by Lisa Wingate
May takes the photo and holds it in her shaky hands. Her study seems endless. I have to force myself not to prod. What’s going on in her mind? What is she thinking of? What is she remembering?
“Yes. The three of us—Lark, Fern, and me. Bathing beauties.” She gives a quick, wicked giggle and taps Trent’s hand. “I think your grandmother worried a bit whenever we came around. But she needn’t have. Trent loved her dearly. We were so grateful to him for helping us to find one another. Edisto was a special place for us. It was where we were first reunited.”
“Was that where you met my grandmother?” I crave a simple answer to all of this. One I can live with. I don’t want to find out that my grandmother was somehow paying penance for our family’s involvement with the Tennessee Children’s Home Society—that my grandfathers were among the many politicians who protected Georgia Tann and her network, who turned a blind eye to atrocities because powerful families did not want her crimes revealed or their own adoptions nullified. “Was that where the two of you became friends?”
Her finger traces the white frame on the photo. She’s looking at my grandmother. If only I could climb inside her mind or, better yet, inside the picture. “Yes, yes it was. We’d crossed paths at society events before I ever knew her, though I will say, I had a completely wrong impression of her prior to making her acquaintance. She grew to be a dear friend. And she was so very generous to loan my sisters and me the cottage on Edisto from time to time, so we could get away together. That photo was taken during one of our trips. Your grandmother joined us there. It was a lovely late-summer day on the beach.”
The explanation soothes me, and I’d like to stop there, but it doesn’t explain why the words Tennessee Children’s Home Society were on the typewriter ribbon in my grandmother’s cottage…or why Trent Turner, Sr., was in communication with my grandmother.
“Trent’s grandfather left an envelope for my Grandma Judy,” I say. “Judging by her daybook, I think she was making plans to pick it up before she got so sick. Inside the envelope, there were documents from the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. Health assessments and surrender papers for a baby boy named Shad Arthur Foss. Why would she have wanted those?”
I’ve caught May off guard now. There is more to this story, but she’s biting down hard on it.
Her eyelids flutter and descend. “I’m so very…so very…tired all of a sudden. All this…this talking. It’s more than I usually…do…in a week.”
“Was my grandmother involved with the Tennessee Children’s Home Society? Was my family involved?” If I don’t find out today, I have a feeling I never will.
“You’d have to ask her about that.” May presses into the pillows, draws an exaggerated breath.
“I can’t. I told you that. She isn’t able to remember things. Please, whatever it is, just give me the truth. Arcadia. Does it have anything to do with this?” My grip tightens around the bed rails.
Trent reaches across and lays a hand over mine. “Maybe it’s better if we quit here for today.”
But I can see May withdrawing into herself, the story vanishing like chalk art on a rainy day.
I scramble after the running colors. “I just want to know if my family was…responsible in some way. Why did my grandmother have such an intense interest in this?”
May pats along the railing until she finds my fingers. She squeezes them reassuringly. “No, of course not, dear. Don’t fret. At one time, Judy was helping me to write my story. That’s all. But I thought better of it. I’ve found in life that bygones are a bit like collard greens. They tend to taste bitter. It’s best not to chew on them overly long. Your grandmother was a fine writer, but it was so difficult for her to hear about our time in the home. Her talent was meant for happier tales, I believe.”
“She was helping you write your story? That’s all?” Could this really be the sum total of it? No big family secret, just Grandma Judy using her abilities to help a friend, to shed light on an old injustice, the effects of which still lingered? A sense of relief washes through me.
It all makes perfect sense.
“That’s everything there is,” May confirms. “I wish I could tell you more.”
That last part tickles my senses like a stray puff of smoke from a fire that’s supposedly been put out. Witnesses who aren’t telling the truth have a hard time stopping on an absolute yes or no.
What does she wish she could tell me? Is there more?
May finds Trent’s hand, squeezes it, then lets go. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather. He was a godsend to many of us. Before the state’s adoption records were opened in ’96, we had little means of discovering where our relatives might be—who we really were. But your grandfather had his ways. Without him, Fern and I would never have found our sister. They’re both gone now, of course—Lark and Fern. I would appreciate it if you’d refrain from disturbing their families, even so…or mine, for that matter. We were young women with lives and husbands and children by the time we were brought together again. We chose not to interfere with one another. It was enough for each of us to know that the others were well. Your grandfather understood that. I hope you will respect our wishes.” She opens her eyes and turns my way. “Both of you.” Suddenly, all signs of exhaustion have faded. The look she gives me is intense, demanding.
“Of course,” Trent says. But I can tell it’s not Trent’s answer she’s after.
“I didn’t set out to bother anyone.” Now I’m the one tap-dancing around the issue…which is that I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep. “I just wanted to know how my grandmother was involved.”
