Eliza’s Shadow
catherine wittmack
Copyright © 2010 Catherine Wittmack
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0615649290
ISBN-10: 0615649297:
For my mother, Joan
Thank you to Joan and Dee for the gift of time; to Lauren, Tanya, and Laura Neely for your patience and encouragement; and to my husband, Charlie, for sharing a life with many adventures, some of which served as inspiration for aspects of this story.
1
Moco, Georgia
“I’m gonna tell you the secret, rosebud.” Mother said with a sly smile. “Fry a little bacon in the pan before you add the shrimp. Then you’re really cookin’.”
“Now, don’t forget to stir those grits.” She scolded.
I dug my toes into the stepstool and whirled the big wooden spoon around the pot, watching the milky grains thicken inside.
“A dash of salt, a little pepper, and you’re on your way.” Mother said cheerfully.
That’s what I remember of my childhood. Hours spent in the hot kitchen of our old tidewater house with my mother, cracking and stirring, pouring and baking, frying and tasting.
It had always been just us, at least, that’s all I knew. Though I never told her that. It would have broken her heart. I was four years old when my father died and I didn’t remember him. I couldn’t recall his profile or the sound of his voice. When I tried to conjure a memory, all I got were animations of the photographs we had around the house. Him smiling above a white button down shirt and blue blazer from the picture on the mantel, or looking proud holding the tuna he caught off shore from the picture mother kept on her nightstand.
Because my mother was all I had, when she disappeared into the night of a Georgia hurricane, my life, as I knew it, washed away like a sandcastle in the surf.
My mother was an artist. Though I can’t say she ever found a medium that satisfied her. Looking back, I know that her restlessness wasn’t just about art. Something inside her wanted to get out and no amount of clay or paint could set it free.
She was particularly enamored with everything Gullah, a culture sewn into the fabric of our small town. Moco was nestled in the soft spot between the sea and swamp of southern Georgia on land that was once a plantation. The Gullah people were the descendants of Africans brought to Georgia to work on colonial plantations. Their customs and beliefs were rich with the wisdom their ancestors brought with them and spiced with local knowledge gained from living close to the land for hundreds of years. In the daylight, people often called the Gullah ways folklore but in their darkest hours, when conventional remedies failed, many residents of Moco put faith in them.
Signs of my mother’s fixation with the beauty and the secrets of the Gullah were everywhere. Sea grass baskets were tucked into every nook and cranny of our house and she filled canvas upon canvas with the deep brown faces of our neighbors.
Moco was the place my mother was born and raised. And at times, she behaved like it was as vital to her being as blood and other times, she acted like the roots that fed her were bound so tight she might never bloom again.
As for the raising part, as much as I longed for grandparents to spoil me, I never met them. Mother didn’t speak of them and when I asked, her face just clouded up like a summer storm, answering only with her brooding silence. I’d met my father’s sister, Jane, once. She’d come through town before settling up north. As far as I knew, we hadn’t heard from her since. The family I had was the family my mother chose. Those were her friends, largely other artists.
It was a terrible shock when my mother slipped out of my life but looking back, there were signs.
She had been jumpy all summer long, double-checking the locks on our doors, always looking over her shoulder and between cars in parking lots. But by the end of August, her jumpiness had eased, replaced by a strange calm I’d never known her to possess.
The bright stone jewelry that signified her bold style sat quietly in a bureau drawer. She’d taken to wearing only a gold chain with a simple flower charm that dangled discretely against her smooth cinnamon chest.
Her friends visited less often and when they did, the conversations were strained. Some of them drew me aside and pressed small pieces of paper containing scribbled phone numbers into my palm, imploring me to call them if ever I needed help. I wondered at their concern but worried little because with me, my mother was more peaceful than I’d ever seen her. And I liked it.
Our last day together was memorable. October in Moco could be downright hot and that day, ironically marked by Halloween, was in the mid-80s and still as a corpse’s breath. I’d been invited to a party at my friend Scarlett’s house and had unfortunately chosen to dress as a mummy. Around five o'clock I wiggled into my costume, realizing that it would be a sweaty night. I waited for my mother on the porch stairs, the humid air seeping into my wraps.
Mr. Tucker, our elderly neighbor strolled by raising his eyebrows at my garb, “Evenin’ Eliza. Don’t you look festive tonight,” he said courteously. “Bad weather is comin’.” He muttered glancing warily toward the sky.
“Yes sir. Everyone’s talking about it.” I responded politely.
It was officially hurricane season. While Moco was far enough inland that we never evacuated, we’d been hit plenty hard and often enough to respect Mother Nature.
“Well, hey there, Mr. Tucker. You out for trick or treating?” Mother asked playfully, appearing on the porch.
Mr. Tucker chuckled. “How do you like my costume? It’s called one-foot-in-the-grave.” He joked grimly.
“Ah now, Henry, don’t say such things. You’re looking strong as ever.” Mother said kindly.
“You flatter me Nia. Good evenin’ to y’all.” He said with a wink and shuffled away.
