Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  I watched as my dad put his arm around Ceecee. “Meaning . . . ?”

  “It’s on the verge of collapse. One strong storm could be the end of it. If you’re planning on salvaging any part of it, you’d have to do it soon. Everything would need to be replaced—walls, ceilings, floors, supports. Roof. Everything. To restore would mean a complete gut and rebuild. Meaning it would be more of a replica than a restoration.” Meghan shook her head sadly. “And it wouldn’t be cheap to do it the right way.” Her voice held a warning tone to it when she said “the right way.”

  Ceecee pressed her forehead into my father’s shoulder, and he continued to hold on to her.

  Meghan smiled hopefully. “It’s a beautiful piece of land and a great site for a house if you want to rebuild it. You may or may not be aware that the Library of Congress has drawings, plans, and other records for many old houses in South Carolina and the rest of the country. I know they have an architectural rendering and a landscape survey prepared after 1933 that you might find helpful if you decide to go that route.”

  Bennett moved to stand closer to me. “Are there any other options? Besides selling to developers?”

  Meghan made a face as if he’d just asked her to saw off her leg with a dull penknife. “That should be your last resort. The National Forest Service might be interested in acquiring the land without the house to protect the area from development. They did that with Tibwin Plantation in McClellanville back in the nineties. Sadly, with all the forest fires out west, the Forest Service is a little strapped for cash right now. And, of course, Tibwin had a house that was preservable, which made it more valuable to the NFS, although between you and me, I think they’d prefer the house to just collapse and go away. It’s an expense and responsibility they’re not really prepared to deal with. So they wouldn’t want the ruins of Carrowmore. They’d just want the land it stands on to protect it from development.” She looked genuinely disappointed. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

  We all thanked her and said good-bye, watching her slip out of her boots into cute kitten heels before she got into her Jeep and drove away.

  “So, what do we do next?” I asked.

  Everyone looked at the house, with its blackened roof and sagging porch, as if it held all the answers. Ceecee said, “We wait for your mother to wake up, and we let her know the options. And then we’ll collectively make a decision on how to move forward.”

  I nodded, and then we all said good-bye before piling into our respective vehicles for the ride back into town.

  “Well, that’s not exactly what we wanted to hear,” Bennett said.

  I liked his use of the word “we,” yet it couldn’t rouse me enough from my despondency to respond.

  “I’m guessing the developers already knew all that before they even approached Ceecee. Still, I’m glad we looked into it.”

  I managed a nod before turning to look out the window.

  “At least we have the information now to present to your mother when she wakes up so we can make an informed decision as to what we should do. Not that we have to do anything, really. We can do nothing, and wait for Carrowmore to collapse. And then hold on to the land forever, rebuild, or sell. Whatever it is, we certainly don’t have to decide today.”

  I figured his continued use of “we” had to be on purpose, so I faced him, unable to suppress a smile. “‘We,’ huh?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I kind of feel involved. Our families have been connected for a long time.”

  I continued to look at him as his gaze remained fixed on the road.

  “And, you know. Us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”

  “True,” I said, recalling something from the night he’d walked me home. I sat up. “You said something about finding some newspapers or pictures in your mother’s attic. Something to do with Carrowmore.”

  “You’re remembering our conversation from that night?” His cheek creased in a grin.

  I crossed my arms but resisted the impulse to jut out my chin. “Not all of it. But I do remember that part.”

  He glanced at me, his expression making it clear that he didn’t completely believe me. “It was a few things that belonged to my grandfather. Wasn’t really sure you’d be interested.”

  I thought of the broken porch swing at Carrowmore, the sense of loss and disconnect I’d felt. I didn’t want to move forward without questioning the past, which was how, up until now, I’d lived my life. “I’d like to see what’s in those boxes, if that’s all right.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Well, that can be negotiated.”

  “Negotiated? You already told me I could see them.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you’d take me up on my offer.” His lips quirked upward.

  “You want me to pay you?”

  “In a manner of speaking. The Shag Festival is coming up on May first. Go with me.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know, you might not be here, but if you are, you should go with me. You’re the best shag dancer in Georgetown.”

  I glared at him.

  “No, really—I’m being serious. You were always the best dancer. Ask Mabry. Or my mother. Anyone, really.”

  I remembered the backyard barbecues at the Lynches’, the Tams or the Drifters playing loudly from the stereo, and myself, Mabry, Bennett, their parents, and whoever else was there dancing the shag on the patio. Sometimes even my parents would join us, and that would be the best part of all. Until that moment in Bennett’s truck, I’d forgotten about our impromptu dance contests, the smell of a Lowcountry boil, the taste of my first beer behind the house with Mabry and Bennett. Those evenings had been some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

  Slightly mollified, I let out a slow sigh. “Fine. If I’m here, I’ll go with you. Can I see the boxes now?”

  He grinned, greatly pleased with himself. “Actually, how about Sunday? I know my mother is planning on asking you to supper. And then you can tell me what else you remember from our conversation the other night.”