“And now you do, so all’s well.” She punctuates this with a resolute nod. I’m not sure which one of us she’s trying to sell on this—me or herself. “I have made peace with my past. It is a story I hope never to tell again. As I said earlier, I thought better of sharing the whole thing with your grandmother even. Why release such ugliness into the present? We all have difficulties. Mine may be different than some, but I have come through them, as did Lark and Fern and, I would assume, though we were never able to find him, my brother as well. I prefer to hope it was so. He was my one true reason for wanting to have the story written, years ago when I coaxed your grandmother into helping me with the project. I suppose I thought a book or a newspaper article might somehow reach him if he was still out there, and if he was one of the many who’d simply vanished under the care of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, it would provide a memorial for him. Perhaps for my birth parents as well. There are no stones to lay flowers upon. None that I would know how to find, in any case.”
“I’m so…I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.”
Nodding, she closes her eyes again, shutting me out. “I should rest now. Soon enough, they’ll come around to poke me, or prod me, or haul me off to that infernal physical therapy room. Honestly, I’m almost ninety years old. What do I need with muscle tone?”
Trent chuckles. “Now you sound like my grandfather. If he’d had his way, we would’ve put him in a jon boat and let him drift off down the Edisto River.”
“That seems perfectly lovely. Would you be so kind as to arrange the boat? And then I’ll find my way home to Augusta and float away down the Savannah.” She closes her eyes, smiling a bit. Within moments, her breaths lengthen, and her eyelids flutter in their pleated frames. The smile remains. I wonder if she is once again that little girl drifting on the muddy waters of the Mississippi aboard the shantyboat her father built.
I try to imagine having a history like hers, having lived two lives, having been, effectively, two different people. I can’t. I’ve never known anything but the stalwart stronghold of the Stafford name and a family who supported me, nurtured me, loved me. What was May’s life really like with her adoptive parents? I realize now, she never really told that part of the story. She only said that, after a heartbreaking stay in the children’s home, she and her sister had been given to a family.
Why did
she stop the story there? Was the rest too private?
Even though she’s answered the question I came here to ask, and she’s requested that we not pry any further, I can’t help wanting to know more.
Trent seems to be feeling the same way. Of course he would. His family history is tied to May’s.
We hover on either side of the bed a few minutes, both of us watching her, lost in our own thoughts. Finally, we take our photographs and reluctantly withdraw from the room. Neither of us speaks until we’re out of earshot.
“I never knew any of that about my grandfather,” he says.
“It must be hard, finding out.”
Trent’s brows fold together. “It’s strange to think that Granddad came through that kind of thing growing up. It makes me admire him all the more—what he did with his life, what kind of person he was. But it also makes me mad. I can’t help wondering what his life would’ve been like if he hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, if his parents hadn’t been poor, if someone had stopped the Tennessee Children’s Home Society before they ever got to him. If he’d grown up with the family he was born into, would he have been the same person? Did he love the river because he came from it or because the father who raised him fished on the weekends? May said he met some of his biological relatives. How did he feel about that? Why didn’t he ever introduce us to any of them? There are so many questions I’d like to ask him now.”
We wander to a stop just outside the front door, both of us reluctant to part ways and move toward our own cars. Our reason for being together has been swept away by May’s story. This should be goodbye, but I feel as if ties now exist and they’re not meant to be severed. “Do you think you’ll try to find any of them—your grandfather’s family?”
Tucking his hands in his jean pockets, he shrugs, looking down at the sidewalk. “It’s so far back, I can’t see the point. They’d be distant relatives of ours by now. Maybe that’s why my grandfather never bothered. I might do some more research, though. I’d like to know details…for Jonah and my nieces and nephews, if nothing else. Maybe they’ll ask someday. I don’t want any more secrets.”
The conversation wanes. Trent lightly runs his tongue along his lip, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite decide whether he should.
When we start up again, we tumble over each other.
“Thank you—”
“Avery, I know we—”
For some reason, we both find it funny. Laughter diffuses the tension a little.
“Ladies first.” He gestures my way, as if he’s ushering the words I’m about to say. I really don’t have the right ones. After what we’ve journeyed through these past few days, it seems almost inconceivable that this is the end. We’re bonded, or at least it feels that way.
Maybe I’m being silly. “I was just going to say thank you for all of this. For not sending me away empty-handed. I know that breaking the promise to your grandfather was hard. I don’t…” Our gazes meet. The rest of the sentence vanishes. My cheeks blaze. I’m once again aware of an unexpected chemistry between us. I thought it was the pull of the mystery, but now the mystery has been solved and the tickle of fascination is still there.
A random thought comes, completely unbidden, entirely unwanted: Maybe I’m making a mistake…with Elliot. And then I realize it’s not as random as it seems. I’ve only been sidestepping the question until now. Are Elliot and I in love, or are we just…in our thirties and feeling like it’s time? Do we have a deep, long-standing friendship, or do we have passion? Even though we’ve been telling ourselves we won’t be ramrodded by our families, have we allowed it to happen anyway? A bit of Leslie’s savvy political coaching comes back to me. Suddenly, it seems like evidence. If we do need to raise your public profile, Avery, a well-timed wedding announcement could fill the bill. Aside from that, it’s not advantageous for a pretty young thing to be single in Washington, no matter how well she minds her body language in social situations. The wolves need to know there’s officially no availability there.