I remember mother’s outfit perfectly. She was dressed up for meeting friends in town for dinner. She looked beautiful wearing a long black gauzy skirt, fitted purple t-shirt, and black ballet flats. Her luxurious black hair hung straight down her back.
“Come on, Eliza. We better be on our way or we’ll both be late.” She urged hopping off the porch steps.
As we walked toward the park that separated our house from Scarlett’s, mother peppered me with questions about who would be at the party and what costumes people were planning to wear. It was getting dark by the time we reached the gates and the wind was picking up.
“Looks like we’re going to get the weather they called for after all.” Mother said squinting up into the branches of the massive live oaks and magnolias of the city park. “We’d better be quick to avoid the rain.”
We scampered down a path that led straight through the park. Halfway, a woman stepped between the trees. Mother and I were startled. She laughed nervously exclaiming, "Narissa, you nearly scared me to death!”
Though her tone was pleasant, I felt her body tense. She pulled me closer to her side. She didn't introduce me to the woman and I was sure I'd never seen her before. She was very pretty with long red hair and large eyes slanted like a cat’s.
She smiled at mother. "I'm sorry, Nia. I didn't mean to scare you. Is this your little one?" She asked with creepy curiosity.
Her strange amber eyes sent a shiver down my sweaty spine. I shrank deeper into my mother’s side.
“Yes, this is my daughter. We really have to go now, tryin’ to beat the storm.” Mother said, her grip tightening around my shoulders. Leaves and Spanish moss whirled through the air, carried on the wind gusting from the sea.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to get wet. Bye now.” Narissa said with a smirk before stealing back into the darkness on the other side of the path.
"Bye." Mother replied weakly and forcibly picked up the pa
ce. Once Narissa was out of earshot she looked down at me, concern shadowing her face.
"I hope she didn't scare you, baby. We better hurry or you’re going to miss the first game!" She added, eager to change the subject.
We quickly crossed the park to Scarlett’s house. The front door was open and kids were running wild in the living room. Mother giggled as she hugged and kissed me goodbye. "Have fun, rosebud! I'll see you later."
By the time mother arrived to take me home the rain was coming down in sheets. We ran the two blocks to our house getting soaked to the bone. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed violently across a purple sky.
“Well we’re really havin’ us a storm, now aren’t we rosebud?” Mother said snuggling down into my bed with me to read a bedtime story.
The lights flickered and cut out.
Mother found a candle and brought it to my room. She read me stories by candlelight. We prayed together. Then she kissed and hugged me and told me she loved me. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of pounding rain.
I woke to the sound of breaking glass. Water sprayed against my face and flashes of light lit up my room like a disco. Droplets found my tongue. Salt. One thing everyone in Moco knows, when the rain tastes like the sea, we’re in trouble.
Crash. The branch pressing against my bedroom window broke through another pane letting the hurricane wind wreak havoc through my bedroom. My door slammed shut from the force of it. I leapt out of bed, pried it open and scrambled out onto the second floor landing. At the base of the stairs, our front door slammed against the wall, battered by the wind raking through the house.
I ran to my mother’s bedroom. It was vacant. Her bed was made as if she’d never retired.
Branches from the ancient trees around our house beat against the walls and roof. Thunder cracked so loud it felt like I was inside the cloud. Smack. A squirrel’s limp body slammed against the window and flew off again into the maelstrom.
Terrified, I ran down the stairs and pressed my weight against the front door forcing the storm out and secured the lock. Shards of glass littered the foyer, threatening my bare feet. A portrait of my mother and I lay scratched on the ground, its frame shattered. The glass fragments spilled into the kitchen like breadcrumbs.
A sick feeling of dread spread in the pit of my stomach like kudzu in August. I followed the jagged trail to its end at the edge of a murky puddle of water in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Watching the hurricane’s fury from the kitchen window, I cried for my mother. But she never answered.
2
Port Rune, Massachusetts
CRASH. Boom. BOOM. Patter, patter, patter. You’d think I would object to starting my day with a thunderstorm. But actually, I liked it, the symphony of sounds that reminded me of where I’d come from and where I was now, safe from the storm.
I snuggled in my down comforter and let the sound of the storm warm me as I wiggled my body awake. Rising to a higher level of consciousness, I sank deeper under the blankets remembering that it was Monday, again.
When I finally admitted to myself that I was going to be late if I didn't move, I reached over and banged the alarm button. Storm silenced.
I reluctantly pulled the cord to the lantern suspended above my nightstand and stared at the lofty industrial ceiling of my room before rolling out of bed. With a rustle and thud the paperback I’d been reading the night before slid from the folds of the blanket onto the ground. I carefully stepped over the book and various other items strewn along the floor as I crossed the room.
The aroma of coffee and breakfast cooking brought a smile to my determined-to-be-cranky-because-it's-Monday face. Jane was up.
Aunt Jane was the guardian angel I didn't deserve. When I came to live with her six years ago, she welcomed me with open arms. She acted as if that was exactly what she wanted in life, to be a parent before her time. She enrolled me in school. And within a year, she had a contractor putting up permanent walls in her spacious loft to carve out two bedrooms, solidifying my place. Everyday my understanding deepened of what an inconvenience a scrawny ten-year-old niece could be to a twenty-seven year old budding chef extraordinaire. Now, at sixteen, I just hoped that I could give back some of what Jane had given to me.