  I picked up the red shirt that had fallen to the floor and threw it at him, then turned to look out the window so he couldn’t see me smile.

  twenty

  Ceecee

  2010

  Ceecee knelt in front of the bed full of alyssum and zinnias, ruthlessly yanking out weeds and occasionally a flower stem, her vision watery from what she was telling herself was perspiration. She kept going over the scene earlier in the day at Carrowmore, of hearing what was, essentially, a death sentence. But not just for the house. A death sentence for so much more.

  She heard Bitty behind her before she smelled the ever-present scent of cigarette smoke. When Bitty drew in a raspy breath to speak, Ceecee cut her off. “You really need to stop smoking. Your breathing sounds like an old mule that’s pulled a hay wagon uphill for a mile.”

  “And you would know what that sounds like,” Bitty barked out.

  Sitting back on her heels, Ceecee snorted. “I’ve been on more farms in my life than you have.” She tried to stand but realized that she couldn’t quite get her knees to agree with her. Glaring up at her friend, she said, “No human being should sound that way unless they’ve already got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

  “You can’t get up, can you?”

  Without a word, Ceecee held out her hand and allowed Bitty to pull her up, wheezing and coughing as she did.

  They stood looking at each other, both breathing heavily, until Ceecee walked a few feet toward the wrought-iron bench under the branches of an elderly magnolia tree that faced the river and sat down, indicating the seat next to her for Bitty. Bitty hesitated briefly, then sat. She opened her mouth to speak but was overcome with a coughing fit.

  Ceecee studied her old friend
closely in the tree’s shade, really seeing her for the first time in years and noticing the sunspots and deep lines embedded in Bitty’s cheeks, the thin lips and even thinner eyebrows, and the pale spots showing through the bright red hair. It was easy to avoid one’s own reflection, or not to wear glasses when applying makeup so that the illusion of still looking youthful could be maintained. As she’d grown older, Ceecee had learned one unyielding fact: Lying to yourself was always so much easier than facing the truth. But as she stared close up into Bitty’s face in the unadulterated light, there could be no denying it. They were old.

  “Please tell me you’ve been to a doctor about that cough.”

  “Of course I have. I’m not an idiot. I had a nasty bout of acute bronchitis, but it’s much better now. I’m on antibiotics and he gave me an inhaler and I’m using both, if that makes you happy. You should have heard me before.”

  “Did he tell you to stop smoking?”

  “Is the sky blue?” Bitty countered, her gaze challenging.

  Ceecee knew it would be pointless to continue the conversation, so she sat silently, staring at the river. This place here in her garden overlooking the Sampit River had always been her refuge, the place where she could hide from the world. But after this morning, she wasn’t sure there was any place left to hide.

  “So, what’s going to happen with Carrowmore?”

  Ceecee shrugged. “I don’t know—although it doesn’t seem we have as much of a choice as we thought.” She was silent, watching as a sailboat slowly made its way toward the harbor, a young woman in an orange bikini lowering a sail. It reminded Ceecee of the yellow two-piece bathing suit Margaret had let her wear on their trip to Myrtle Beach when they were eighteen, and how scandalous she had thought it was.

  “Is that why you’re so angry?” Bitty asked. “Because you can’t just forget it’s there like you have been doing for more than thirty years?”

  Ceecee continued staring at the river. “You’ve always been so good at reading my mind. I wish you’d just quit.”

  Bitty started to laugh, but the laugh ended in a cough. “I wish I could. Old habit.”

  They sat in silence, watching the river flow in the same direction it always had, a ribbon connecting the past with the present, and a reminder that time moved on regardless of whether you wanted it to.

  “I’ve wanted to forget,” Ceecee said. “That horrible night. It’s why I never go back. I don’t want to see the ruins. In my memory, Carrowmore is still whole and freshly painted, with a swing and rocking chairs on the wide porch.”

  “And Margaret is still with us,” Bitty said quietly.

  Ceecee nodded. “Yes. To me, sometimes the house is Margaret, and if I tell myself that she’s fine and well and at Carrowmore, I don’t have to remember the night of the fire.”

  Bitty faced her, her eyes unreadable. “You were asleep for most of it.” Bitty’s gaze didn’t leave Ceecee’s face.

  Ceecee nodded slowly, recalling herself saying that more than she recalled the actual event. But that made sense, her doctors told her. They said her brain had blocked out most of her memories of that night, and they wouldn’t return until she was ready to remember everything. And she still wasn’t. She’d been found with her body thrown over Ivy’s on the front lawn while the fire burned behind them. They told her she’d saved Ivy’s life. She glanced away from Bitty’s probing stare. “I dream about that night sometimes. I hear Ivy crying, and I smell burning wood and feel the heat of the flames. And then . . . nothing.”

  “But you still feel the guilt.”

  Ceecee jerked her gaze from the river to stare at her friend. “Guilt? For what happened to Margaret?”

  Bitty slowly shook her head. “No. For what happened after she died.”

  Ceecee’s head hurt. “That’s the thing that scares me, Bitty. I never did. But I still miss her. Every single day.”

  “I know. And I’m glad you don’t feel any guilt. Because I think I have enough of that for both of us.”

  “What are you talking about? You weren’t there.”

