by Lynne Gentry
“Nearly every day in the summer.”
It’s as if Charlotte’s willingness to go back in time is freeing up memories fossilized inside my head. My mind skips like a rock across the water and lands on one particularly hot afternoon spent at the river’s edge. The girls are probably five and seven. Hand and hand, Caroline, Charlotte, and I wade into the shallows. Tiny minnows dart around our ankles. We’re splashing and laughing and having a wonderful time when Martin waves to us from high on the bluff. Stripped to his swimming trunks, he’s sporting a rancher’s tan—white chest, brown arms and face—even though he’s completely given up on ranching.
“This is how you do a back flip, ladies.” His teasing shout becomes a rock skipping across the water, a rock that sinks at my feet.
At the exact same instant, Charlotte and I scream, “No!”
Martin’s feet leave the bluff.
Frozen by fear and unable to do a thing, we watch his twisting plunge toward the swimming hole. I brace for his body to shatter. But a split second before impact, Martin’s hands come together and he enters the water slick as a needle threaded through cloth.
“Teach me, Daddy,” Caroline crows when he surfaces twenty yards from us. She splashes to meet him, grabs his hand and says, “I’m going to be just like you,” as they scramble up the canyon wall, I know that she already is. Headstrong. Daring. Reckless.
Caroline dives again and again, determined to master her father’s flip.
But not Charlotte.
My youngest sticks close to me, nursing a mad as hot as mine. It would be several years before Charlotte’s father would entice her to go against my protestations and dive off the bluff.
The first time her lithe body arched in the air and sliced an opening in the river with ease, I knew my baby girl had stopped needing me.
So, after Charlotte’s sister died, I told myself she could handle things on her own. But deep down, I knew this was a lie. Charlotte was as lost as I without Caroline. She tried to come close, but I wouldn’t let her or Martin anywhere near my broken heart. I hadn’t meant to push either of them away, but my grief was a balloon growing bigger and bigger with each labored breath. I prayed for the balloon to pop. To free me from the dark bubble. But it never did.
“Night, Nana.” Aria’s peck to my cheek jerks me back to the present and the unnerving realization that I’d not heard the end of their conversation. “My birthday was...different.”
My mind is swimming. I’d missed Charlotte’s take on those horrible events. How much had she told her? What had she said about me? About her father? I start to ask Aria, but I don’t have the heart to disturb the peace on her face. “Sorry I pointed a gun at your father.”
“I’m glad Mom’s gotten rid of all the shotgun shells.”
I smile. “Me too.” I grab her hand. “You okay?” Her weak shrug gives me no choice but to leave the subject alone. For now. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”
“You’re lucky, Nana.”
“Why’s that?”
“Every day is a new day for you.”
As she trudges up the stairs, I wish she wasn’t right. But I know she is. Soon I won’t be able to sort the past from the present. Alzheimer’s will wash my memories and motivations downstream and far beyond my reach. Asking Charlotte’s forgiveness is something I can no longer put off.
I reach for the pencil beside the sheet music Aria and I have been working on for her Juilliard audition.
With a shaky hand, I make myself a note. I jot Please forgive me, Charlotte right above the appropriately titled Chopin’s Nocturne...nighttime prayers.
Chapter 35
CHARLOTTE
The sky is pinking over the hills. I sip coffee and enjoy the peaceful motion of the porch swing. Everyone else is still in bed. It’s been a couple of weeks since Momma, Teeny, and Ira helped me clean up the mess after Aria’s birthday party and her father’s visit. We’re all still worn out, but to my surprise, Winnie was right. Dealing with the past, while there’s still time, is the only way to ensure this family’s future.
The screen creaks open and Momma steps outside, weak tea sloshing over the edge of the cup in her shaky hand. “Morning, Charlotte.”