I try to shake off the thought, but it’s like a sandbur in a horse’s forelock. Strands are twisted all around it. I can’t imagine changing course now. Everyone, everyone is expecting an announcement soon. The fallout would be…unthinkable. Honeybee and Bitsy would be heartbroken. Socially and politically, I’d look like a flake, a person who can’t make up her mind, who doesn’t know her own heart.
Am I?
“Avery?” Trent’s eyes narrow, and his head cocks to one side. He’s wondering what I’m thinking.
I can’t possibly tell him. “Your turn.” I don’t trust myself to say anything more, considering the wild track my mind has taken.
“Doesn’t matter now.”
“Not fair. What were you about to say, really?”
He surrenders without too much of a fight. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot that first day. Usually I wouldn’t talk to a customer that way.”
“Well, I wasn’t really a customer, so you’re excused.” He was actually pretty decent about it all, considering how pushy I was. In the end, I’m a Stafford through and through. I tend to assume that I’ll get what I want.
Which, I realize with a shiver, makes me eerily like the adoptive parents who inadvertently funded Georgia Tann’s business. No doubt some were well-meaning people and some of the children really did need homes, but others, especially those who knew that exorbitant fees were being forked over for made-to-order sons and daughters, must have had some idea of what was happening. They just assumed that money, power, and social position gave them the right.
Guilt stains this realization of mine. I think of all the privileges I’ve been given, including a Senate seat practically prepackaged for me.
Do I have a right to any of this, just because of the family I come from?
Trent’s hands tuck awkwardly back into his pockets. He glances at his car, then turns my way again. “Don’t be a stranger. Look me up next time you’re on Edisto.”
The idea strikes me like the sound of the bugle going off at the beginning of a cross-country hunt, when the horse’s muscles tense and I know that if I just loosen the reins, all that potential energy will be unleashed in one direction. “I’d really love to know what else you discover about your grandfather’s family…if you find anything, I mean. No pressure, though. I don’t want to be nosy.”
“Why stop now?”
I cough, pretending to be offended, but we both know it’s the truth. “It’s the lawyer in me. Sorry.”
“You must be a good lawyer.”
“I try to be.” I swell with the sense of pride that comes from having someone else affirm an accomplishment I care about. One I worked for myself. “I like to see things set right.”
“It shows.”
A car pulls up into a nearby parking space. The intrusion reminds both of us that we can’t stand here forever.
Trent takes a last look at the nursing home. “It sounds as if she’s lived quite a life.”
“Yes, it does.” It stings to imagine May, my grandmother’s friend, languishing in this place day after day. No visitors. No one to talk to. Grandkids living far away in a complex blended-family situation. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just a reality. I’ll definitely get in touch with Andrew Moore at the PAC and see if he can suggest any organizations that could help her.
A horn sounds on the street, and nearby a car door closes. The world is still moving, and Trent and I should too.
His chest heaves outward and then relaxes. His breath grazes my ear as he leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks, Avery. I’m glad I know the truth.”
His face lingers against mine. I smell salt air, and baby shampoo, and a hint of pluff mud. Or maybe I’m only imagining it.
“Me too.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says again.
“I won’t.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a woman coming up the sidewalk. White blouse, pumps, b
lack skirt. Her rapid-fire steps feel unwelcome, out of keeping with the day. Heat boils into my cheeks, and I jerk away from Trent so quickly, he gives me a confused look.
Leslie has tracked me down. I should’ve known better than to ask Ian to check on May’s condition for me. Leslie’s chin recedes into her neck as she regards Trent and me. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Actually, I don’t have to imagine it. I can see what she’s thinking. The exchange she just witnessed looked intimate.
“Thanks again, Trent.” I try to diffuse the impression she must have. “Take care on the drive home.” I step back, clasp my hands one over the other.
His eyes search mine. “Yeah,” he mutters, cocking his head to one side and squinting at me. He has no idea someone is standing behind him or that the real world has come rushing in with gale force.
“We’ve been looking for you.” Leslie makes her presence known without taking time for pleasantries. “Cellphone not working this morning, or are you in hiding?”
Trent moves aside, glances from my father’s press secretary to me.
“I was on vacation,” I say. “Everyone knew where I was.”
“On Edisto?” Leslie retorts with a nip of sarcasm. Clearly, I’m not on Edisto now. She directs another suspicious glare in Trent’s direction.
“Yes…well…I…” My mind scrambles. Sweat beads under the cotton floral tourist dress I bought so I’d have something clean to wear today. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, I’m afraid we don’t have time for it. You’re needed at home.” She means to let Trent know we have business to tend to and he’s not welcome here any longer. It works. He gives me one last quizzical look, then excuses himself, saying he has someone he wants to visit while he’s in Aiken.
“Take care, Avery,” he says, and starts toward his car.
“Trent…thanks,” I call after him. He lifts a hand and waves over his shoulder in a way that says, whatever is going on here, he wants no part of it.