“Mom, look at her.” My daughter points at the screen. “It’s 1934, and she’s half-naked. I don’t think she was a cotton-candy girl.”
The way she says it makes me smile.
“As I see it, you and I are cool with this. Because we know who Mom Brodie was on Brodie Island. This picture doesn’t change how we feel about her. No matter what she was doing in those feathers,” Sarah says meaningfully. “But what if Uncle Joseph doesn’t get that? That would be our fault for telling him. And you know your sister. I don’t mean to be mean or anything, but she’d use this to try to make herself look better and Mom Brodie worse.”
We meet each other’s gazes.
“I think this should be our secret,” Sarah says.
I look at the photo again. “I have to tell your father.”
She rolls her eyes and takes the laptop back. “Obviously. I know how you two are. It’s like you’ve only got one brain.” Her words sound critical, but her tone isn’t.
“Okay, then,” I say, getting up. “I guess . . . I’ll go back to bed.”
Sarah has crawled into the middle of her bed and is leaning against the headboard. She’s staring at the computer. “’Night,” she says, not looking at me. “Love you.”
In the doorway I stop and look back at her again. My eyes are full of tears. I’m so sad, and I feel so blessed. “And I love you, Sarah Brodie MacLean.”
38
Celeste
At the foot of the bridge, I slip off one shoe and then the other and sigh with pleasure as my feet sink into the soft, cool grass beside the road. I hold my shoes on the end of my finger, by the ankle straps, debating whether to take them up or not. I gaze up at the highest point of the bridge. The moon is still out, a big half-dollar, low in the sky. By the moonlight, I can make out the structure of the bridge. It’s twice as tall as the Deal Island Bridge, which is a good thing because I’m not sure you can jump off the Deal Island Bridge and expect, with any confidence, to actually die. I figure, if I stand on the rail, it’s a good seventy-five feet to the waterline. Farther, because the tide is low.
I look at my shoes again. They sparkle in the moonlight.
It seems a shame for Jimmy Choos to end up at the bottom of the bay. It’s likely they’ll fall off on the way down, or maybe when I hit the water. Of course, if I leave them here, who will find them? It’s not like we’ve got a lot of homeless people on Brodie. Anyone who has the potential for being homeless is cared for by the Brodie family. Mom Brodie was always a big one for handouts. Which pisses me off because I don’t understand why she’d give a drunk like my dad’s second cousin money to pay his rent, but she couldn’t leave me money to pay mine.
I look up at the moon, the shoes still dangling from my finger.
If I leave them here, the police will find them when they search the area. They’ll return them to my family. Birdie’s so thrifty, I know she won’t toss them. They’ll end up for sale at the fall church bazaar. The idea makes me laugh out loud. I can just imagine somebody finding Jimmy Choos on the three-dollar table. Of course, the question is, will anyone here even know what they are? I can imagine some chick walking around in my shoes, thinking they came from some cheap, mall shoe store, when they’re probably worth a thousand dollars, even with the one loose strap and the nicks in the heels.
I set them down carefully and arrange them, toes out, in the grass beside the road. I rewrap my favorite scarf around my neck and start up the bridge, walking right down the middle of the road. There’s a sidewalk on one side, but there’s no need for me to walk over there. There are no cars coming from either direction.
I had Bartholomew leave me at the end of our drive because I didn’t want him to be suspicious. I told him I wanted to walk up to the house. That I needed some time alone. He seemed hesitant to leave me there, thinking I was upset about Mom Brodie, which was sweet. He got out of the car and kissed me and invited me, again, to go to Paris with him. I think he was actually serious this time.
We had a fun evening together. He took me for dinner at the little yacht club on the bay near the condo where he’s staying. I had surf and turf, and it was amazing. Then we went back to his place for drinks and sat on his balcony with our bare feet on the rail and stared at the water. I didn’t even have sex with him. We made out, but he said he was looking for something more than a fling. I couldn’t decide if his not wanting to have sex with me made him weird, or endearing. Maybe a little of both.
He’s a good kisser. Which surprised me because who would think an old guy like him would be? Maybe it has to do with experience? Which makes me wonder if I’ve been missing out on something all these years. That makes me laugh, too.