There is something very special in the conversations I’ve had with my mother since she stood up for me with James. Momma and I are both going through transitions in our lives. There’s a lot on our minds. But she’s on my side. She’s always been on my side. I know that now. Not that either of us have actually come out and talked about what happened at the birthday party. That would be so unlike the Slocum women. But working to protect Aria from the hurt of my divorce from her father has taught me the fragility of mother-daughter relationships. How easily they can be broken, but also how with a bit of communication and unconditional love, they can be restored. Now, whenever Momma talks, I feel as if she’s trying to tell me something. I don’t want to push her away by trying to apologize for my part in our stand-off and it’s too much to hope that she would ever apologize to me. But I hang on to every word she says. Just in case.
“Morning, Momma.” I pat the swing cushion. “Join me.”
I hold her cup while she settles. We swing in silence, sipping our drinks. Our deep, untroubled breaths seem to sync up as we savor the sounds and smells of the waking countryside. For the first time in years, I’m enjoying having my mother beside me.
My gaze drifts to the bony hand resting on Momma’s thigh. Blue veins snake the swollen knuckles and fingers that I’ve watch roll out a thousand perfect pie crusts. Nicks and scratches litter her paper-thin skin because she insists she’s immune to rose picker’s disease.
Momma points to the line of empty bird nests made of mud and chicken feathers tucked beneath the eaves. “We’re going to have an early fall.”
“How do you know?”
“The swallows have migrated south.”
“Are you sure they didn’t just give up on their war with me?”
She snorts. “They’ll be back.”
“How do you know?”
“By summer’s end, I usually take a broom to them myself.”
“You?”
“I’m not a saint, Charlotte Ann.” She nods toward the stained porch planks. “They make a huge mess.”
“Don’t we all.”
The chains of the swing creak as we swing in silence and sip our hot drinks.
Momma releases a heavy breath. “I should have told you Aria invited her father.”
My heart misses a beat. “A little heads-up would have been nice,” I admit.
“I didn’t think he’d come.” Momma picks at the lint on her robe. “He’s only been here once since you two married.”
Wading in with the wrong response could close this door I’ve waited a long time to have opened. “Can’t argue that.”
“Aria won’t go with him.”
“What if she does?” I work to speak around the lump of fear that’s growing inside of me. “What if I’m not enough?” I rise from the swing and toss my cold coffee over the porch railing. “James has vacation homes. Money for Juilliard. A grand piano in the library.”
“He also has a problem keeping his pants zipped.”
I don’t know what’s scarier, Momma’s rapidly disappearing filter or these occasional bursts of nailing the obvious. I laugh but it’s only to keep from crying. “What if having her father is more important to Aria than what he’s done?”
“I’ve asked myself that a hundred times a day.” Regret weights Momma’s small admission.
“Momma, I didn’t mean—”
“Charlotte, I did the best I could. Kids don’t come with lesson plans. You make your decisions for them as you go along. You do the best you can and pray that one day they’ll have a child of their own who is equally as taxing. And when they grow up and start making mistakes of their own, you pray maybe, just maybe they’ll be able to forgive yours.”
Her empathetic expression spurs me to risk a question. “How did y
ou stand losing them, Momma?”
Sadness sweeps her face. “The loss of a husband and the loss of a child are not the same thing. A child is such a part of you, it’s like you’re breathing the same air. The way they look at you when you come in the door at night. Wrap their arms around your neck when they’ve had a bad dream. Or snuggle in close during a long sermon...” her voice trails off.
I’m hungry for more, but Momma’s engaged gaze has disappeared behind a window. I can only assume she’s slipped into the past. And though I’m curious as to what she sees, I know the day will come when she stays there and never returns to the present.
The old rooster crows and Momma blinks.
She looks at me, and I’m sure it’s me she sees. “Finding a place to belong, then sharing a life with those we love...that is the essence of living.” The smile spreading slowly across her lips is meant to reassure me. “Aria belongs here, with her family, and she knows it.”
Chapter 36
CHARLOTTE
Evan.” I capture the Miller boy’s elbow as he saunters past the piano at the end of class. “I need to speak to you for a few minutes.”
