A Long Time Gone (12 page)

She looked at Leon as if seeking his approval, but before she could leave we heard the approach of running feet and laughter, and then Sarah Beth and Willie were standing in front of us, their hair and costumes soaking wet, their hair slicked back like a couple of models in the
Vogue
magazine that Mrs. Heathman kept by the side of her bed.

They were holding hands, and in Sarah Beth's other hand she held a flask. My aunt and uncle were teetotalers, so I'd never seen one up close, but I knew what it was. I just couldn't figure out what it was doing in Sarah Beth's hand.

They'd stopped laughing, as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Sarah Beth pulled back her shoulders as I'd seen her mother do
before giving orders to one of the servants. “I'm thirsty,” Sarah Beth said, using her new boarding-school voice. Her head was slightly tilted back so that she really was talking down her nose. She emphasized her words by raising her arm and shaking the flask.

Willie and John shared a glance before John took my shoulders and led me gently back to the path that wound around the shack. “Go with Mathilda. She knows the way. I'll be right behind you.”

I was embarrassed and confused, and I couldn't understand why Sarah Beth didn't meet my eyes. Not knowing what else to do, I began to follow Mathilda.

“I said, I'm thirsty,” Sarah Beth's voice announced again.

The man coughed, and I heard the woman say, “That girl ain't no better than she oughta be.” I imagined her lifting the jar to her mouth again, spitting out the nasty brown liquid.

I started to turn back, but Mathilda tugged on my arm.

I followed, feeling silly, and useless, and like a child who was still supposed to believe in Santa Claus.

We made it to the pond, where I immediately pulled off my clothes and dived into the dark, still waters before I could remember my fear, knowing no amount of cool water could take the sting of heat from my skin.

Carol Lynne Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND,
MISSISSIPPI
A
PRIL 3, 1963

Dear Diary,

I feel so sick inside, like black mildew is starting to spread all over my innards. I haven't really felt like this for a long time, at least not since Bootsie came back when I was six and reminded me all over again that there was something about me that made people want to leave me behind.

My friend JoEllen Parker buried her daddy last Saturday, which got me thinking about my own daddy. I knew better than to ask Bootsie, because she always just gets a funny look on her face and then tells me that the past is best left to the past. But I never really knew him, and that emptiness is part of my present. Maybe learning something about him will fill this empty hole in my heart before the mildew spreads into that, too.

I was in the kitchen helping Mathilda polish the silver and decided to ask her. I'd long since figured out that the best way to speak to adults about something touchy was to ask them when you were both busy doing something else. Mathilda was probably the best person to talk to about my family anyway. She's known Bootsie since before Bootsie was even born, helping to take care of her as a baby when my grandmother drowned in the flood. And she seemed happy to talk about the old days. At least at first.

She said my daddy was a sweet boy, growing up downtown in the rooms above his family's grocery store. From the moment Bootsie set eyes on him it was true love—not that I believe in that kind of thing, but I didn't want to interrupt Mathilda when she was being so free with her information. He was sweet to Bootsie, bringing her flowers and opening doors and taking her for long walks. And he loved her garden and this house—even with all its peculiarities. He said a home should be like the family who lived in it—and this family was apparently something he liked: each part independent and strong, yet all together something truly original and beautiful. Only a house built from love could have that kind of character.

I almost interrupted Mathilda to tell her that my daddy was a slick talker who knew what to say to get what he wanted, but I didn't. Sometimes it's best to let old people believe what they want. Memories and ancient photographs are pretty much all they've got left.

But then the war came and he joined up in 1943. They decided to get married before he shipped out, so they did. Fortunate for me, I guess, because if they'd waited, I probably wouldn't be here. Because when my daddy came back from the war and I was just a tiny baby, he wasn't the same man. Mathilda said he continued to fight the battles like he was still there, angry and yelling at people all the time, starting fights and spending the night in jail to cool off. Bootsie was afraid for him to come home, and only felt safe when she knew he was in jail.

And then one night my daddy did come home, and he beat Bootsie so bad that it just about killed her. She went to the hospital and never came back—not for six years.

I started crying, so Mathilda sat down and put her arm around me like I was still a little girl, and I remembered that—remembered how even when my own mother had gone, Mathilda was there to hold me when I cried. I wanted her to tell me why Bootsie didn't take me with her, wanting to understand what was wrong with me.

