by Lisa Wingate
“Come along, Mrs. Murphy.”
Then they’re gone, and I sit very still on the bed, listening for the man. He comes to the door, and stops on the other side of it. I hear him take in a breath, then blow it out.
I clutch the dress hard over my knees, my body shaking.
The door opens, and he stands in it, just a few feet away.
I know his face. He sat beside me on the sofa at the viewing party and asked me how old I was.
His wife was the one who read books to Fern.
CHAPTER 19
Avery
The driver in front of me slows down, but I’m so lost in watching two teenage girls trot their horses alongside the road that I don’t hit the brakes until it’s almost too late. The car turns off on a road that leads toward the equestrian events center. I wonder if that’s where the girls might be going with their horses. It’s the right time of year for the derby series. When I was younger, I would’ve been there either watching or competing, but these days I barely have time to lament that grown-up life leaves no time for activities I was once so passionate about, like riding.
Right now, my mind is already several miles down the road, entering May Crandall’s room at the nursing home. I’ve had Ian, the friendly intern, make a few low-key calls to determine her current location and condition. She’s back at the care facility and feeling well enough to give the attendants trouble again.
Behind me, Trent taps his horn and lifts a hand in the air, as if to say, Pay attention up there, but he’s smiling beneath his sunglasses.
If he weren’t in a separate car, I’d say, You insisted on coming along. I warned you that things could be unpredictable.
He’d probably laugh and tell me there’s no way he’s missing this.
We’re like a couple of sixth graders playing hooky from school for the first time. Neither of us is where we’re supposed to be this morning, but after discovering that photo last night in his grandfather’s workshop, neither of us can say no to this journey. Even an early-morning missed call from Leslie and a half-dozen new customer inquiries at Trent’s real estate office couldn’t change the plan we impulsively formed last night. One way or another, we’re going to find out what our grandparents were hiding and how my history and his are tied together…and what May Crandall has to do with it.
I’ve intentionally failed to answer Leslie’s summons, and Trent has slapped a note on the door of the real estate office, and we’re on the lam, after having taken off at first light.
A little over two hours later, we’re in Aiken. We plan to see May Crandall after her breakfast. Depending on what we find out from May, we may go to my grandmother’s house on Lagniappe next.
I try to focus on the driving as we wind through graceful, tree-lined streets, the sleepy magnolias and towering pines slipping their calming shade over the SUV, seeming to say, Why the rush? Slow down. Enjoy the day.
For a moment, I relax into it, persuade myself that this is just any other late-summer morning. But the instant the nursing home appears around the corner, the illusion vanishes. As if to punctuate this, my cellphone rings again, and Leslie’s name is on the screen for the fourth time. I’m inconveniently reminded that, as soon as this visit with May Crandall is over—whatever it yields—I’ll have to check in. The world of present-day issues has come calling. Literally.
At least I know that, if the summons had anything to do with my father’s health, one of my sisters would be phoning me, not Leslie. So it’s definitely business related. Something that has cropped up since I talked to Ian yesterday evening, or else he would have mentioned it then. Leslie probably has a can’t-miss press op lined up, and she wants me to come home early from my minivacation on Edisto. Little does she know, I’m already here.
The idea of diving back into the political stewpot pinches a little. I really don’t want to think about it. Putting my phone on vibrate, I tuck it into my purse without checking the stack-up of texts. There are probably emails too. Leslie does not like to be ignored.
All thoughts of Leslie vanish as I park, grab the folder that holds the antique photos from the bulletin board and the papers from Grandma Judy’s envelope, and get out of the car.
Trent meets me on the curb. “If we’re ever traveling cross-country, I’ll drive.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” A strange little tingle slides down my back, and just as quickly, I shrug it away. Being in Aiken again is a stark reminder that, as much as I find Trent likeable, this will never be anything more than a friendship.
I made sure to slip a mention of my fiancé into the conversation before we left Edisto, just to be fair to all concerned.
“You I trust. Your driving…maybe not.”
“It wasn’t even a near miss.” We banter back and forth on the way up the sidewalk, and by the time we reach the door, I’m laughing without meaning to. The scent of air freshener and the oppressive quiet sobers things up.
Trent’s expression morphs almost instantly. His smile vanishes. “This brings back memories.”
“You’ve been here?”
“No, but it looks a lot like the place we moved my gran into after her stroke. There wasn’t any choice, but it was tough on Granddad. They’d never been separated more than a night or two in over sixty years.”
“It’s so hard when you reach the point where there aren’t any good options.” He knows about Grandma Judy’s situation. It came up last night while we were sitting on the porch of the little cabin talking about the photos and what they might mean.
An attendant in colorful scrubs passes by. She greets us, appearing to wonder if she recognizes me. Then she moves on. I’m glad. The last thing I need is anyone picking up on the fact that I’m here. If this gets back to Leslie and my father, there will be an intense round of questions, and I haven’t a clue what I’d say.
At the doorway to May Crandall’s room, I suddenly realize I’m not sure what I plan to say to her either. Should I just burst in there with the photos and ask, Who were you and my grandmother to one another? How was Trent Turner, Sr., involved?
