Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  I felt a hand on my forearm and looked up to see Bitty watching me closely. “Stop,” she said, indicating the nail I’d been flicking back and forth. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” I withdrew my hand to my lap. “I broke it on the cigar box . . .” I stopped, recalling something else Gabriel had said. How my mother had painted the cigar box and shown him the secret compartment. And how she’d just recently made additions to the mural in his shop. I recalled what she’d written in the e-mail to me, the one she’d never sent. I need to talk to you about something important. About something I found out about Carrowmore and the night it burned. I can’t talk about it with Ceecee or Bitty. Just you.

  I stood suddenly, my chair almost crashing to the floor. Bennett caught it and grimaced at the sudden movement, making my heart squish again. But I was too focused on what I was thinking to stop now.

  “The photos Mama said she had for me. I think I know where they are.” I almost ran to the back door, aware of the three of them following me. The back-porch light lit my way to the detached garage. I threw open the door and flipped on all the lights. They were small, leaving the outer edges of the interior in darkness, the hulking shadows of the stacked desk drawers huddled against the walls. My granddaddy’s desk sat in the middle of the space, its thin legs casting shadows across the concrete floor like a spider, waiting to pounce.

  I sat down on the ground in front of it, wishing I’d brought a flashlight. As if reading my mind, Bennett reached into his back pocket for his iPhone, then squatted next to me, shining the phone’s flashlight into the dark hole where a chair would go.

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him a brief smile. I remembered all the times he’d been there for me, reading my mind, it seemed, always having what I needed. And because his face was so close to mine, I leaned forward slightly and kissed him gently on his swollen lips.

  Despite his injuries, he pulled my face to his and gave me a real kiss. The kind of kiss that created fireworks behind my closed eyelids, that made me forget everything except for his lips on mine, and made me wish we were somewhere more private. I sat staring at him, my limbs rubbery, my breaths coming very fast.

  “That hurt, but it was worth it,” he said, wincing slightly as he grinned. “Promise me that there’s more where that came from.”

  “Maybe,” I said, my voice thick. Clearing my throat, I turned my attention back to the desk. “The cigar box had a hidden bottom, with a secret spring.” I slid my hands around the bottom edges of the desk, pressing every time I thought I felt an indentation in the wood. “Mama discovered the hidden bottom in the cigar box, and I think that might have given her the idea that the desk had a hidden compartment, too.” I continued to run my fingers over the old wood, now sanded almost completely smooth.

  Bennett remained by my side, patiently holding the light and moving along with me.

  “Really, Larkin. Can’t this wait till morning?” Bitty said, her voice dry and raspy. “We’ll have more light.”

  “I agree,” Ceecee chimed in. “I’m tired, and I can only imagine how tired you must be, Larkin . . .”

  A loud click echoed in the room as my finger depressed a small outline behind which the second drawer would have been. I met Bennett’s eyes, and he seemed as excited as I was.

  “Bingo,” he said, his smile lopsided.

  He lowered the light to illuminate a narrow cutout in the wood. I stuck my finger around the edge and pulled, the panel falling into my hand. An envelope dropped to the floor in front of me, scattering photographs. I looked down, saw a photo of me wearing a tiara and red sparkly shoes, holding hands with my mother, both of us making faces at the camera. Ceecee and Bitty stood slightly to the right, their bodies cut out of the picture, bright smiles on their faces.

  I looked back from where the pictures had fallen, spotting a narrow shoebox-sized compartment hollowed out inside the fake back of the desk. My gaze returned to my mother’s face. Something was joggling my memory.

  The beam disappeared as Bennett shone the light back in the compartment. “There’s something else,” he announced.

  I followed the direction of the light and saw what appeared to be a folded piece of paper pressed against the back of the opening. I pulled it out, feeling the fine linen stationery between my fingers. I flipped it over and read aloud the single word written in bold, black cursive: Ivy.

  “What does it say?” Ceecee asked, leaning over me.