I walk on one of the two solid yellow lines, as if it’s a balance beam. I can almost do it. I’m not super drunk. I was, but I’ve sobered up. Luckily, I’ve got my flask in my bag. Just in case I need a little encouragement when I get to the top. I don’t think I will. I think I’m ready. I left the dress I wore to the funeral hanging on my closet door; anyone who walks into my bedroom will see it. They’d have to be idiots not to see it and say to themselves, “Let’s bury her in that.” I seriously thought about throwing Mom Brodie’s mink stole over it. No way Sarah would want it if she thought I meant to be buried in it. But I couldn’t find it. I bet the little shit hid it, just so I couldn’t get it. I guess I should have left the Jimmy Choos with the dress. But I wanted to wear them one more time. Maybe they’ll end up burying me in them anyway. I guess it depends on how quickly the police return the “evidence.”
I ended up not leaving a suicide note. After about a dozen drafts I wrote over the week (all of which I burned on my balcony in a flowerpot), I decided it might be better to not say why I did it. What if they dismissed what I wrote in my letter as Crazy Celeste and her crazy talk? This way, they’ll talk together about all the possibilities as to why I did it. Everyone in the town will be talking. My family members. They’ll go over and over in their heads all the conversations they’ve had with me, ever, wondering if something they said made me do it. They’ll be wracked with guilt, all of them: Birdie, Daddy, Joseph, Abby, even Drum.
Abby will feel so guilty. The guiltiest of all. She’s like that. She’ll be sure it was all her fault. She’ll feel guilty for years, thinking she caused my suicide. She’ll be so sorry for all the mean things she ever said to me. Ever did to me, real or imagined.
It’s too bad Mom Brodie is already dead. Even she would feel like my suicide was her fault. Well, maybe just a little.
At the top of the bridge, I walk to the rail on the north side. It’s surprisingly windy for late summer, and my scarf whips behind me. I reach into my bag and pull out my cigarettes. It won’t be sunrise for another hour, but it already seems as if the sky is getting lighter. I can’t wait too long. Some fool will be headed out early for church in Pocomoke or Princess Anne and will be calling Daddy from their cell to tell him “your Celeste’s on top of the bridge again. Looks like she might be thinking about jumping again.”
Which sounds like I’ve been up here a bunch of times to do it. Which I haven’t.
I actually got the idea from Birdie. When I was a kid, she was always threatening to drive up to the Bay Bridge and jump off there. She never meant it. She just used to say it when Mom Brodie or Daddy made her really mad. I used to think it was funny. Mostly because I knew she’d never do it. She’s such a coward. Not like me. I’ve been saying I’m going to kill myself, and now I’m going to do it. And then everyone will feel bad for not listening to me.
I light up and enjoy the cigarette like I’ve never enjoyed one before, taking one deep drag after another.
I look toward the island. There are a few lights on, here and there. I can’t see home in the dark, but I know exactly where it is. I imagine Birdie will be getting up soon, making coffee, having her cold cereal, alone. I don’t know what she’ll do with herself without Mom Brodie to fuss over and fuss with. They were such an interesting pair. They had one of t
hose can’t-live-with-her, can’t-live-without-her relationships. I have a feeling that Birdie is going to have a hard time without Mom Brodie. So I guess this morning Birdie will sit over her mushy cornflakes, then make Daddy breakfast before she goes off to the early service. She often rides with Mrs. Larson, from down the street. They’ll go early to church to set up coffee and tea and talk about what kind of donuts people will bring for fellowship after service. Donuts are better after the second service. Late risers are better at picking out donuts, according to my mother. They understand the value of sprinkles and chocolate icing.
I breathe the smoke of the cigarette deep in my lungs and think about how many cigarettes I didn’t smoke because of the whole lung cancer thing. I could have smoked them. Of course, there have been times when I didn’t have the money to buy a pack of cigarettes, and I had to bum them. That thought makes me angry all over again about the inheritance I’m not getting.