His dark brows furrow, but this kid’s too good at maintaining his cool façade to telecast his full concern. “Whatever.”
I gather the music sheets spread across the piano until all the students have cleared the auditorium. “Have a seat, Evan.”
He picks up a chair, twirls it around, and straddles it with little effort. “What did I do now?”
I pull my laptop out of my bag. “Well, quite a bit actually.” I scroll to my video files. “After I reviewed your video solo submission for your six weeks grade, I took the liberty of sending it to a friend in NYU’s music department.”
He gives me his trademark “whatever” shrug, but his eyes have widened considerably.
“Don’t you want to know what she said?”
“Do I have a choice?”
I shake my head. “They’re having auditions for music scholarships after the holiday break.”
“So?”
“So, if you’re willing to work hard, I think we could have you ready.”
“I ain’t singing in front of anyone.”
“That’s why I had everyone submit videos for their six-week tests. I really wanted to hear you sing. Your voice is...well...frankly one of the best I’ve ever heard.”
“I don’t sing in front of people.”
“Not yet.” I turn the computer screen to him. I tap on the video that displays his ease in the privacy of his bedroom. “But if we start small, I think I can help you conquer your stage fright.”
He shakes his head. “Ain’t happenin’.”
I fish my charm necklace free and hold it out. “See this?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I had a severe case of stage fright. Totally bombed my first piano recital.”
“No way,” he scoffs. “You’re amazing on the keys, Mrs. M.”
“For the longest time, my mother was the only one who knew.” I press the charm between my fingers and drag it back and forth. “She gave me this necklace. Said I should squeeze it tight whenever I’m afraid.”
“You want me to wear a magic necklace?”
“The necklace didn’t give me courage, it was the fact that someone believed in me. Momma’s encouragement helped me believe in myself. I started working harder, gaining more confidence in my skill and my gift. One day, Momma told me she’d invited our Avon lady for a little concert. “I can’t,” I argued.”
“I dare you,” Momma challenged.
“I took a deep breath, went to the piano, and played for her. Although I never made eye contact with LaVera, I’d managed to make it through the entire piece. Unwilling to accept anything less than complete freedom from my fears, my mother set it up for me to play for her Bible school class the very next Sunday. Then she signed me up for band. With each risk I took, my courage grew.” I look him in the eyes. “You sang into a camera. Now, I want you to take one small step and sing just for me.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be late to English.”
If I give him a millimeter of wiggle room, he’ll take it. So, I set the computer on the piano and slid into position on the bench. “I’ve already cleared it with your English teacher.” I start playing the introduction to the song the choir had just rehearsed in class. “Sing. I dare you.”
He lifts his chin. Jaw set. I continue to play. I start singing. By the time I get to the chorus, the music has claimed his soul and set his foot to tapping. He can’t help but join me. His tone is pitch perfect.
“Chest voice,” I coach as I head toward the second verse.
His diaphragm tightens and sends a sound out of his mouth that surprises us both.
I smile. “Stand.” To my joy, he does. “Hang on to the piano.”
His knuckles whiten over the edge of the piano but he doesn’t stop singing.
I drop my voice at the bridge and let him carry the song on his own. “Look at me.”
His face turns toward mine and he rewards me with a small, pleased-at-himself smile. By the time we reach the end of the song, his voice is filling the auditorium.
I lift my hands from the keys. As the music we’d made together slowly dies, I hear Momma’s voice. The one that dared me to get to know my students and what made them tick.
“Well, Evan Miller,” I smile. “You just sang for your first audience. What do you think?”
He slowly shakes his head and peels his hand from the piano. “I didn’t die.”
“I’ll see you after school.” I hand him the excuse note I’d written out ahead of time. “Come prepared to work.”