I wandered out of the bedroom trailing after the scent wafting down the hallway. Morning light flooded the great room illuminating the rich colors and fabrics that warmed the cavernous industrial space.
Jane had spent her late teens and early twenties gallivanting around the world and our loft reflected her journeys. Her platinum hair glittered as she moved around the kitchen.
"Hey babe, how'd you sleep?" She asked.
"Too good, it took me two thunder rolls to remember it was Monday." I grumbled loping up to the breakfast bar to watch her work.
It wasn't just the food that Jane created that made her a fantastic chef. It was also the way she worked, efficient, organized and creative. The kitchen tended to look like a disaster site whenever I stepped into it but Jane could roll out a five-course meal without misplacing a grain of salt.
"Yeah... I thought you might be a little cranky this morning. How do strawberry and Nutella crepes sound?"
My favorite. My mouth watered and eyes brightened in expectation.
"Delicious, and just why on earth did you drag yourself out of bed so early on your day off? I know you love me but this is above and beyond the call of duty." I quipped.
Jane paused meeting my eyes with a serious gaze.
"Eliza, why didn't you tell me you had concert tickets on Saturday night?" She asked dismayed.
I stared at her, stunned, before finding my voice.
"Oh… I didn't even care about that show. Did Bryn tell you? What was she doing, trying to make you feel guilty? Not everyone is as fan crazed as she is, geez." I said with feigned exasperation, hoping I sounded convincing.
Jane sighed and poured the batter into the hot pan on the stove.
"No, actually, Pete called while you were out yesterday and wanted to know if you were planning to work on Friday. Then I weaseled it out of him. Eliza, you shouldn't have cancelled your plans for work! You know I would have figured something out. You're sixteen. You have the rest of your life to work. If you ever cancel fun for me again, I swear, I will ground you or something." She attempted to look stern.
I stifled a laugh. Jane had never grounded me.
"Ok, point taken. But you know I couldn’t have fun at the show if I left you high and dry." I conceded. Though, I couldn’t deny that my stomach sank a bit when I thought of the unused ticket on my nightstand.
Jane pursed her lips and glared sternly at me.
“Ok, ok. Only fun, no work, promise.” I blabbered quickly in response.
"Well, this is my feeble attempt to make it up to you. I'm sorry." She said and placed the crepe on the stainless steel bar above the kitchen counter.
"Would you like some juice with your crepe, madam?" She asked cheerfully.
"Yes, please." I responded savoring the first bite. "So what are you up to today?"
Mondays were usually pretty slow at Viva, Jane's bistro. It was the one day each week she gave herself a break and let her staff manage on their own.
"Not sure yet. Adam and I are going to lunch somewhere and then maybe we'll head out to the shore or a movie." She said casually.
"Really? I thought you two were a little on the outs?" I managed to ask between bites.
Adam and Jane had been together for years. I adored him and he was one of my primary sources of guilt when it came to my life with Jane. He was in love with her and I knew they had argued for years about living together. She says she's not ready for that step but I know it's because of me. Every once in a while the topic flared up and they would spend a couple of weeks apart. Eventually, one of them would give in and they'd go back to their routine.
"Yeah, well, you know how it is. He came around, again." Jane pretended to be exasperated with Adam but her whole being lit up when h
e was around. I was relieved to hear of the reconciliation.
I glanced at the clock. I was going to be late. I shoved the last half of the crepe in my mouth and jumped off the stool.
"Gotta get ready!" I said hastily and dashed toward my bedroom.
"Yes you do. Get moving girl!" Jane called after me.
I ran to my room and scanned the clothes on the floor, draped on my chair, those hanging on my nightstand and covering my dresser. Not an ideal way to dress for success but whoever said I was aiming for success? I pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a brown riding boot and searched for the other before identifying a toe poking out from under the bed. I threw on a lavender sweater and faced the mirror to assess the hair situation.
My brown hair hung limply around my face, falling just below my chin, and the summer tan that warmed my skin like cinnamon toast had begun to fade. I leaned closer to the mirror and picked up a pot of eye shadow dusting my eyelids a pale gold. Jane said it brought out the gold speckles that splashed across my green eyes, my one satisfactory feature. Despite the enhancement, I still wasn’t impressed by the image that stared back at me. No sense dwelling on that which we cannot change, I thought with a sigh, before heading for the door.
When I was younger, I was deluded enough to think that I would magically grow up one day and be just like Jane, as if that’s what all adult women become. Jane's face is fine and elegant with deep blue eyes and a long straight nose poised delicately above lipstick lips. Her platinum hair falls around her face like a gilded frame on a painting.
I, on the other hand, am so small that from the back I could easily blend in with a crowd of 6th graders. To my dismay, my body had not changed all that much since 6th grade either.
I rushed out of the room and headed for the door yelling as I ran. "Bye Jane, have fun today!'"
Jane was lounging on the couch reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. "Bye lovely. Don't wish the day away." She shouted after me.
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