I reach into my bag and pull out the letter Mom Brodie wrote to me. I left it on Daddy’s desk that night because I didn’t want him to know I’d read it. He put it, along with the will, in his safe the next day, I guess. After she died. It took me about two minutes to get into the safe yesterday. He uses the last two digits of his children’s birthday years, oldest to youngest. I guess he’s never read one of those articles about all the dates and words you shouldn’t use for passwords, which applies to safes.
I stare at the envelope in my hand. I know my name is on it in Mom Brodie’s handwriting, even though I can’t really make it out. She always had the prettiest handwriting. I start to pull out the letter to read it one more time, but then I realize, why should I? What’s the point? I don’t need to read about all my failings. I know them better than anyone. I open my hand, and the envelope flutters downward. I lose sight of it before it hits the water. I take another drag, enjoying the burn of the smoke in my lungs.
All too soon I’m at the end of my cigarette. As I drop it over the steel rail and watch it fall, I wish I had a joint. I didn’t have one of my own, but I imagine I could have bummed one from my brother-in-law or one of my brother’s friends.
With my cigarette out, there’s nothing left to do but climb up on the rail that’s supposed to keep idiots from falling or driving off the bridge. It takes me a minute to get up and sit down on the rail; it’s skinnier than it looks. My bare feet swing free, and I’m glad I left my Jimmy Choos down on the road. I’d be heartbroken if one fell off my foot and into the water.
I look down. It’s seems farther to the water than I thought it would be. Surely the fall will kill me. Though I’ve heard drowning isn’t so bad, once you give up.
I wonder what I should do with my handbag. Take it with me?
I think about having a sip from my flask, but I don’t pull it out.
It’s a strange sensation not to want a drink. I can’t remember when I last felt this way.
I spot headlights, coming from the mainland. It’s a long, dark, rural road to the bridge. It’s called Brodie Road. Of course.
So it’s now or never.
I look up into the sky as I slowly come to my feet on the rail. There are no stars. Just that big moon.
I wonder if Mom Brodie is watching me.
I wonder if she’ll meet me at the bottom.
39
Birdie
The sun’s up in the eastern sky when I park the white Caddy on the mainland side of the bridge in a little wooded spot where no one will notice it. I take my time walking up the bridge, following the little sidewalk. I don’t get off Brodie Island much, but I do once in a while. I don’t remember ever noticing the sidewalk. I wonder why they put it here when they built the bridge. It’s a good fifteen miles from here to Princess Anne or Pocomoke, with nothing between here and there. Who’s gonna come walking over the bridge, coming or going in either direction? Another big waste of government money.
But it’s a nice sidewalk.
I’m wearing my new black sneakers. I’ve been keeping them in my closet in the shoebox since I got them on sale, saving them for something. I realized when I was getting dressed, careful not to wake up Joe, that if I was ever going to wear them, this was the day.
I didn’t say a word to my Joe. Nothing left for us to say to each other. And I didn’t leave a note. No point. Duke looked at me as I walked out of the bedroom, and I looked at him. I told him to be a good boy and look after Joe.
I think he understood.
I checked on Sarah before I went downstairs. She was asleep, her computer lying on the bed beside her. I wanted to go in and kiss the top of her head, say good-bye, but I was afraid I would wake her. I checked on Reed, too. And I looked in on Abby and Drum, too. Opened the door real quiet; I know how to do it. They were asleep in each other’s arms, which brought tears right to my eyes. He loves her so much. She’ll be fine. Better off without me.
I didn’t go to Celeste’s room because I knew she wasn’t there. She never came home last night. Out with some man, I suspect. Her men have always been more important to her than any of us. Certainly more important to her than I am.
I didn’t want to wake anyone; I just walked out of the house. It didn’t seem right to put that burden on them. Because my mind’s made up. I’ve read that once a person’s mind is made up, you can’t change it. You think you can, but you can’t. You can sometimes delay it, even for years, but in the end, a person does what she wants to do.
As I walk up the incline of the bridge, huffing and puffing, I realize this might be the first time I’ve ever done what I wanted to do. Taking nobody else into account.
I wonder what Mrs. Brodie would think.
Oh, I know what she would say. She’d go on about how wrong it is. She might even bring up sin. But I wonder if, secretly, she’d admire my decision. Admire me for making a choice and seeing it through.