Should I try to lead into it more subtly? From my short association with May, I have no idea how she’ll react to our coming here. I’m hoping that Trent’s presence may work a bit of extra magic. May did, after all, most likely know his grandfather.
What if it’s all too much for her, the two of us showing up? She has been sick. I don’t want to cause her any more problems. In fact, being back here nudges me toward the realization that I should do something to help her. Maybe I could talk to Andrew Moore at the seniors’ rights PAC. Perhaps he could give me some suggestions about organizations that serve seniors like May whose families live far away.
Trent stops at the door and motions to the nameplate. “Looks like we’re here.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I know she’s been sick. I’m not sure how strong she’ll—”
“Who’s hovering around out there?” May puts my uncertainty to rest before I can finish voicing it. “Go away! I don’t need anything. I won’t have you whispering about me!” A slipper flies through the small opening between the door and the frame, and then a hairbrush sails past and clatters across the hall.
Trent recovers the discards. “She’s got a good arm.”
“You leave me be!” May insists.
Trent and I share uncertain looks, and I lean close to the door, avoiding the line of fire just in case May has more ammo at hand. “May? Just listen a minute, okay? It’s Avery Stafford. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago? You liked my dragonfly bracelet. Do you remember?”
Silence.
“You said my grandmother was a friend of yours. Judy. Judy Myers Stafford? You and I talked about the photo you had beside your bed.” It seems as though my whole world has changed since that day.
“Well?” May snaps after a moment. “Are you coming in or not?” Beyond the door, there’s the sound of a body shuffling and bedcovers moving. I don’t know if she’s preparing
to greet us or loading up to take another shot.
“Are you finished throwing things?”
“I don’t suppose you’d leave if I weren’t.” But there’s a note of anticipation in her voice this time. She’s inviting me in, so I enter, leaving Trent safely in the hall.
She lies propped up in bed, wearing a blue housecoat that matches her eyes. Even with a stack of pillows behind her, there’s something regal about the way she watches me, as if she was accustomed to service in bed long before her nursing home years.
“I was hoping you’d feel well enough to talk with me today,” I venture. “I asked my grandmother about you. She mentioned Queen…or Queenie, but that was about all she could remember.”
May seems stricken. “She’s that bad?”
“I’m afraid so.” I feel terrible for being the messenger. “Grandma Judy isn’t unhappy. She just can’t remember things. It’s hard for her.”
“And hard for you too, I would imagine?”
May’s sudden insight leaves me floundering emotionally. “Yes, it is. My grandmother and I were always very close.”
“Yet she never told you about the people in my photograph?” Beneath the question, there is the insinuation that this woman knows my grandmother intimately. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resign myself to it if I never find out the truth—if May won’t tell me.
“I have a feeling Grandma Judy would now, if she could. But I’m hoping that, since she can’t, you will.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” May turns her shoulder away from me, as if she’s afraid to have me look directly at her.
“I have a feeling it does. And maybe…”
Her attention shifts toward the door. “Who is that out there? Who else is listening?”
“I brought someone with me. He’s been helping me try to figure out what my grandmother hasn’t been able to tell me. He’s just a friend.”
Trent steps inside and crosses the room with his hand outstretched, flashing the sort of smile that could probably sell snow cones to Eskimos. “Trent,” he says, introducing himself. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crandall.”
She accepts the greeting and imprisons his hand in both of hers, holding him slightly bent over the bed while she turns back to me. “Just a friend, you say? I doubt that.”
I draw back a little. “Trent and I only met a few days ago, when I went down to Edisto.”
“Lovely place, Edisto.” She focuses on Trent, her eyes narrowing.
“Yes, it is,” I agree. Why is she studying him that way? “My grandmother spent quite a bit of time there over the years. Uncle Clifford told me that she liked to write at the cottage. It seems that she and Trent’s grandfather may have done some…business there.” Just as if I were working a witness on the stand, I watch for changes in her demeanor. She tries to hide them, but they are there, and they’re obvious—more so with each sentence.
She’s wondering how much I know.
“I don’t believe I caught your last name.” She blinks at Trent.
The air in the room seems to tighten as she awaits the answer, but when he offers a more formal introduction, she nods and smiles. “Mmmm,” she says. “Yes, you do have his eyes.”
I get the little tingle I always have when I know a witness is about to crack. Often, it’s this very thing that does it—the surprise appearance of the face that’s familiar, a tie to something hidden in the past, the fringes of a secret that’s been kept too long.
May’s trembling fingers lift away from Trent’s hand. She touches his jawline. Moisture mats her lashes. “You favor him. He was a looker too.” She offers a closed-lipped smile that tells me she was probably quite the flirt in her day, a woman who had no difficulty operating in a man’s world.
Trent even blushes a little. It’s cute. I can’t help enjoying the exchange.
May wags a finger my way. “This one’s a keeper. Mark my words.”
It’s my turn to blush. “Sadly, I’m already committed.”
“I don’t see a wedding band, yet.” May grabs my hand and makes a show of examining my engagement ring. “And I know a spark when I see it. I should know. I’ve outlived three husbands at this point.”
