Mark was a seemingly permanent fixture in our lives. If we were at dinner, Mark was at dinner. If Emerson left town for an interview to promote her Edie Fitzgerald movie, Mark went with her. They were connected at the hip, and she seemed like a teenager again. Same with Mom, who was trying to deny she was back together with Jack. But it was painfully obvious. The whole world was in love. The whole world had their man. I had a cell phone I kept glued to my hip in case my uncle got enough bandwidth to Skype me or the military called to say they had found my husband.
It was a sleepy morning around Peachtree Bluff. The boys were at Mother’s Morning Out. Mom was at the shop. I was taking the day off to get some painting done at the house. I was almost at the point where I thought I might want to sell some of my paintings. And I knew this new series, with its sky blues and soft pinks and yellows, would fly out of her shop. I felt proud, and I couldn’t wait to get those commission checks.
As I dipped my brush into the pale pink, the color of many a Peachtree sunset, Emerson walked into the living room. “I need to talk to you,” she said.
This was why artists had studios.
“Can it wait?” I asked.
I noticed she had a bag in her hand, and for a split second I was afraid she was eloping. If she was eloping and I didn’t tell Mom, Mom would absolutely kill me. It would be almost as bad as if Mom found out Caroline and I knew Emerson was sick and hadn’t told her.
She shook her head, and I sighed. “What is it?”
“We’re going to New York,” she said.
I laughed. “Yeah. Right. Good luck with that one.”
She set the bag down on the floor and crossed her arms. “James called me and said this Hamptons party he and Caroline are going to is really a party honoring Caroline.”
“For what?” I asked. “Her contributions to Barney’s?”
I laughed. I thought I was funny. I was in a pretty good mood this morning.
Emerson smiled. “No, actually. Our sister raised more than two million dollars for a charity that funds arts programs for at-risk schools and physically challenged communities.”
My jaw dropped. “Come again? You mean our sister? Caroline Beaumont?”
Emerson nodded.
“That’s awesome,” I said. “I’m so proud of her. But I can’t leave my kids.”
“You aren’t,” Emerson said. “We’re all going, and Caroline’s nanny is going to keep them at her house in East Hampton.”
I could feel my mouth getting dry and my pulse beginning to race. “OK. Then I’m not going because I’m sure as hell not going back to New York.”
“Sloane, our sister took care of your children for five weeks without a word of complaint. She was with them all day, every day, helping Mom. She paid all your bills, including your obscene credit card. She would do anything for either of us without a second thought. She is being honored in a big, big way, and we are going to be there for her.”
Wow. Emerson was on fire. “Geez,” I said. “You’ve spent way too much time with her this summer.”
“I have packed your bag, and I have packed the boys’ bags.” She paused. “I mean, obviously, Caroline will have what we are supposed to wear to the party sent out to the house, but your other stuff is packed. We need to leave the house at eight forty-five in the morning.”
I nodded, but I knew now was the time I could get Emerson to do something for me. I set my paintbrush down and rubbed my hands together. I reached out for Emerson’s hand. “Want to go for a walk with me? Get some fresh air?”
She shrugged, and I could tell she was suspicious. “Sure.”
As we made our way down the steps she said, “Actually, Sloane, I’m not feeling that great. Can we just go sit on the dock?”
It made my stomach churn. My little sister’s arm was wrapped around mine. I pulled up her sleeve and studied a bruise above her wrist. I shook my head. “Emerson,” I said breathlessly.
I unhooked the latch on the gate and we crossed the street. We both sat down at the end of the dock, our toes trailing in the water.
“Remember when we used to do this when we were kids?” I asked.
Emerson smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I remember. It was a huge deal when I was tall enough that my feet actually touched.”
“I know we’re grown up now,” I said, looking out across the water, past Starlite Island, out to where our stretch of water met the deep, dark ocean that sometimes felt so pristine and beautiful to me and other times so dark and looming. Today was a dark and looming time. “But you’re still my little sister, Em. You always will be. And I’m not going to stand by and let something bad happen to you.”