  “It’s addressed to Mama.” I reached my hand into the compartment one more time to make sure I had everything, then stood carefully, holding on to the envelope of pictures, the photo, and the letter. I felt Bennett’s hand on my elbow. “Let’s look at these inside. Better lighting and we’ll all have a chair.” I looked down at the photograph again. “There’s something I want to check.”

  In the kitchen, Ceecee began pouring glasses of sweet tea while I went into the dining room, searching for another photograph. The one of the two men in Myrtle Beach, pretending to be prisoners in the city jail. I went through the album on the sideboard twice, but it wasn’t there. I began walking around the dining room, looking on the chair seats in case it had fallen. I was about to give up when I spotted a white square of paper on the floor beneath the sideboard, a corner hidden by the rug.

  I squatted and picked it up. It was the photograph I’d been looking for, the two young men wearing similar expressions. Much like the ones my mother and I wore in the photo I’d found in the desk.

  On the way back to the kitchen, I took Ceecee’s wedding photo from the mantel. I placed everything on the kitchen table, the unopened letter addressed to my mother in the middle.

  “Who’s the letter from?” Bennett asked, sliding it closer to me.

  Gently, I opened each third of the letter until it lay flat. Before I could identify the signature at the bottom, Ceecee slumped back into her chair, her voice breathless. “I recognize his handwriting. It’s from Boyd.”

  Bitty’s hand stretched across the table and took hold of Ceecee’s. I looked at these two women, who’d always been like mothers to me, about whom I’d thought I knew everything. But I could tell by their matching expressions of defeat that whatever it was that I’d discovered, they weren’t yet ready to share.

  thirty-five

  Ceecee

  1954

  Ceecee dreamed she was flying through fog. She was staring at an odd orange glow on the ceiling of her bedroom at Carrowmore, floating toward the door without feeling her feet touch the ground. Billowing fog covered her, choking her, and she closed her eyes, only to feel a jolt that jerked them open again.

  Then she was outside, a strong wind tearing at her face and clothes, fat raindrops splattering on her skin. She saw a gray, wet sky in brief glimpses and heard a loud crackling sound that almost obliterated the distant cries of a baby. A strong smell of wood smoke followed her, as did the thud of heavy steps. She imagined the sensation of secure arms around her, and she smiled, thinking guardian angels must be real. She was so very sleepy, and she didn’t want to fly anymore. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes forever. The cry came again, and she tried to open her eyes to look for the source, but she was exhausted, her eyelids glued shut.

  Gently, her body touched the ground. She lay on her side in a reclining position, as if an angel had placed her there. The sound of rain hitting leaves came from above her. The crying sounded louder now, a child—not a baby—crying as if it had just been pulled from a deep, warm dream. Ivy. Yes, she knew that sound. It was her sweet Ivy.

  Ceecee reached out an arm, felt Ivy’s soft hair and small body pressed against hers, and kissed the side of the little girl’s head, smelling her delicious baby scent. A warm blanket descended over them, blocking out the wind and rain. Ivy quieted as Ceecee held her close, then shut her eyes. Now that Ivy was safe and warm in her arms, she could go back to sleep.

  The sound of sirens
woke her. The sky had cleared, and the wind and rain had subsided. Her left arm felt numb, and when she went to move it, she saw Ivy’s sleeping head resting on it. She started to smile but stopped when she turned her head and saw Carrowmore. Pillars of black smoke rose like angry exhalations from openings in the roof. The smell of wood smoke mixed with the acrid scent of burned carpets, walls, and upholstery.

  Ceecee’s head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. She shook it, trying to clear her vision and her thoughts, to make sense of what she was seeing. Trying to remember why she was in the yard under a magnolia tree a safe distance from the house, the small form of Ivy tucked against her body, a sodden blue blanket thrown over them. She stared down at the blanket, blinking, vaguely remembering it from her bed in the blue bedroom upstairs.

  As she tugged at it, trying to cover Ivy’s shoulders, her fingers brushed against what felt like paper, soft and crinkly. She pulled it out and blinked, her eyes having trouble focusing, her brain slow to identify the brown-and-white Tootsie Roll wrappers.