Chapter 37
CHARLOTTE
The once-over I gave the bathroom this week will have to do. There is still a pile of Ira’s laundry, a dishwasher to reload after Teeny cleared the table last night, and a long grocery list that needs to be filled to keep all of us fed. I don’t mind the extra chores, but it’s hard to juggle caring for everyone, coaching Evan, and finding the time to give the one-on-one attention Momma and Aria deserve.
“You should wear boots, Caroline.” Momma stands on the back porch with a small bouquet of roses she’s clipped. “Snakes are bad this time of year.”
A brisk breeze hails from the north. Summer is not the only season slipping away. Just when our lives were beginning to merge and mesh, Momma’s moments of lucidity have started dropping like the river cypress leaves.
I shake dried grass clippings from a pair of old tennis shoes. “Ari and I have worn a path through the pasture. It’s easy to keep an eye out.”
Since my talk with Aria, I’ve enjoyed the weekly treks the two of us have been making to tend the family gravesite. Spending time at the river has been a double blessing. While it’s been strangely cathartic, it’s also building the relationship bridge with my daughter that I’m beginning to realize I’ll probably never fully reconstruct with my mother.
“Rattlers can be hard to spot.”
“Momma, it’s cooled down enough that I don’t think we have to worry about snakes anymore.” I slip my feet inside the tennis shoes. “Want to come with us?”
“No.”
“Maybe next Saturday then.” I call through the screen door. “Ari, let’s go.”
Aria clomps onto the porch wearing the pair of scuffed cowboy boots Ember gave her for her birthday. “Want to come with us today, Nana?”
“That woman just asked me.” Momma points at me like I’m a stranger.
“It’s me, Charlotte,” I say.
Momma’s face clouds. “I’ve got pies to make.”
“Pies?” Aria shoots me a look that screams she’s getting worse, do something, Mom.
But I’m at a loss. A couple of weeks ago Momma was dispensing sound parenting advice. Making me feel better about my decision to fight James for Aria. She was more herself than she’d been in years. The next day it was like she walked throu
gh some sort of transparent door, locked me out, and threw away the key. I’ve knocked and knocked. It’s looking less and less likely that my mother, the woman who had a quick and ready answer for everything, is ever coming out again. I should have said I’m sorry while she could still remember what that means.
I stick my head inside the screen door. Ira and Teeny are sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. “Ira, Momma’s a little confused.”
Ira pushes back from the table. “We’ve got this, Charlotte.” He steps onto the porch and wraps a gentle arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Sara.”
Momma jerks free of his hold. “No.”
Ira doesn’t let her thorny mood rile him. Instead, he offers his hand and keeps speaking in a soothing voice, “Bojangles is talking trash this morning.”
“Give him a slice of pear!” Momma snaps.
“Done tried that,” Ira says. “This new bird is more temperamental than you.”
“Sweet Moses! Do I have to do everything around here, Martin?” Momma storms past Ira and tromps straight to the bird cage sitting in the kitchen window.
I’m horrified that Momma has taken to calling Ira by my father’s name and I tell him so.
He shrugs. “Been called worse.” He steps inside, turns and waves through the screen. “You girls be careful out there.” His I’ve-got-this nod is a reassurance I’ve come to rely upon more and more.
“Thanks, Ira.”
Hand in hand, Aria and I set off for the big live oak at the far end of the north pasture. The wind sweeping over the bluff can’t blow away the tiny pieces Momma’s decline is chiseling from my heart. How I wish my father and sister were here to help shoulder the burden.
River treks from long ago spring to mind. Secrets were hard to hide out in the open spaces of the pasture. It must have been so difficult for Daddy to keep his bottled up.
I start the weekly conversation with Aria by bringing up school. She asks about Evan and I tell her how excited I am to help him prepare for his audition. I also tell her how pleased I am with the friends she’s making, especially Ember. Aria answers with just enough information to let me know that what she really wants to talk about is my father. The offense I would have felt before by her teenage need for privacy with her friends is gone. In its place is the trust that comes when there’s a healthy bridge, should either of us need to talk.