Emerson had canceled her last two doctor’s appointments, which was a classic Emerson move. If you don’t want to deal with it, avoid it.
Emerson turned.
“I’ll go to New York on one condition,” I said. “I will go if you go to that hematologist Caroline found while we’re there.”
She scrunched her nose.
“If I have to face my fear, you have to face yours too.”
Emerson rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said.
“Grand,” I replied. I noticed she still looked nervous.
I knew how she felt because I felt nervous too. If you didn’t have the finality of a diagnosis, in her case or, in my case, a body, you could deny what was happening to you. “It will be OK,” I whispered. “Once they figure out what’s wrong with you, they can fix it.”
She shrugged and bit her lip. “Grammy dying and Adam being MIA has put everything into perspective,” she said. “I mean, my whole life.”
I leaned back, resting on my hands.
“Everything I’ve thought was important feels kind of stupid now.” She paused. “I mean, I might not be able to have kids. The treatments might not work.” She sighed, and I could see her chin quivering. She looked up at me, searching for an answer. “Sloane, I could die.”
I couldn’t even entertain that thought. “Em, no,” I said, sitting up, pulling her into me. I had been the fragile one these past few months. I had been the one who was crumbling and needed someone to give her strength. Now it was Emerson. “We don’t even know what’s wrong yet.” I squeezed her hand and whispered, “You’re going to be fine.”
I looked out over the water, at a shrimp trawler making its way back home. I didn’t want Emerson to see the fear on my face or the tears in my eyes. My sister might be really sick. My sister could die.
The fear of flying and going back to New York was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the fear of losing my sister. I thought of Adam and what he would do, and I made it my personal goal to get Emerson any and all treatment and help she needed. I thought of the Army, of its motto, of what Adam always said to me when I was feeling conflicted. I would continue to repeat it to myself over and over again as I faced my fears over those next few days.
Mission First, People Always.
* * *
“THIS IS A MOMENT to advance,” I said out loud the next morning, reaching my hand into my pocket to feel the corners of the paper with Adam’s words that he could never have expected would help me through this anguish. My other hand was holding AJ’s. “This is a moment,” I said, this time with more certainty in my voice, “to move forward with purpose, power, and most importantly, passion.”
I looked seriously at AJ, and he looked seriously back up at me. “Because action without passion is a waste of time, Mommy.”
I nodded again and took a deep breath. “Exactly.”
I would not be afraid. If I was afraid I certainly would not let my boys see. Fortunately, AJ was too young to be affected by how sweaty my palm was.
“I like that,” Mark said from behind me in line, holding his boarding pass anxiously, at the ready. That was how I felt about Mark. He was always at attention, like he was afraid he’d drop the ball and this dream of being with my sister would simply evaporate as if it never happened. “This is a moment to advance.”
> “But,” Emerson chimed in, “there are moments to retreat.”
Mark put his arm around her. “Damn,” he said. “That man is nothing short of a poet.”
“Language,” I said, smiling and looking down at AJ, as I tried to put out of my mind that this one flight could wipe out most of our clan. Mom had stayed up half the night reading articles to me about how the likelihood of dying in a commercial plane crash is statistically zero. I don’t know when she got so brave. Maybe it was because I was her child that she wouldn’t let me see she was afraid. Although I couldn’t help but notice that Jack was here. She had finally admitted to Emerson, Caroline, and me that she was, in her words, “sort of dating Jack. Taking things slow, seeing how they go.”
If they weren’t married by the end of the year, I’d be shocked. I loved Jack, but it was still weird to see our mom with someone who wasn’t our dad. I couldn’t say that out loud to my sisters because they thought I was ridiculous. But I was allowed to have my feelings. That’s what Adam would say if he were here. My heart skipped a beat when I thought of him. I had this fantasy that while my phone was off on the plane, they would find him and I would land to a voicemail saying he was OK. Because that’s how life works. No matter how vigilant you are, sometimes you miss the moment.
