Mimosa Grove

by Sharon Sala

  Laurel gasped, then winced as she witnessed the impact. She could see blood spurting from the child’s lower lip, and without hesitation, wheeled toward the curb and parked. By the time she got out, the little girl was bloody and screaming with pain. Laurel reached her just as the mother emerged from the store.

  “Melanie! Melanie! What happened?” the mother cried.

  “She tripped and fell,” Laurel said. “I saw it from the street.”

  By now, several other people had come out of nearby stores to see what all the fuss was about. When the little girl, who Laurel now knew as Melanie, realized she was bleeding, she began to cry even louder.

  “I’ve got some medicated wipes,” Laurel said, and ran back to the car. She dug through her purse for a small pack of aloe-vera-coated wipes, then hurried back to the little girl, who was now sitting in her mother’s lap.

  “Easy now, darling,” Laurel said softly. “These will make it feel all better, okay?”

  She pulled two separate wipes from the packet, unfolded them and laid them gently on the little girl’s knees, then handed the rest of the packet to the mother so that she could clean the child’s elbow and mouth.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said, then pressed a nervous kiss against her daughter’s cheek before easing the damp tissue against the child’s rapidly swelling bottom lip.

  “Oww, Mommy. It hurts,” Melanie cried, then hid her face against her mother’s breasts.

  Laurel delicately fingered a flyaway curl at the side of the little girl’s cheek, then asked, “Melanie? Your name is Melanie?”

  The little girl nodded without looking up.

  “So, how about a new Popsicle?” Laurel asked. “I’ll bet your lip would feel a whole lot better with something cold and sweet against it.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the little girl nodded.

  “Cherry?” Laurel asked.

  She nodded again.

  “Be right back,” Laurel said, and hurried into the small grocery store. “Where is the frozen-food section?”

  A curious clerk pointed toward the south wall.

  Laurel found the small freezer section, picked up a box of Popsicles and headed toward the checkout counter. She tossed a five dollar bill toward the cashier and hurried toward the door.

  “Hey, lady, your change!” the clerk shouted.

  “Keep it,” Laurel said as she ran out the door.

  When she got back to the curb where the mother and child were sitting, she eased down beside them and quickly opened up the box.

  “Look, honey! Want to pick out one for Mommy, too?”

  The little girl nodded as Laurel handed her a new icy treat. She took one long lick on the cherry-red ice, then took a fresh one out of the box and gave it to her mother.

  “Mmm, green,” her mother said. “My favorite.”

  “You, too,” Melanie said, and handed one to Laurel.

  “Why, thank you,” Laurel said. “It’s orange… and that’s my favorite.”

  She pulled the paper from the frozen treat and then wrapped it around the stick to catch the drips as she began to lick.

  Laurel handed the box around to the remaining bystanders.

  “Help yourselves before they melt.”

  A couple of the older women shook their heads and smiled before walking away, but a teenage boy and his girlfriend, as well as a woman with two kids in tow, accepted the offer.

  “This is good,” Laurel told Melanie as she tried to keep up with the quickly melting Popsicle. “Thank you.”

  Melanie ducked her head but continued to lick, looking at Laurel only when she thought Laurel was not looking back.

  Now that the small drama was over, the young mother also took time to assess the stranger who’d involved herself in her daughter’s plight. The Cajun accent was thick in her voice as she glanced up at Laurel and spoke.

  “My name is Yvette Charbonneau. This is my baby girl, Melanie.”

  Laurel smiled. “Nice to meet you, Yvette… and you, too, Melanie. I’m Laurel Scanlon.”

  Melanie giggled once, then slurped noisily to catch a big drip before it fell on her T-shirt.

  “You just passin’ through?” Yvette asked, then took a big bite of the green Popsicle, letting it melt on her tongue.

  Laurel hesitated, took a bite of her own Popsicle, then did something she’d been taught not to do and talked with her mouth full.

  “No. My grandmother lived just south of here. She died recently and left her property to me. I was on my way there when I saw your little girl trip and fall.”