But all Mathilda could tell me is that each mother has her own language that she has to learn first before she can teach it to her children. It took Bootsie a long time to learn it, because she had a deep hole in her heart that started when her own mama had left her when she was a baby, even if she hadn't meant to on purpose. I think that it doesn't matter how or why, but not having a mama is like being born without a heart.

Mathilda said that Bootsie's hurt was more than just the bruises you could see, and she had to go away to get better. She left me with people who could love me and keep me safe and be my mother while she couldn't. A mother's love is a lot like faith, she explained, where you just have to believe something even when you can't see it. All I know is that I was practically an orphan for six years and there's not enough faith in this world that will ever make me see that any different. Mathilda told me that sometimes we need to grow up first before we stop seeing our mamas with the eyes of a child, and that I'd understand more when I became a mother myself, but I won't. Why would I have children if I'm going to just mess them up like my own mother and grandmother did?

It all made me cry harder, even though I didn't know what for. It was the biggest sadness I'd ever felt, like a hole out in Bootsie's garden without a seed in it, and I don't know how to fill it.

Yesterday at school the boy who sits behind me in English class, Jimmy Hinkle, said he and a bunch of kids from Indian Mound and a few other places were planning on doing a little freedom ride of their own, and visiting all the theaters in three towns. Blacks and whites are supposed to be sitting together in all public buildings now, but he says it's not happening down South, and the federal government isn't doing anything about it. College kids and adults around the country have already been doing it in the bigger cities, so why not here?

I said yes before I really understood why. I hadn't really given much thought about why all the colored people sat in the back of the theaters when I could sit wherever I wanted. But I figured if I could think about something other than that mildew growing inside me, even just for a day, it would be worth it.

And it was—right until we all got arrested in downtown Indian Mound for disturbing the peace. I got the feeling that Jimmy wanted the National Guard to be called out and dogs set on us, but all we got was Sheriff Oifer and two of his deputies to round us up and lock us into the two cells at the jail.

Bootsie didn't say a word on the drive home. It was only about five miles, but I swear it felt more like a hundred. She sent me to my room without any supper, which was unfair, because she's always preaching to me about doing the right thing even though it's not the most popular thing to do. I stood on the stairs right next to that hallowed watermark and
raised my voice to her for the first time in my life and called her a hypocrite (that's a new word Jimmy taught me), because here she is pretending to be a caring mother by punishing me for spending a few hours in jail defending the rights of others, yet she could walk out of my life to let me be cared for by somebody else.

“But I came back,” she said—as if that made up for her going away. Like her leaving was a pencil mark and her coming back an eraser. I wanted to take out my heart and show it to her so she could see that empty hole that no eraser could ever make go away. Instead I just told her that I hated her.

She slapped me so hard I was almost knocked into next week. I've never been hit by anybody my whole life, and it's not something I'd want to experience again. And not even because it hurt my cheek so much. It hurt my heart even more, made me almost sick enough to want to throw up.

I thought Bootsie might faint, because she'd lost all the color in her face, like she'd been the one who'd been hit, and it took Mathilda to calm us both down. I slammed my door and sat on my bed for a long time before Mathilda came in to make sure I was all right and brought me a little plate of supper. She put her arm around me and let me cry, the whole while repeating over and over that I just needed to give it time.

But I know there's not enough time left in this universe that will let me forget that my mother has never loved me enough.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND,
MI
SSISSIPPI
APRIL
2013

I
awoke the following morning with the sure knowledge that I wasn't alone. My face was once again flooded with sunlight from the uncovered window, and I was aware of a definite pressure on the mattress near my knee and warm breath on my cheek. I opened my eyes to find Chloe's black-rimmed ones staring into mine only about two inches from my face.

“Are you awake?” she asked.

She lifted her head enough so I could slide up against the headboard, still blinking to clear my head. She smirked, then pointed her camera phone at me and clicked. “What are you wearing?”

I looked down, vaguely remembering that I hadn't unpacked yet and I'd just pulled something from one of my dresser drawers. “It's called baby-doll pajamas. I think I wore these in junior high.”

“It's like something Lady Gaga would wear to twerk in.” She raised her phone again but I grabbed it.

“Take another picture of me and you lose the phone.”

With a heavy sigh she lowered it. “Are you going to stay in bed all day?”

I stared at the blurry numbers on my bedside clock. “What time is it?”

“It's almost noon.”

I jerked myself out of the bed, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement. “Did your dad call?”

She shrugged. “How do I know? I'm not the one trying to reach him.”

