And I smelled the sour scent of her when she was so far gone that she hadn’t bathed for days.
I couldn’t even look at Aunt Tootie. It was as if I were standing outside myself. Watching. Waiting. Wondering who that girl in the bed really was, and what would become of her.
“Talk to me, sugar. Please. I need to know why you’re so afraid.”
It wasn’t until my aunt squeezed my hand that I opened my mouth and the truth fell from my lips. “I’m scared that no matter where I go, how many books I read, or how hard I study, I’ll never have a normal life because I’m not normal—I’m her daughter. I’ll end up going insane just like she did.” I let out a raspy sob. “And what happened at the peach farm proves it. I’m already starting to go crazy.”
Aunt Tootie pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Cecelia Rose, it’s not your fault that your mother died. And whatever was wrong with her isn’t something she passed down to you. We’ll never fully understand what all happened, but as sure as I’m sitting here on this bed, I know that whatever it was that went haywire in your mother’s mind isn’t going to happen to you.”
“But how?” I squeaked. “How do you know that?”
She took hold of my hand and kissed it, leaving a pale tattoo of red lipstick behind. “Because I just do. This isn’t something I think in my brain—it’s something I feel in my heart, and there’s a mighty big difference between the two. It’s our hearts that tell us the truth of things, honey, and my heart has never betrayed me. Not ever.”
“But I looked up psychosis in the dictionary, and it said that sometimes mental illness is passed down. And—”
Aunt Tootie’s voice was so firm it shocked me. “Cecelia Rose Honeycutt, you are not going to lose your mind.” She leaned close and her voice softened when she said, “Now, here’s something else I know. You might not think you’re grieving, but grief comes in all sorts of ways. There’s the kind of grief that leaves you numb, and the kind of grief that rips your world in half. And then there’s another kind of grief that doesn’t feel like grief at all. It’s like a tiny splinter you don’t even know you have until it festers so deep it has nowhere left to go but into your soul. I think that’s the hardest kind of grief there is because you know you’re hurting but you don’t know why.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head.
“You know what else I think?”
I didn’t want to hear another word, but I didn’t want be rude, either, so I let out a tired sigh and said, “What?”
“I think while your mother was alive you held tight to the hope that one day you’d wake up and she’d be healthy—behave like a real mother. Then you’d be able live your life the way children are supposed to. But that day never came. Oh, honey, you’ve held so much inside for such a long time. You’ve been very brave.” She pressed her palm to my cheek and tilted her head. “But even the bravest among us can’t hold that much hurt inside. I believe you’re not only hurting but you’re grieving too. Not only for the mother you had but for the mother and the childhood you didn’t.”
For the next few days I stayed in bed and slept a lot, but during the hushed hours of the night, I’d get up and switch on the bathroom light. Rising on my tiptoes, I’d lean close to the mirror and look deep into my eyes. I knew what happened when people lost their minds—for years I had watched my mother’s eyes dilate until they became round black voids. Whenever that happened, I knew the storm would soon follow. I promised myself that if I saw even so much as a hint of that void in my own eyes, I’d run to the nearest bridge and heave myself over the side.
I’d stare into the bathroom mirror until I was sure my eyes looked normal, then I’d go back to bed. But I would lie awake and think about all that had happened to me in the first twelve years of my life—years that now collapsed around me, as lifeless and flat as the bedsheets.
I felt small and lost in the big bed, so one night I took my blanket and pillow and made a nest for myself on the window seat. With my knees tucked close to my chest, I rested my head against the pillow. A light rain began to fall, and as I listened to the roll of thunder far off in the distance, I thought about the upcoming school year and wondered how I’d find a way to fit in. Though I could spell words from archipelago to zibeline and tell you what they meant, I had no idea how to interact with girls my own age.
As I watched raindrops glide down the windowpane, I thought about Momma and all the crazy things she did and said. Though I didn’t want to admit it, a part of me missed her. Not the way she was before she died, but the way she was before she got sick.
I had been ashamed of her for so long that any good memories had been distorted and smudged by her illness. I’d forgotten how much fun she was when I was real little, how she’d tell me bedtime stories about fairies who used daisies as umbrellas, how she’d buy me coloring books and sit at the table and help me pick out what crayons I should use. And then I remembered something that happened on a cold winter’s morning when I couldn’t have been much more than three years old.
Momma came into my bedroom and woke me. Her eyes shone bright in the violet tint of predawn light. “There’s magic outside,” she said, scooping me into her arms. “Come see.” Her robe was soft against my cheek as she carried me down the stairs.
“Look,” she said, holding me in front of the living room window. “See what the angels did? Isn’t it pretty? They came last night when you were asleep and scattered sugar from the sky. Cecelia, look at the trees. Aren’t they the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen?”