I reach the top of the bridge and still not a car in sight. I guess it was meant to be.
I go to the rail on the north side and look over toward the house where I’ve lived since I was nine. It’s a beautiful property with the big house and all the outbuildings and the lawn that runs down to the bay. I can even make out my chicken house, I think.
It’s funny, but I don’t even feel sad. I just . . . I feel done.
I look down at the water, and it seems darker than it ought to. Farther away than I expected.
But it doesn’t scare me. Because I’m done being scared.
I look up at the sky that’s getting brighter by the moment with the coming of the new day. I wonder if Mrs. Brodie is looking down on me from heaven. Or maybe she’s looking up at me from the bay, her and Mr. Brodie in that rowboat of his. In my mind’s eye, I see her wearing that big hat, and I hear her laughing.
The idea makes me smile.
I look at the water again. Something catches my eye. Something colorful that doesn’t belong. Something yellow and green. It looks like fabric, but maybe it’s just a piece of trash. My eyesight’s not what it once was.
I sigh, and, for the first time since I made up my mind, I feel sad. I press my hand to the rail and look down again. Then back at the house.
And say my good-byes.
40
Abby
I take a shower in the morning, and, by the time I get downstairs, Drum, Sarah, Reed, Daddy, and Joseph are all around the kitchen table eating pancakes and scrapple. It looks like a farmhouse scene right out of Norman Rockwell’s world. The table is set with white dishes and pitchers of orange juice and maple syrup. I bet he would have painted in the rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers.
“Mmm, smells good.”
“Want coffee, babe?” Drum asks. He’s sitting in my chair. Mom Brodie’s and Birdie’s are both empty.
“I’ll get it.” The fertilizer mug is the only one left in the cupboard. “Where’s Birdie?” I walk to the stove for the percolator.
“Went to church early I guess,” Daddy answers, slurping coffee from his Labrador retriever mug. “Didn’t even
make coffee,” he adds, sounding a little put out.
“Daddy, I think you can make your own coffee,” I chastise gently. I start to pour my coffee, then upright the pot to turn back to the table. “Wait, so who made the pancakes?” No one ever makes breakfast in the kitchen but Birdie, at least not without taking a lot of crap for it.
“I did. Blueberry,” Drum says over his shoulder. “Saved you some, still warm in the oven. I was afraid these fiends were going to eat them all before you came down.” He points to our children with his fork. “Your dad made the scrapple.”
“Thanks.” I fill my cup and walk over to stand beside him. I reach for half-and-half and sugar for my coffee and use Drum’s fork to stir it. It tastes better than usual, not so . . . thick.
“If you don’t want your pancakes, I’ll eat them,” Sarah tells me, stuffing a forkful in her mouth.
“I got first dibs,” Reed announces, his mouth full. “Great pancakes, Dad. Way better than those frozen ones I buy.”
“Easy enough to make,” father tells son. “I’ll write down the recipe. Girls like a man who can whip up pancakes from scratch. Good for breakfast, lunch, or supper.”
“You seen my hat?” my dad asks me. “My John Deere?”
I see he’s got a spanking new Dekalb ball cap beside his plate on the table. I don’t think my father could physically leave the house without a ball cap, unless he was going to church. “No. Maybe Birdie washed it?”
“She knows better,” my dad says, taking another bite of pancake.
I sit down in Birdie’s chair and nibble on a piece of a pancake Drum fetches for me. I also have two slices of fried scrapple; I don’t get it at our house. It’s so crispy I’m actually tempted to roll it up in a pancake, or worse, a slice of soft, white bread, but I don’t because I know it will gross out Drum and Sarah. Reed’s on my side of the debate. I think he eats half a pound of scrapple.
All too soon, breakfast is over, dishes are loaded in the dishwasher, and it’s time we scatter to the winds. Joseph heads to Salisbury, and Drum and Sarah are taking his car home. I’m going to run Reed back up to Philly and then meet them at home. It will be a long day of driving, but I’m looking forward to a little alone time with my son. I feel like we haven’t talked in ages.
What Makes a Family Page 29