A puff of laughter spills past Trent’s lips, and he ducks his head, sandy-blond hair falling forward.
“And I had nothing to do with any of their deaths, in case you’re wondering,” May informs us. “I loved each of them dearly. One was a teacher, one was a preacher, and the last was an artist who found his calling later in life. One taught me to think, one taught me to know, and one taught me to see. Each inspired me. I was a musician, you understand. I worked in Hollywood and also traveled with big bands. That was back in the glory days, long before all this digital foolishness.”
My phone buzzes in my purse, and she frowns toward it. “Those infernal things. The world would be better off if they had never been invented.”
I silence the phone completely. If May is finally ready to tell me the story of that photo on her nightstand, I want nothing to distract us from it. In fact, it’s time to redirect the witness right now.
I open the envelope and slide out the pictures from the cabin at Trent’s. “Actually, it’s these we were wondering about. These, and the Tennessee Children’s Home Society.”
Her face instantly hardens. She flings a fiery look my way. “I could do without ever hearing those words again.”
Trent cups her hand in both of his, looks down at their intertwined fingers. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crandall…if we’re dredging up painful memories. But my grandfather never told me. I mean, I knew he was adopted when he was fairly young, and I knew he broke ties with his adoptive parents after he found out. But I didn’t know much about the Tennessee Children’s Home Society—not until recently. Maybe in passing I’d overheard people mention it to my grandfather over the years, when visitors would stop by. I was aware that my grandfather helped those people in some way, and that he felt the need to conduct those meetings in private—in his workshop or out on the boat. My grandmother never liked any kind of business talk in the house, real estate or otherwise. I didn’t know anything about my grandfather’s hobby, or side business, or whatever it was, until I helped him take care of the remaining files before he died. He asked me not to read the papers, and I didn’t. Not until Avery came to Edisto a few days ago.”
May’s mouth falls open. Tears rim her eyes. “He’s passed, then? I knew he was very ill.”
Trent confirms that he lost his grandfather months ago, and May pulls him close for a kiss on the cheek. “He was a good man and a dear friend.”
“Was he adopted from the Tennessee Children’s Home Society?” Trent asks. “Was that why he was interested in it?”
A somber nod answers. “Yes, indeed he was. And I was as well. That was where we met. Of course, he was just three years old then. He was such a cute little thing, and sweet. His name wasn’t Trent at the time. He didn’t change it to that until years later, when he found out who he really was. He had a sister who was separated from him during our stay at the home. She was two or three years older, and I think he always hoped that using his real name might help her to find him. But that’s the irony of it. The man who aided so many of us in reconnecting with one another again never was able to locate his sister. Perhaps she was one of those who didn’t survive. There were many….”
Her voice cracks and trails away. She pushes upright in the bed, clears her throat. “I was born on the Mississippi River in a shantyboat my father built. Queenie was my mother and Briny was my father. I had three little sisters, Camellia, Lark, and Fern, and a brother, Gabion. He was the youngest….”
She closes her eyes, but I can see them moving under thin, blue-veined lids as she continues her story. It is as if she’s dreaming, watching the images float by. She talks about being taken off the boat by the police, ending up in the children’s home. She describes weeks of uncertainty and fear, workers who were cruel, separation from her siblings, horrors like the
ones Trent and I have read about.
The story she tells is heartbreaking yet mesmerizing. We stand on either side of the bed, barely breathing as we listen. “I lost track of my other three siblings at the home,” she says at the end. “But Fern and I were fortunate. We were kept together. Adopted.”
She stares out the window, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s told us all she intends to. Finally, she returns her attention to Trent. “The last time I saw your grandfather as a child, I was afraid he would be one of those who wouldn’t survive the home. He was such a timid little thing. Always in trouble with the workers without meaning to be. He was practically like a little brother by the time I left. I never thought I’d see him again. When a man named Trent Turner contacted me years later, I assumed he was a fraud. I didn’t recognize the name, of course. Georgia Tann habitually gave new names to the children—to help prevent their birth families from finding them, no doubt. I can tell you that I remember her as a horrible, cruel woman and that I believe the extent of her crimes may never be fully told. Few of her victims were able to do what your grandfather did—reclaim a birth name and a heritage. He even found his biological mother before she died, and he reunited with other relatives. He became Trent again, but when he was little, I knew him as Stevie.”
Her attention wanders again, her mind seeming to travel with it. I shift the photo of the four women just a bit, make a few inferences. In court, this would be leading the witness, but here it’s just helping to uncover the story. “Are these your sisters in the photo with you and my grandmother?”
I know the three women on the left must be sisters or cousins. It’s obvious enough, even with the hats shading their faces. I’m still troubled by their similarities to my grandmother. The hair color. The pale eyes that seem to reach beyond the photo. But the facial structures, at least as much as I can see of them, are different. The features of the three sisters are substantial, perfectly chiseled. They have wide, square chins, and ski-slope noses, and almond-shaped eyes that slant upward slightly at the edges. They are beautiful. My grandmother is lovely as well, but her features are thin and birdlike, her blue eyes almost too large for her face. They are luminous, even in black-and-white.