by Karen White
“I’m not one of your horses who needs rescuing,” I shouted over my shoulder without slowing down. He didn’t say anything but I knew he was watching until I’d turned the corner of the house.
I paused in the drive, putting my hands on my knees until I could catch my breath. I stood again in front of the sundial and the words suddenly formed meaning. Time flies, but not memories.
I gulped in the hot, humid air, my heart beating fast and my knee throbbing. But none of those things could take my breath away as quickly as my newfound knowledge had, or my sudden desperate need to prove myself wrong.
CHAPTER 12
Helen knocked on her grandmother’s sitting room door and then entered. “Are you done resting?”
Lillian’s voice was tinged with exhaustion. “It’s a hopeless cause. I don’t know why I bother. My back and my hands would rather keep me awake and restless.”
Helen moved to where she knew her grandmother’s chaise longue sat near the window. She felt for a nearby sofa and sat down, sensing by the lack of warmth hitting her skin that the plantation shutters were closed tight. “Can I get you your medicine?”
Lillian let out an uncharacteristic snort. “All they do is make me groggy and stupid and Odella says I can’t have anything to drink when I take one, so what’s the point? I’m miserable whether I take them or not, but if I don’t I can at least find a little relief with my wine.”
“I’m sorry,” Helen said, and meant it. Despite Lillian’s outwardly cool demeanor and her strict code of acceptable behavior, she’d essentially been the only mother Helen had ever known. Although Lillian had never been demonstrative, Helen had always felt loved by her grandmother. And it had been Lillian, and not Helen’s own mother, who’d slept in a cot in her bedroom when she’d been sick with fever, and had held her hand when her sight had gone to let her know that even though it was dark, she wasn’t alone.
Helen sat back in the sofa, her arm brushing papers, and felt one slide to the floor and land on her foot. Leaning over, she picked it up and handed it to her grandmother. “Sorry, Malily—I knocked this off of your stack of papers. I don’t want to replace it in the wrong spot.”
Lillian didn’t say anything, nor did she take the paper Helen held. “Malily? Are you all right?”
Lillian’s voice sounded strong but distant when she spoke, and Helen pictured her looking out the other way, toward the shuttered window. “I sat in the garden for a spell this morning with Earlene. We talked about the merits of moonflowers among other things. And all that talk about my garden reminded me of an old friend of mine who taught me everything I know about gardening. Made me nostalgic enough that I pulled out my scrapbook pages from when I was younger. The ones I’d given to Susan.”
Helen withdrew her arm but held on to the page in her hand, a question already forming in her head. “What happened to the cover? And the spine?”
Malily gave a throaty chuckle. “Well, that’s part of the story right there. There were three of us, you see. Three friends and one scrapbook we shared. When we . . . parted company, we each took our pages.”
Helen placed the single page on her lap and smiled to herself, recalling the pages Odella had seen on Earlene’s kitchen table. “You never told me any of this before.”
She heard the cushions sigh as Lillian moved on the chaise. “No, I haven’t. I always thought that I should share it with your mother first, but I don’t think that’s going to happen now.”
Helen jerked her head with surprise as she felt the old woman’s hands clutching at hers. She grasped them, feeling the papery skin, the misshapen joints, and for the first time saw her grandmother as an old woman instead of the heroine of Helen’s childhood.
Malily continued. “I thought that by giving these pages to Susan along with all the other family papers, she could prepare the story in logical sequence, even make it easier to understand how all the pieces fit together. But I didn’t realize how . . . fragile Susan was. It was a mistake.”
Helen clutched her grandmother’s hands tighter. “None of us understood what was going on in Susan’s head, not even Tucker. She seemed so upbeat and excited about being our family’s official chronicler. No one expected her . . .” Helen stopped for a moment. “What Susan did was her own doing. None of it was your fault.”