  A fire truck pulled into the drive, and she sat up straighter, trying to get her eyes to focus, to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there. She struggled to stand, her heart pounding as she saw the black smudges of soot like angry hands around the blown-out windows of the white parlor, nearly identical marks marring the wood surrounding the upstairs front bedroom. She stared at the broken window frames, remembering something. A white nightgown. Candles. And Margaret. Margaret. In the white parlor, lighting candles while Ivy slept on the sofa. Spots danced before her eyes as she tried to remember to breathe. She needed to find Margaret. She balled up the wrappers and shoved them into her skirt pocket, then gathered Ivy into her arms and began running toward the house, screaming Margaret’s name.

  She ran like a drunk person, her legs rubbery and numb, her path meandering. The lawn was strewn with storm debris—limbs, leaves, and clumps of sodden Spanish moss—making it hard to maneuver, especially with a child in her arms. When she tripped a second time, one of the firemen noticed her and came running over. Ceecee began shouting before he’d reached her. “Where’s Margaret? Did she make it out?”

  The man’s red face was streaked with sweat and soot, his brown eyes kind and vaguely familiar. “There’s someone in the house?”

  “Yes—a woman. Margaret Darling . . . Madsen! Where is she? Where is she?” Ceecee was screaming now, and Ivy was crying, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t awaken fully, nor could she completely comprehend what was happening. Or maybe she did and that was why she was screaming.

  Another fireman ran toward them. “Chief!” he shouted. The lingering scent of burned rubber and smoke clung to him. He gave Ceecee a cursory nod before turning to the other fireman. “Just the one casualty, sir. On the second floor, at the top of the stairs.”

  The chief gave a brief nod. Ceecee clutched at the sleeve of his jacket, recognizing him now as one of her father’s parishioners. “No, no—that can’t be! Please tell me there’s been a mistake!”

  He put an arm around her and Ivy, quieting them both. “I’m sorry, Miss Purnell. I know you and Mrs. Madsen were good friends.” After a moment, he asked, “How did you and the child get out?”

  Ceecee looked at Ivy, her head now resting limply on Ceecee’s shoulder, her thumb in her mouth. She shook her head, her gaze traveling from the house to the yard and the impassive face of the fire chief. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it.”

  She could only shake her head, rising nausea forcing her mouth shut. She kept seeing Margaret, wearing the nightgown she’d bought for a honeymoon that never happened. Talking to Ceecee as she lit the candles. I sometimes think that if I went away, everyone would be better off. And Ceecee remembered carrying one of the candles through the dark house, up to the blue bedroom above the white parlor, and placing it on her bedside table.

  “Are you all right, Miss Purnell?” the fire chief asked kindly. She knew his name, but her head was still foggy, her memory shifting back and forth as if in a dream. Her stomach roiled, from the pills, the smoke, or the sheer enormity of what had happened.

  She clenched her mouth shut and held Ivy tightly, her leg pressing against something in Ceecee’s pocket. Wrappers. Two Tootsie Roll wrappers. She stared uncomprehendingly at the fire chief before shoving Ivy into his arms, then knelt on the soft, damp earth and vomited.

  * * *

  • • •

  Under Boyd’s care, Ceecee and Ivy remained in the hospital for three days. They were both physically unscathed, having miraculously escaped any injury from the fire that had destroyed Carrowmore and killed Margaret. But not all wounds were visible on the outside.

  Ceecee remembered taking the sleeping pills, although she wasn’t sure how many, and she remembered Margaret telling her that she’d given Ivy half of one, although when she’d confided this to Boyd, he thought it had probably been more. Then he’d surprised her by saying that the pills had probably saved both their lives. A deep sleep induced by narcotics lowered their breathing rate, protecting them from smoke inhalation. It’s what they’d determined had killed Margaret, thankfully before the fire found her and burned her beyond recognition. Boyd had been able to identify only the platinum wedding ring on her left hand.