As I put my phone on the boarding pass scanner, I could feel the sweat gathering on my brow. I was doing this. How was this possible? I was getting on an airplane. I was going to New York. Both for the first time since I left, six months after 9/11. If Emerson hadn’t pushed me, I’m not sure I would have made it onto the Jetway. And this was with a double dose of Valium. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like without it.
As if this weren’t bad enough, I had the dream again last night. Emerson, Caroline, and I were playing on the beach. Caroline’s hair was blowing in the salty breeze; Emerson was running back and forth from our castle to the spot where the water lapped the shore. It was a perfect day by all accounts, easy and free, another childhood afternoon full of sunshine and free of worries, until I looked around for Mom and didn’t see her. My pulse quickened for a split second until my eyes locked on her. She’d been wearing a mint-green and pink bikini that day. She was so tan, so beautiful. But that day, she had her arms crossed, and her face looked angry and closed off, a way it had never looked before. It scared me to see her like that. There was a man standing with her, and he looked angry too. Angry and sad. He was talking a lot, and she was shaking her head. I remember his hair, how the light shone on it, how it was dark brown but in the sun it practically looked black, like Caroline’s. I couldn’t hear Mom, but I could tell she was yelling. Not like she did when Caroline and I had been arguing all day. Really yelling, like grown-ups do when they’re mad. I’d never seen her do that. It scared me to death. Then Mom was rushing us into the boat, and I could feel her fear. It wasn’t until later that I realized we had left our beloved fairy stones, the ones we took with us everywhere.
It had actually happened, long ago. But in my subconscious, it must have been incredibly fresh because, even though nothing particularly terrifying happened, it was still the scariest nightmare I had, seeing my mother like that and wondering who this stranger was and why they were so angry with each other.
I strapped AJ into the window seat so he could see out the window, though who would want to look out I couldn’t possibly imagine. I was in the middle, and Emerson was beside me for moral support. Mark had gotten upgraded to First Class. He acted like it broke his heart not to sit with Emerson, but let’s face it: Emerson was not as great as First Class.
Mom and Jack had Taylor a couple of rows in front of us. I was glad they had taken him because I was starting to get very, very sleepy, and I knew I couldn’t have kept up with him on the flight.
Emerson held my hand and said, “So, what do you think of Mark?”
My eyelids were getting heavy as I said, “I love him, Em. I think he’s a prince.”
I saw her smile dreamily as my eyes closed. As I started to drift off, I could feel the breeze on my face and the sand underneath my knees. I sat up straighter, willing my eyes open so I didn’t have to dream it again. I looked around. Taylor was strapped in his car seat, and I could see his tiny legs kicking. I was at the perfect angle where I could see Mom’s face. Her arms were crossed, and she seemed upset. Angry even.
My eyelids were heavy again, and I couldn’t tell if the mom who was angry was real, in the plane seat, or in my dream. I opened my eyes again, right before I saw the man she was talking to. I looked forward again to Taylor’s kicking feet, to the stream of light that was pouring through the plane window, how it made Jack’s dark brown hair almost black. My eyes closed again. I forced them open as Jack turned and I saw his expression. He was always so calm and laid back. This face was anything but. This face was mad.
In that moment I couldn’t hold off anymore. I felt my hand drop out of Emerson’s and my head collapse back into the seat. As my subconscious took over and wandered back into my dream, it hit me: The man on the beach that day wasn’t a stranger at all. The man was Jack.
* * *
CAROLINE’S HOUSE IN EAST Hampton suited her perfectly. It wasn’t big, and it wasn’t on the water, but every inch of it was elegant and just modern enough. The entire palette was water blues and creams with touches of gold, seagrass, and plenty of natural beauty from resin coral and oyster shells.
I had never been to it, of course. And walking through the front door, I instantly felt calm. I assumed that’s what Mom had been going for when she designed it.