Lillian disengaged her hands. “You need to reserve your judgment, Helen.” She heard the throaty laugh again before her grandmother spoke. “I should have known that Annabelle would always have the last word.” A heavy sigh filled the room like damp fog and then everything was quiet. Helen thought for a moment that her grandmother had fallen asleep and then Malily spoke again.
“The scrapbook was Annabelle’s idea. She used to say that it was our duty as women to pass on our stories to our daughters. But I don’t think she had any more success with that than I did.”
“But there’s still time, Malily. And you’ve got me.”
“Not too much time, Helen, which is why I think Annabelle’s words won’t leave me alone. And I do have you, don’t I? You’ve never been one to rush to judgment, unlike your mother.”
Helen lifted her head. “I’m a good listener. Maybe you can tell me your story. And I can tell my mother when she’s ready to hear it.”
“She already knows parts of it. I shared it with her too soon, I think. But she was almost transfixed by the angel charm I’ve always worn—that’s part of the story, you see. And I thought that if I told her the story of the necklace, she’d want to learn the rest. And she did—to a point. She asked me to stop before I’d reached the end, so I did.”
“Is that why she left? Because she didn’t want to hear the rest?”
She heard her grandmother swallow. “There are many reasons why your mother left, Helen—and none of them have anything to do with you or Tucker. I think mostly it was because she couldn’t live with someone who’d never confused guilt with regret.”
Helen smiled softly, turning her face toward her grandmother. “Like that story you used to tell us as children—about the boy who gets caught stealing candy and feels guilt over breaking the law but doesn’t regret trying. I always got the impression that you didn’t think the little boy was all bad. That he learned his lesson and wasn’t going to do it again, but that he should have been proud to have had the courage to at least try.”
Lillian’s voice held the hint of a smile. “You and Tucker both understood that, but your mother couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. We all know that stealing is bad. But what if the little boy was stealing to feed his starving family? Does that make him bad? Or just his actions? And does the end justify the means? Your mother’s been traipsing all over the world ever since, trying to find the right answer. The one truth.”
Helen cupped her chin in her palms as she leaned forward, her elbows braced on her legs. “But there isn’t just one.”
“And there you go,” said Lillian triumphantly. “But some people live their lives as if there could only be one right answer. Life would be easier that way, I imagine. But it wouldn’t be better.”
Helen closed her eyes and tried to picture her mother, but found she no longer could. “Then tell me. Tell me your story.” She reached her hand behind her where the loose pages lay on the sofa. “Read these to me so I can understand. And maybe one day I’ll be able to explain it to my mother. Or my daughters.”
Lillian was quiet for a long time, her breathing slow and steady. Helen didn’t move, knowing she hadn’t fallen asleep but was searching for an answer. But it brought back memories of the first time her mother had gone away, when her mother was packing her clothes into a suitcase. Despite her mother’s insisting that her leaving had nothing to do with Helen, Helen hadn’t been convinced. Her answer had haunted Helen for a very long time. Some things are best kept tucked inside yellowed newspapers in the attic of our memories. And then her mother had gone back to her packing, promising to be back soon, and that next time she would take Helen and her brother with them. But the next time
Helen had been blind and Tucker wouldn’t leave her.
Lillian’s voice brought Helen back to the present. “I suppose it’s time, then.” Helen felt her grandmother take the paper from her lap. Then she took a deep breath, and after a brief pause, she began to tell her story.
“There were three of us: Josephine Montet, Annabelle O’Hare, and me. We weren’t friends at first. Josie and Annabelle were—Josie’s mother worked for Dr. O’Hare and Josie lived in the housekeeper’s room with her mother and they’d known each other since they were small—and they were only two years apart in age. I was a year younger than Josie—three years younger than Annabelle—but I was allowed to tag along most of the time when my father and Dr. O’Hare had business together and they pretty much ignored me. Until we bought the necklace.”
She explained to Helen how they’d seen the necklace in the store window and had purchased it together, making a pact to share it and record in a scrapbook what they did while they had the necklace. And then they would add a charm to the necklace that they had named Lola.