  Yvette’s expression fell. “Oh… I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “That’s all right,” Laurel said, and then finished off the last of her Popsicle before standing. “I’d better be going. I want to get to Mimosa Grove before dark.”

  The shock on Yvette Charbonneau’s face was obvious. She stood abruptly, clutching her little girl against her breast.

  “You goin’ to Mimosa Grove?”

  Laurel nodded.

  “Miz Marcella was your grandmama?”

  Suddenly Laurel realized that the friendliness she had seen on the people’s faces was gone. She took a step back, bracing herself for judgment.

  “Yes.”

  An old woman who’d been standing nearby suddenly moved out of the shade toward the curb.

  “You be Phoebe’s girl?”

  Laurel nodded, and wondered if she was going to have to defend the honor of her family name down here, as well.

  “Praise be,” the old woman said, and then made the sign of the cross.

  The others who’d been staring at Laurel began to smile, echoing similar murmurs of encouragement and welcome as Laurel stared at them in disbelief.

  “Miz Marcella was a good woman,” the old woman added. “We gonna miss her, yeah.” Then she eyed Laurel up and down, hesitating only briefly before asking. “You got the sight… like Miz Marcella?”

  Between the shock of their obvious welcome and the thickness of the old woman’s Cajun accent, Laurel wasn’t certain what she was hearing. But if she wasn’t mistaken, not only had these people acknowledged Marcella’s psychic abilities but had revered her for them.

  “Uh… um, I…”

  The old woman saw the fear on Laurel’s face and suddenly understood.

  “It be a great thing… dat gift of sight,” she said softly. “Miz Marcella and me… we friends, yeah, from way back. Been missin’ her somethin’ fierce. But you here now… so a piece of her still wit’ us after all.” Then her expression shifted to one of concern as she added, “You gonna stay, yeah?”

  The muscles in Laurel’s throat tightened as she nodded.

  The old woman smiled. “Ain’t no seer, me… but I heal some. If you get da malaise, you come see old Tula. I fix you up good, yeah?”

  Laurel took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll remember that.”

  Then she glanced nervously around at the others who were still present. No one seemed wary or offended. She gave them a tentative smile, which they quickly returned.

  Then Tula spoke again. “Marie LeFleur… she know you comin’?”

  Laurel frowned. The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember why.

  “Who’s Marie LeFleur?”

  The old woman smiled. “You find out when you get to Mimosa Grove. When you see her, you tell her, Tula, she say hello.”

  “Yes, all right,” Laurel said, and with a quick wave toward Melanie and Yvette Charbonneau, started to leave. But before she could get off the curb, a police car pulled up beside her car and parked. When a stocky, middle-aged man got out with a glare on his face, she stifled a groan.

  “Somebody got trouble?” he asked, eyeing Laurel warily before looking at the others gathered on the sidewalk. Then he saw the little girl’s injuries and frowned. “What happened here?”

  Melanie pointed at Laurel. “She gave me a new icy,” she said.

  “Well, that�
��s right nice of her,” he said, then eyed the blood all over her clothes, as well as the cuts and scrapes. “How come you bleedin’ there, darlin’? You didn’t run into the street, now, did you?”

  Laurel felt an angry flush spreading across her cheeks as she glared at the officer.

  “I did not hit that child with my car and then try to buy her off with a Popsicle, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” she snapped. “The child fell. I saw it happen and stopped to help. Now, if you all will excuse me, I want to reach Mimosa Grove before dark.”

  The policeman’s expression shifted instantly. Before he could ask, Laurel stomped toward her car and got inside.

  Frowning, Yvette gathered her child up in her arms. “Now, Harper, you know what you just went and done? You insulted Miz Marcella’s granddaughter, that’s what.”

  She shook her head at him in disgust, then hurried back inside the grocery, anxious to finish her shopping and get her little girl home so she could better tend to her injuries.

  Harper Fonteneau paled, then shoved his hat to the back of his head, watching with unconcealed dismay as Laurel drove away.