“That’s snow,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“No, look again. See all the sparkles way up in the tree branches? That’s sugar.”
I looked out the window, feeling confused, but then decided she was right—it was sugar. “Why, Momma? Why did the angels do that?”
She pressed her nose to mine and looked deep into my eyes. “Because you’re the sweetest little girl in the world.”
Now, as the rain came harder, I lifted my finger and traced the trail of a raindrop as it slid down the windowpane. My chest ached when I remembered how often she had said, “Promise you’ll never leave me.”
I could smell her Shalimar perfume, and I could feel the gentleness of her kiss on my cheek.
And then they came. Tears. Hot and stinging.
Not tears for me, for my
shame, or for all the things I feared about the future. They were tears for Momma: the haunting sadness she felt—the years her illness had slashed out of her life—her tragic death.
I burrowed deeper under the blanket, and as the rain beat against the window and thunder rolled over the house, I closed my eyes, let go, and fell into the depths of my sadness. And as I fell, I accepted the truth I had fought for so long—I missed my mother.
I woke to the sound of the door opening and the spicy, warm aroma of Oletta’s famous cinnamon rolls, her tried-and-true antidote for sadness, gloom, and all that ailed one. She set the breakfast tray on the bed and came to sit next to me on the window seat.
Her eyelids sagged like the roof of an old porch when she took hold of my hand. “Child, child. You’re too young to have all that sadness in your eyes. I was thinkin’ this morning that you ain’t read me that book like you promised. You know, the next Nancy Drew you talked about?”
“I’ve tried to read, but sometimes the words look like a string of little black bugs creeping across the page. Aunt Tootie says I should just rest and give myself time. But what if I never get better? What if the words never stop moving?”
Oletta gazed out the window, her eyes shining like wet stones. “Maybe them words keep moving ’cause they’re tryin’ to show you something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look out the window. Can you see it?”
I leaned forward and pressed my nose to the glass. “What? What do you want me to see?”
She reached over and pushed up the window. A rain-freshened breeze rolled in like an unexpected gift.
“Look,” she said, smiling out at the trees, the sky, and the birds flying by. “That’s life out there. See how it’s movin’? Even the leaves on the trees is movin’. Life don’t wait for nobody, and even as special as you are, it ain’t gonna wait for you, neither. So it’s time to make up your mind that you’re gonna join it.”
I looked out the window and thought about what she said. And for the first time in days I felt a smile curve the corner of my lips.
Before leaving the room, Oletta told me she loved me. Well, not the exact words I love you, but what she said was, “Ain’t no sun in the kitchen without your face lookin’ up at me.”
That was the finest thing anyone could have said.
Dr. O’Connor, who smelled of pipe tobacco and looked a lot like Jack Benny, came to see me every day. He’d press a cold stethoscope to my chest, take my pulse, and talk with me about how I felt. Then, on a crystal-blue Thursday morning, Dr. O’Connor examined me from head to toe. He zipped closed his brown leather bag and announced to Aunt Tootie, “Your girl doesn’t need the likes of me. All she needs is some exercise and sunshine.” He gave me a wink, gently pinched my toes, and left.
The Snowflake Room was too big and too fancy and definitely too white. I felt like I’d been held captive in the middle of a perpetual wedding. I missed my little tree-house bedroom with its happy colors and views of the ever-changing sky, and I was glad when Aunt Tootie said I was well enough to return to the third floor.
My legs felt weak as I climbed the stairs, but it felt good to be up and walking. After showering and washing my hair, I got dressed. From the bookshelf next to my bed, I removed The Clue of the Broken Locket and made my way down the stairs.
Oletta was busy in the pantry and didn’t see me walk into the kitchen. I pulled myself onto the stool by the chopping block and waited. Oletta didn’t notice me when she stepped out of the pantry with a sack of flour in her arms, and she still didn’t notice me when she set it on the counter and shuffled to the oven to check on the bread she was baking.
I opened the book to the fi rst chapter and began reading aloud, “‘The light from the bull’s-eye window began to flash on and off. Surely this must be a signal . . .’”
Twenty-four
The days passed, and I grew stronger. Oletta made my favorite foods—grilled cheese sandwiches, banana bread, and thick buttermilk pancakes. She even spent an entire Monday afternoon making a seven-layer chocolate cream cake from scratch. Aunt Tootie, who had rarely left the house while I was recuperating, resumed her hectic schedule of saving houses from the wrecking ball. But she always spent time with me after dinner, and we’d talk, go for a walk, or watch TV together.
When I went to bed at night, I no longer lay awake in fear that Momma’s illness had been passed down to me. In some ways my life in Willoughby had begun to fade, much the same way a nightmare loses its grip when you find the courage to reach out in the darkness and turn on the light. I was still a little nervous about going to school and meeting my classmates, but whenever those worries grabbed hold of me, I envisioned the strength in Oletta’s eyes when she lifted her chin and said: “Today’s the day—you’ve got to reclaim your power.”