Helen sat up. “That’s where your angel charm comes from—the one you used to always wear around your neck on a chain.”
“And still do.” Malily’s voice was tired. “This is the only charm with a duplicate because we all bought one when we started. It’s all I have left of the necklace.”
Helen opened her mouth, ready to tell Malily about the necklace Odella had seen in Earlene’s cottage, but stopped. It had become obvious to her that Malily wasn’t the only one hiding secrets. But Helen needed to find out more, and she knew that neither woman would be forthcoming if they suspected Helen knew more than they were willing to tell her.
Malily continued. “We each had the book for four months during the year, then passed it on to the next person. That meant we had to chronicle the most important part of our lives for the past year. We kept it for ten years—and we were supposed to have one entry for each of those years. But I hated to write—so I didn’t always do it, which made Annabelle mad. But I always added a charm—sometimes more than one, which also made Annabelle mad. She was always about following the rules.” She was silent for a moment. “When we had our . . . falling-out, we destroyed the scrapbook, each taking our own pages. Josie took hers up to NewYork with her,Annabelle kept hers, and then mine are here. I’ve somehow misplaced my earliest pages, so mine don’t start until nineteen thirty-two when I was thirteen. But that’s really where my story starts, anyway.”
Lillian paused and Helen waited, afraid to move or say anything in case her grandmother changed her mind. Finally, Malily said, “Would you please get me a glass of water? The pitcher and a glass are on the table by my bed. While you do that, I’ll gather up the pages and decide on the best place to start.”
Helen moved with methodic slowness, not wanting to spill the water or trip and make her task take longer than she wanted. She crossed the room, counting her footsteps as she’d done since childhood and stopped in front of the chaise. After her grandmother took the glass from her, Helen sat back on the sofa and made herself comfortable, prepared to listen for as long as her grandmother was willing to talk. And then Malily began to read.
May 10, 1932
I’ve been sick for two weeks. My head aches and my stomach aches and even my teeth ache. I pretty much hurt all over and I’ve got a bad fever. I heard the doctor say the word influenza and my papa took him out of the room so fast I could almost think that he hadn’t even been here! But I am feeling a little better today, so I thought I’d write in this scrapbook if only because I know Annabelle will check to see if I did it when it’s her turn.
It’s boring lying up here in my room by myself. Nobody’s allowed to visit me and I can’t even think about riding. Papa said if he caught me near the stables he’d sell my mare, Cimarron. I know he’s not serious, of course, but I won’t go near Cimarron. I feel too weak to even think about climbing up on her back again.
May 15, 1932
I feel much better now but Papa refuses to let me leave my bed. All of this lying about has made me so weak I can barely stand. I miss my horse so much—I’m wondering if she’ll even recognize me when we’re finally together again.
I’m still not allowed to have visitors, but Annabelle came today with her father. Dr. O’Hare convinced Papa that I needed a companion to help me convalesce and that I was no longer contagious. Of course I knew it was Annabelle’s idea—she always has big ideas—and when her father left her for a long stay, I thought we’d spend the time together in my room with her fetching water for me and fluffing my pillows as I got better.
My excitement didn’t last long because as soon as her father left, she yanked me out of my bed and forced me down to the English boxwood garden that my mother had installed. Annabelle said it was uninspired and that she was going to teach me how to garden. She actually gave me a little shovel and made me dig holes in the dirt. I told her I was too weak from being sick, so she said I could sit while I dug.
I think the garden now looks the same—but now the ground cover is gone and there’re just holes with seeds all over the place. Annabelle says that’s part of the garden’s secret: that with love and patience we’ll be rewarded with a little piece of heaven here on earth. To give me some encouragement, she’s going to bring cuttings (whatever that is!) with her the next time she comes.
We worked the entire time and maybe it was spending time outdoors or the actual physical work, but I did feel better by the time Annabelle left. She said that there are no troubles in life that can’t be sorted out or solved by spending time in a garden. I didn’t admit this to her, but I think I’m looking forward to finding out if this is true.