  Bitty stood, bracing herself on the arm of the bench. “You say you don’t like to go to Carrowmore because you like to think of it as still whole, with Margaret still there. You know what I see in my head when I think about it? I see the ruin exactly as it is and as it should be. It’s a burned-out shell. A perfect reminder of ill-advised dreams and wishes and broken promises. The only reason I don’t go and set a match to the rest of it is because of Larkin. In my dreams, I like to think of her as the salvation not just for the house, but for all of us.”

  Ceecee remained seated, Bitty’s bitter words like dull arrows pricking her skin before ricocheting to the ground. “You never told me you felt that way. All these years, and you’ve never told me.”

  “Because you never want to see the ugly parts of people, so you pretend they’re not there. You insist on seeing everyone, with very few exceptions, as perfect with good intentions. Frankly, it’s been exhausting protecting you from a lot of ugliness, and I’m simply not going to be around forever to keep doing it, so it’s time you start figuring it out yourself.”

  Ceecee stood so fast that her head swam for a moment. “I’m going to forgive you for saying that because you’re old and sick and feeling crotchety. But none of that tells me why you feel guilty about Margaret’s death.”

  Bitty pressed the palm of her hand against her chest as if it might help her breathe. She took a deep breath through rattling lungs and said, “Because on that day at Carrowmore when we heard about Reggie enlisting, I put another ribbon in the tree.”

  The chirping of the insects and a cicada’s whirring in the magnolia tree suddenly seemed to stop. All Ceecee could hear was the blood rushing in her head and Bitty’s breath wheezing in and out of her chest. “What did it say?”

  Bitty closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s funny, the things we remember, isn’t it? I remember each and every word, so much that I sometimes dream about it.” She took two rattling breaths. “I wrote, ‘I wish to be there on the day that Margaret Darlington’s bill for the price of a promise broken comes due.’”

  “What broken promise?” Ceecee asked, although she already knew. She’d called it so many other things so she’d never have to call it that. Which meant, of course, that Bitty was right.

  She reached for Bitty’s hand, and they sat down on the bench again, their fingers entwined, their hands papery and veined, yet still strong and capable. They sat for a long while, watching the sun dip in the sky, and the river skimming past them as it always had, finding its inevitable end in the deep waters of the Atlantic.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ceecee

  1951

  It had been a month since they’d learned of Reggie’s enlisting. The days had grown longer and hotter, the mosquitoes more plentiful. Ceecee would normally have been miserable, as all bloodsucking insects had always loved her, and the humidity made her hair frizz. But she barely noticed. Even her mother had commented on her bright mood. As long as she didn’t slack on her chores, her mother left her alone to daydream about Boyd and their future together. Ceecee’s parents had both met Boyd during his earlier visit and, given that they had invited him to supper twice during his stay, had apparently approved of him.

  Although there was nothing official yet, old Dr. Griffith had invited Boyd to work in his practice to meet the existing patients and to take over gradually. It helped that Boyd was a veteran, since the doctor had lost his only son in Guadalcanal. Boyd was staying temporarily with the doctor and his wife in the carriage house on their property, and they had offered it to him as a permanent place to live should he be interested in staying long-term.

  All of this meant that Ceecee had started thinking about her wedding gown, and what flowers she’d have at the service, and how her father could walk her down the aisle and perform
the ceremony. Surely that had been done before? The only part she couldn’t decide on was who would be her maid of honor; she switched between Bitty and Margaret with almost the same frequency as the turning of the tides. She had time to decide, she knew—she didn’t even have a ring yet. But every single night she dreamed of her wedding day, and even the shadow of Margaret’s misery couldn’t dim her happiness. It was odd to have their positions inverted, and even if she wasn’t given any satisfaction over the reversal in fortune, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit it was exhilarating to be the lucky one for a change. Still, she remembered the promise to be friends, come what may, and she’d been raised to believe that a promise made was a promise kept, so she tried. She really tried, no matter how hard Margaret made it.

  Margaret had finally shared the contents of Reggie’s letter. Although it had been filled with vows of his undying love for her, he was enlisting to do his duty, to build a better future not only for him and Margaret but also for the country. If she would still have him when the war was over, he would come back to her and they would be married.

  By the time she’d read the letter, he’d already been shipped out for basic training at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. He’d given her an address to write to and promised he’d wait for her letter before writing again to her. He didn’t want to bother her if she didn’t wish to hear from him. As far as Bitty and Ceecee knew, Margaret had not written.

  On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Bitty and Ceecee walked slowly down the sidewalk on Front Street with Margaret tucked protectively between them. She wore sunglasses and a hat to protect her skin from the sun, but neither hid the fatigue under her eyes or the sallowness of her skin. Even her arm where it was linked with Ceecee’s felt like thin flesh against bone.

  Mrs. Darlington had tried tempting her daughter with a trip to Paris and London, or even a short shopping trip to Charleston, but Margaret showed no interest. As a last resort, Mrs. Darlington had asked Bitty and Ceecee to take her to downtown Georgetown—anything to get Margaret out of the house and into the sunshine.