One evening during dinner Aunt Tootie announced we’d be going to visit the Rosemont School for Girls the following morning. I went to bed tingling with both excitement and fear and woke early the next morning wondering what lay ahead. After breakfast I spent an absurd amount of time pulling dresses from my closet and holding them up in front of me, eventually deciding on a pink jumper and white blouse. I tied a ribbon around my ponytail, buckled my shoes, and went downstairs to the living room.
A moment later Aunt Tootie came down the stairs in a blue linen suit and matching hat. “Oh, Cecelia, you look so pretty. Are you ready to go see the school?”
I nodded but was too nervous too speak. When we headed for the garage, I had one of those strange moments where you’re so wide-awake and fully open that the air sparks when you move though it.
The Rosemont School for Girls was a three-story brick building with tall windows and a green-painted front door. A thick hedge ran along the perimeter of the property, framing a perfectly clipped lawn. As we got out of the car, Aunt Tootie said, “Well, Cecelia Rose, this is your big day.”
I could hardly breathe as we approached the front door. My aunt stopped and looked up at the building. “Isn’t this lovely? It used to be a private residence. I know from the front it looks too small to be a school, but there’s a big addition in the back. You’ll see it when we take the tour. So let’s go in and see what you think.” She took hold of my hand and pushed open the door.
It certainly didn’t look like a school—not with its high ceilings, mahogany moldings, and gleaming leaded-glass windows. Since moving to Savannah, I’d begun to recognize the aroma of wealth, and from the walls of this school there oozed the unmistakable scent of prosperity. Though the idea of attending a private school had originally sounded wonderful, I now wasn’t so sure. Clearly the Rosemont School for Girls was for the best of the best, the smartest of the smart, and the richest of the rich.
If I go to school here, will the other girls think I don’t belong?
Before that thought could drag me down, Aunt Tootie whisked me into a small, brightly lit waiting room.
A white-haired, rosy-cheeked woman opened an interior door. She smiled, looking as happy and plump as a July toad. “Well, good morning, Tootie. What a fine day this is.”
Aunt Tootie shook the woman’s outstretched hand. “It’s so pleasant now that the humidity has let up. Iris, I’d like you to meet my grandniece, Cecelia Rose Honeycutt. And Cecelia, this is Mrs. Iris Fontaine, the headmistress of this lovely school.”
Mrs. Fontaine grinned and took my hand. “Cecelia, welcome to Rosemont. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
My cheeks colored up, and when I opened my mouth to speak, the words Thank you, ma’am came out as an unintelligible “Tat Hayo, man.”
I wanted to die.
Aunt Tootie looked at me kinda strange, but Mrs. Fontaine just smiled and said, “Please, come into my office so we can relax and chat.”
From a gray cardigan draped around her shoulders, I detected the faint scent of mothballs as she led us into a mahogany-paneled room that had a big desk plunked in the center. After listen
ing to her give us a proud history of the school and its many virtues, she nodded toward the door. “I’d love to show you what we have to offer, Cecelia. Would you like a tour?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Aunt Tootie gave me a quick wink as we followed Mrs. Fontaine out the door.
Lining the walls of the first-floor hallway were framed photographs of the students, all of them wearing plaid kilts and blazers that had a crest on the chest pocket.
Perfect little Southern belles.
I stood on my tiptoes and scanned their faces. They were the kind of girls who played croquet on perfectly manicured lawns, their faces glowing with that luminous light of carefree privilege. I touched my cheek and wondered what it would take for me to obtain that same kind of radiance. How long I examined the pictures of those fresh-faced girls I don’t know, but I was startled when Aunt Tootie called from the other end of the hallway. “Cecelia Rose, c’mon, honey, we’re heading upstairs.”
After we toured the classrooms and the art department, Mrs. Fontaine showed us the new library, which was so wonderful I was left speechless.
“This was just completed in March,” Mrs. Fontaine said, gesturing to the massive bookcases and rows of study tables. “We’re quite proud of it.”
Aunt Tootie smoothed her hand over the side of a polished bookshelf. “You certainly should be, Iris. It’s just lovely.”
“You have three sets of encyclopedias?” I said, scanning a case full of research books.
Mrs. Fontaine nodded. “Yes, and we have an entire section dedicated to the American masters of literature and art.”
“Isn’t it wonderful, Cecelia?” Aunt Tootie said. Then she turned to Mrs. Fontaine. “Iris, where’s the powder room?”
“Down the hall to your left.”
“Thank you.” She looked at me and said, “I’ll be right back, honey.”
I didn’t want her to leave, but I knew I’d look like a big baby if I followed her. My throat tightened as I watched her disappear.