  He hadn’t told her this last part until Ceecee asked him enough times if he was absolutely sure it was Margaret they’d found in the burned building. She’d begun to cry, and Boyd had looked so devastated that she wanted to embrace him. But their grief was still so raw, their unspoken status still so new, they didn’t dare.

  Despite question-filled visits by the police and the fire chief—who also brought a doll for Ivy—Ceecee could not recall how they had made it out to the lawn. She told them about the candles, but not what Margaret had said, nor did she mention the sleeping pills. Margaret was dead, and knowing either one of those things wouldn’t bring her back. The final conclusion was that one of the candles had accidentally been knocked over, and although they were confident the fire had started downstairs, Ceecee had trouble accepting it.

  They said she was a hero for saving Ivy. She didn’t feel like a hero. She didn’t remember carrying Ivy out of the house. Nor could she forget the memory of a guardian angel, the sensation of flying through the air, or of the sound of footsteps that weren’t her own.

  While at the hospital, Ivy wouldn’t be separated from Ceecee, so they allowed her to be in a crib beside Ceecee’s bed. At night, Ivy would cry out in her sleep, as if having a nightmare. She’d settle only when Ceecee brought her into her own bed, each giving comfort to the other.

  Bitty visited each day, bringing flowers and chocolates for Ceecee, and toys and a new stuffed bunny for Ivy, since the old one had been destroyed in the fire. She brought news of the hurricane destruction in Myrtle Beach and other areas along the coast north of Georgetown. Miraculously, the Ferris wheel at the Pavilion had been relatively unscathed. Georgetown itself had sustained some flooding and wind damage, but had been spared the devastation of beach towns like Pawleys Island, where some buildings stood unsupported over sodden sand. Others had their fronts blown away, displaying an ugly disarray of broken furniture and soaking rugs.

  Neither Bitty nor Ceecee mentioned the incongruity of dying in a fire during a hurricane. Nor did Ceecee mention the Tootsie Roll wrappers she’d found in the blanket. She told herself they must have been there before she lay down on the bed, although when she tried to remember, she was pretty sure she’d folded the blanket away because the air was so warm, and she hadn’t seen any wrappers. But maybe she just hadn’t noticed. And Bitty couldn’t possibly have carried Ceecee down the stairs and out of the house.

  Still, the wrappers had been there. But Ceecee couldn’t bring herself to ask Bitty, and wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know the truth.

  She kept waiting to see if Bitty would say something, giving her ample time to spe
ak, not bothering to fill in the conversational gaps and silences. But Bitty said nothing, behaving like the same person Ceecee had always known. Except when Boyd was there. She seemed to avoid him, leaving the room as soon as he appeared. Ceecee thought either it was her imagination, or maybe Bitty just wasn’t sure how to offer sympathy to a man who’d lost a wife he’d never loved.

  The afternoon before Ceecee was due to go home, her mother came for a visit. Ivy lay napping in the crib next to Ceecee’s bed, her eyebrows creased in a frown. Since the fire, she had stopped smiling in her sleep, as if the angels weren’t sure what to say to her.

  “Poor baby,” her mother said, taking off her gloves as she leaned over the crib. She tiptoed over to Ceecee’s bed. “I’ve had to throw away all the clothes you wore that night. I couldn’t get the smell of smoke out of them. And I couldn’t find your shoes.”

  “I guess I didn’t put them on when I left my room.”

  She looked at Ceecee strangely.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I met the ambulance at the hospital, Sessalee, so I saw you before you’d been cleaned up. You’d escaped with a child from a burning building, but you didn’t have any soot in your hair or on your face. And your feet and legs were almost clean.”

  Ceecee just shrugged. “I can’t explain the soot, but my feet must have been wiped off somehow.”

  Mrs. Purnell studied her daughter. “I suppose so.” She sat down on the end of the bed. “I’ve borrowed a child’s bed to move into your bedroom. Ivy can stay with us for as long as she needs. Boyd agrees it’s the best thing right now. As long as it’s all right with you, of course.”