Lillian stopped reading and Helen smiled. “That was nineteen thirty-two so you were thirteen years old. That’s the same age I was when you first dragged me kicking and screaming into the garden shed and gave me a trowel.” She leaned forward. “I guess that means you found out that what Annabelle told you was true.”
“Yes, I guess I did. And I tried to teach your mother, too, but she wasn’t as good a pupil as you were. You were both unwilling in the beginning, but you seemed to understand very early on the magic of it all. I don’t believe your mother ever did.”
Helen closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the flowers of her first garden, the thrill she’d felt at creating such beautiful life from seed, dirt, and water. She opened them again. “Can you read more?”
She listened as Lillian rustled pages. “I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t write anything for a while—my next entry doesn’t happen until four years later when I was seventeen. I don’t suppose I thought those other years were worthy of recording, and I still think I was right. The awkward adolescent years were difficult to live with while I was going through them. I can’t imagine that I’d want to relive them in the pages of a scrapbook.”
“I wish you had. I’d like to hear them.”
“Yes, well, maybe you’ll find this next entry makes up for the lack of earlier pages. My seventeenth year was full of excitement.” With a brief pause, Lillian began to read.
June 4, 1936
Tonight is my come-out party. Because of the “financial troubles” Papa is always talking about these days, I won’t be having the ball at the Oglethorpe Club like he always talked about. Instead, we are having a formal dinner dance right here at Asphodel Meadows with a guest list of only one hundred. I told him not to bother, that the heat will be atrocious even with all the windows thrown open in the ballroom and dining room. And besides, I don’t need a come-out ball. I’ve already met the man I want to marry, so exposing me to the marriage market is rather moot. Nevertheless, the announcement of my debut was made in the paper on Mother’s Day and I will be expected at various entertainments up until New Year’s Eve, when I will be officially declared “out” in Savannah society and officially marriageable. I only wish that I could be as excited as Papa is.
When Annabelle learned that I was going to make my debu
t (she’s three years older than me but her papa is getting paid in chickens and eggs these days and couldn’t afford a debut season—which was fine with her because, in her words, with the state of the world she had bigger fish to fry right now than finding a husband), she snuck me a copy of The HardboiledVirgin by Frances Newman. It’s a book that pokes fun at debutantes and Papa would horsewhip me if he knew I’d read it, and would make sure I never saw Annabelle again, but I laughed and laughed while I read it as I recognized me and my fellow debs.
Annabelle helped me select my signature flowers, which I will be wearing on my wrist and which will decorate all the tables. She chose calla lilies because of my name and because they symbolize regalness—which made me laugh, but they are such beautiful flowers. Then she chose gladiolus, which represents strength of character. Papa thought pink and white would be appropriate choices, but Annabelle and I also included bright purple to the order to make a statement. She’s brilliant with flowers, and I’ve been eagerly learning everything she knows so that one day, when I’m an old matron with twenty grandchildren at my feet, I can work my own garden and be admired all over Georgia for the beauty of my flowers.
Gladiolus is the flower I would have chosen for Annabelle if our roles had been reversed. She has become her father’s helper as he services the poor, regardless of the color of their skin. He has made many enemies of his own kind for this, and I know it will forever hurt Annabelle’s chances of making a good marriage, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She talks about the inequalities in our society—much of which she’s learned from Freddie, I’m afraid—but she makes actions out of her words. I’ve only had to lie for her once—when she was late coming back from a meeting with Freddie—and I did it so well that I think that’s what she meant by strength of character. I didn’t have the courage to tell her that I lied for Freddie, whose punishment would have been much more severe than a father’s disapproval. I’ve seen Papa going to his “political meetings,” which always seem to coincide with a lynching, and my blood runs cold thinking about the trouble Freddie could cause for not only himself but for Josie and Justine.