I was exhausted but proud, too. I had made it. I had lived through the flight, and we were here. Mom and Jack were staying in a hotel while the rest of us piled into Caroline and James’s house. When I walked into the living room with AJ and Taylor, who promptly scampered off to explore, I did a double take and felt my décor-induced calm dissipate as quickly as it had come. As Caroline ran to meet us, I said, “What is that?”
“Well, it’s so good to see you too, sweet sister,” she said. “Thank you for the warm greeting.”
“Caroline,” I said, an edge to my voice. “Why is Jack’s painting here?”
She looked at me innocently. “Oh, well, we thought it would be so nice to donate it to the cause. We’re going to auction it off tonight as I accept my award.”
“No,” I said. “I told you I’m not ready. I told you I don’t want my work out there in the world yet. It’s still just for me.”
“But Sloane,” she said, that crafty calm in her voice, “don’t you remember? You owe me.”
I felt the color drain from my face then because she had me. I did owe her. She had paid my credit card bill, and I owed her a favor. There was no way out.
To change the subject, Caroline showed me the white linen maxi dress she had bought for me. It was simple, but somehow made me seem taller and made my shoulders seem more sculpted.
As I wore the dress later that night, feeling somewhat confident despite the fact that I was totally out of my element among the coiffed-to-perfection women and men milling about a neighbor’s yard, I was so proud of my sister. Her hair was swept up off her face in a simple updo that made her neck seem swanlike, and she was wearing a rose-colored, silk jumpsuit that would have made anyone even slightly less tan look sickly.
As I was admiring her behind her podium, I came back into the moment and it registered with me what Caroline was saying. I felt all the breath leave my body as I heard, “You won’t find her on the Internet; you won’t see her in the magazines. She’s under the radar, but she’s one of the hottest up-and-comers in the art world today.” She paused. “We’re going to start the bidding at five thousand dollars.”
I understood now how people felt in those dreams where they’re naked in public. I may as well have stripped my dress off. All of my pulse points throbbed. I was a failure, a fraud, a nobody. And five thousand dollars? She was insane. This was humiliating. No one was going to buy this thing, and I was going to be
a laughingstock.
Only, people started putting their hands in the air. Caroline left her podium and stood beside me. “See, Sloane? It’s beautiful. It really, truly is.” She looked at me intently and took my hands in hers. “You’re beautiful. And you can do this.”
She meant I could paint. She meant I could put myself out there. But she also meant I could raise my two sons and support my family. Hell, I could even get on an airplane and fly to New York.
A few moments later, Caroline hugged me and said, “Did you see that? You just raised eleven thousand dollars for at-risk youth. Aren’t you proud? See what good your art can do?”
It was one of the proudest moments of my life so far, a defining one. Because I had faced my biggest fears that day. I had gotten back on an airplane to New York. I had released my art back into the world. I touched the monogrammed cuff on my arm, realizing Grammy was right. I was strong and I was brave.
I knew Adam would come home. I believed it with all my heart and soul. But if the worst happened, if the boys and I were alone forever, we would be OK.
I walked up to my painting, the one that had somehow set me free, one last time. My family was standing all around me. Caroline was yammering on excitedly, “And now I’m going to be your agent, and we’re going to get you in galleries—I’ve already had three requests—and it’s going to be amazing.” I knew she needed this almost as much as I did.
I took a sip of champagne as I said, sarcastically, “Good one, Caroline.”
She stopped in her tracks. “What? What do you mean ‘good one’? I’d say this was pretty epic.”
I ran my finger down the white blob in the painting, then the black one. “This was supposed to be Jack’s painting,” I said. “You sold Mom and Jack.”
“What?” Mom asked. “Caroline Murphy Beaumont, I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this. This is why I said no after Grammy’s funeral.”
I turned and looked at her. “You’re the white streak. Jack is the black one.”
The Secret to Southern Charm Page 23