  “Now, why didn’t somebody introduce me before I shot off my mouth?”

  “Ain’t nobody able to tink dat fast,” old Tula countered, muttering to herself as she shuffled away.

  ***

  By the time she passed the city-limits sign, Laurel’s good mood had returned. She wasn’t certain what awaited her at Mimosa Grove, but it was obvious that the people of Bayou Jean were not of a mind to run her out of town on a rail. Just the thought of being accepted for who she was made Laurel smile, and she was still smiling as she glanced down at the map on the seat beside her. According to the lawyer’s directions, she should be close to her destination.

  A short distance down the road, she saw a rural mailbox mounted on a rusting scroll of decorative wrought iron. She slowed down, then tapped the brakes, giving herself time to read the faded name on the side of the box.

  Campion.

  Her heart skipped a beat. This must be it! According to the lawyer’s letter, this marked the front boundary to Mimosa Grove. She turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, then accelerated slowly, maneuvering the car through a narrow drive bordered on both sides with overgrown bushes. Within seconds, she emerged onto the grounds with a slightly obstructed view of a massive, three-story structure.

  Once it must have been majestic in its elegance, but no longer. Everywhere she looked, there were large, spreading mimosa trees in full bloom, as well as a solid wall of them surrounding the grounds on three sides. As she drove closer, she could see that the roof of the old mansion was in obvious need of repair, as were the railings on the second-story veranda. Four massive Corinthian pillars marked the length of the front of the house, standing three stories tall and doing what they could to hold up the slightly sagging roof. Paint peeled and flaked without prejudice, giving the entire house the appearance of having some horrible, scaly disease. Overgrown landscaping that should have framed the old house’s appearance only added to its encroaching demise.

  Laurel sighed. It wasn’t what she’d expected, and it certainly wasn’t how she remembered it, but it didn’t change the fact that it was hers. As she drove farther, she noticed a pair of peacocks near a large, scum-covered pool of green water. She had a vague memory of standing near the edge and tossing breadcrumbs to a pair of oversize goldfish. Obviously the fish were no more, because that murky water couldn’t possibly sustain life other than bacteria and mosquitoes.

  As she drove past, the peacocks squawked their disapproval, then fanned their tails before strutting toward the shade of a huge mimosa. A faint breeze shifted the fragile, spiky blooms on some trees near the road, causing a few of them to come loose and shower down on her car, while others were caught on the air and sailed past. Another memory surfaced, of standing beneath such trees while loose blossoms drifted down upon her face and hearing her mother tell her the blooms weren’t really flowers, but pink-and-white fairies. She knew if she closed her eyes, she would be able to hear the laughter that had come afterward.

  Quick tears blurred her vision when she realized how long it had been since she’d thought of her mother in a positive vein. If only Phoebe hadn’t died. If only she hadn’t let her father control her life afterward, she might have known Marcella Campion as more than just a name.

  “Oh, Grandmother, forgive me. I should have come back.”

  Seconds later, a large parrot flew across her line of vision in a blurred swath of red, green and yellow, followed by a smaller blue one. Looking closer, she realized there were dozens of parrots, some perched in nearby trees, others flying from tree to tree in a colorful game of aerial hopscotch.

  Moments later she pulled to a stop only feet from the steps leading up to the veranda. She killed the engine and got out, anxious to see if the interior of the house looked as abandoned as the exterior. She circled the car and had started up the steps when suddenly a large peacock appeared on the porch above her. Its tail fanned to full display as it let out a piercing and territorial shriek.

  Laurel paused nervously, uncertain whether to broach the peacock’s territory or wait until it moved away. Before she had time to decide, the front door was flung open, and a tiny, cocoa-skinned woman of indeterminate age, wearing a red-and-white muumuu, her hair wound up in a bun and yellow flip-flops on her feet, came out on the run.

  “Shoo! Shoo!” she cried, waving her arms over her head. “Get on with you!”

  Like the bird, Laurel took a nervous step back, not quite sure if the warning was meant for her or the peacock. Moments later, the peacock gave one last shriek, which set the hair on the backs of Laurel’s arms on end, then moved away in slow, elegant steps, its long, multicolored tail now dragging behind in grand, sweeping motions.

  Now that the bird was gone, Laurel found herself motionless beneath the woman’s dark, piercing stare.

  “Hello. I’m Laurel Scanlon. Marcella’s lawyer sent me a letter about—”

  “You didn’t look much like Phoebe when you was little. You still don’t. Look more like Chantelle herself, I think.”

  Laurel’s mouth dropped open. She knew, because she felt air moving between her teeth, but for the life of her, she couldn’t find the will to close it. Mesmerized by the intensity of the little woman’s dark stare, she stood, waiting for whatever came next.

  “Yeah, like Chantelle,” the old woman muttered, then reached forward, first touching the dark copper strands of Laurel’s hair, then running the back of her forefinger down the side of Laurel’s cheek.

  “So,” the old woman said. “You came.” Then she nodded approvingly. “Marcella said you would. I should have known better than to doubt her words. Come. Come. You must be exhausted.”

  All the breath went out of Laurel in one instant. Until the old woman had mentioned it, she hadn’t realized how tired she really was. Still, she needed clarification of a few simple facts.

  “Are you Marie?”

  A wide smile shifted the wrinkles on her face.

  “You remember me?”

  Laurel was embarrassed. “No, I’m sorry to say I do not. But I met a woman named Tula back in Bayou Jean who mentioned your name.”

  Marie nodded. “Ah, yes… Tula. She and Miz Marcella grew up together. Friends from way back, you know.”

  Laurel nodded. “I gathered as much.” She hesitated, then had to ask. “Marie… the people here—”

  “What about them?” Marie asked.

  Laurel wasn’t sure how to approach the subject.

  “Speak up, girl,” Marie said. “You never learn answers if you don’t ask questions.”

  “When the people I saw in Bayou Jean learned I was Marcella’s granddaughter, they seemed pleased.”

  “But of course,” Marie said. “What else would they be?”

  “But they had to know she was… that she could—”

  “You mean, did they know she had the sight? But of
course! Over the years, many came for help. She turned no one away.”

  Laurel shook her head in disbelief. “Somebody pinch me or I’m going to think I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”

  Marie frowned. “This is not so where you come from?”

  “Hardly,” Laurel said.

  Marie shrugged and then tugged gently at Laurel’s wrist.

  “So it is good you are here, yes? Now come. You must be tired. Your room is ready, and when you have rested, we will have supper.”

  “Wait,” Laurel said. “I need to get my bags.”

  “No… no, this I will do for you.”

  “But, I—”

  “It is my job. It is my honor,” Marie said. “Now, no more arguments.”

  Laurel could tell it would not be wise to mention that she was far more capable of carrying luggage than a woman of Marie’s age, so she did as she was told and followed her inside.

  The moment Laurel stepped into the foyer and saw the grand staircase curving upward to the second-, then the third-floor landings, she had a feeling of déjà vu. She looked down at the pink-marble flooring and then up at the flocked but fading designs on the wine-colored wallpaper and could remember playing jacks in a comer of the foyer and hearing her mother’s laughter nearby. From where she was standing, she could see into two different rooms, and both appeared to have been furnished with pieces straight out of a museum. Moments later, the door swung shut behind her. The thud echoed within the three-story foyer like a shot. Even though she knew it had been nothing but a draft that made the door swing shut, she had to shake off the feeling of having been entombed.

  “Welcome to Mimosa Grove,” Marie said, then added, “Welcome home. You come this way to your rooms.”

  Laurel felt a ridiculous urge to cry. If only this place would be the home she’d never had. Then she realized Marie was already halfway up the staircase and hurried to follow.

  Almost immediately, she was struck by a faint feeling of despair. The farther up she went, the stronger the emotion became. A few steps shy of the first landing, she was forced to stop. She grabbed onto the stair rail and closed her eyes, physically unable to move any farther.