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and checked it for voice mail. There were no messages, so I checked my texts and e-mails, too. Nothing. I'd already left Mark three voice mails. Either he was ignoring me, or he didn't have a signal in whatever side of the world he was in.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, needing desperately to wake up so I could say the right thing to Chloe. “I'm happy you're here; I am. I've missed you. But I also don't want to get into any serious trouble.” I stopped there, unsure of how much she knew about our acrimonious divorce.

“You're talking about the restraining order, aren't you?”

I tossed the phone onto the bed, wondering why I even bothered to filter any information from a twelve-year-old. She'd already told me she'd hacked into her father's computer and Expedia account, so nothing should be a surprise. But it was.

“Yeah. I could go to jail if I don't get this straightened out with your father. But I promise I will try really hard to convince him that you're okay with me, and that you're welcome to stay.” I tried to smile. “And that I won't give you any fried food.”

With a heavy sigh, Chloe slid from the edge of my bed, then with a desultory stride walked over to the bookshelf that contained all of my childhood books. Like the wallpaper, the shelves had remained unchanged in my absence. The books had been my escape from an older brother who loved to put tree frogs down my shirt and cicadas in my hair, and from the constant reminder of the empty place at the dining table. Bootsie always set out a plate and tableware for my mother, as if she'd expected her return at any moment.

My gaze strayed to the bottle on the nightstand, wondering if I could take a pill without Chloe noticing.

“I'm not missing any school, if that's what you're worried about. It's spring break.”

That had been the least of my worries. Harboring a fugitive child had pretty much topped that list, with going to jail for ignoring a restraining order right underneath it. “Well, that's good.”

She sat cross-legged in front of the bookshelf and plucked out a book with a black-varnished fingernail. She wore her usual black T-shirt and black jeans, but her feet were bare. Even though her toes sported matching black polish, her feet were still soft and round like a child's, making me somehow grateful.

“Why does this book have so many bookmarks sticking out of it?” She held it up for me to see.

I recognized the cover and smiled.
Time at the Top
. “Because it's my favorite book of all time. I read it for the first time in sixth grade and then about a hundred times since. I got it at a used-book library sale and it was out of print at the time, so I didn't want to mark it up with a highlighter. I used the bookmarks at my favorite spots so I could go back and reread them.”

“Sounds pretty boring to me. But I guess back when dinosaurs roamed the earth there wasn't anything else to do.”

I rubbed my hands hard over my face again, desperate to be shaken awake. “I'm only twenty-seven, Chloe. We had computers when I was growing up, and the Internet and cell phones. We had indoor plumbing and electricity when I was growing up, too. We just didn't rely so much on all those gadgets for our entertainment, like a lot of people do today. I liked to read a lot, and to write.”

She rolled her eyes, but I noticed she put the book next to her on the floor instead of reshelving it. Turning to the shelves, she focused on the sets of books with matching dog-eared spines, lined up like fence pickets.

“Those are my favorite series—sort of like Nancy Drew books.”

“Who?”

I stared at her back. I knew she'd never been a big reader, but I thought the name Nancy Drew was ingrained in the brains of all young girls. “They're mystery books for girls. See the ones on the left? Those are the Penny Parker mystery stories. I liked those because the main character is a reporter who solves mysteries—kind of like Nancy Drew. Next to those should be the Beverly Gray mystery stories. Those were Bootsie's books that she'd had as a girl, and she gave them to me.” I smiled to myself, nostalgic about the Saturday afternoons spent reading under the cypress tree or in Bootsie's garden while she worked.

“You're welcome to read any of them if you promise to be very
careful.” I was about to mention my favorite reading spot under the old cypress but caught myself in time.

“As if.”

I didn't say anything as she removed two more books from the shelf and placed them on top of the first one she'd set on the floor.

She plucked a trophy from the shelf and examined it closely, seeing the cotton boll in flaking fake gold sitting on the top of the long white plastic column like an ice-cream cone. “What's this?”

I considered for a moment not telling her, but knew holding anything back from her was pointless. “It's my Little Miss Cotton Boll trophy. I won the crown in 2000, when I was fourteen.”

She scrunched up her face. “Like a beauty pageant?”

“Yeah. And I had to twirl a baton, too.”

Chloe stared at the cheap trophy for a long moment, her face impassive, and I wished I'd thrown out all of those stupid reminders of someone I'd once been but wasn't too proud of.

“Were you really pretty when you were my age?”

I measured my words carefully, knowing her father and his quest for perfection that Chloe could never live up to. “I was probably more cute than pretty—but only after I turned thirteen. But I sure could twirl a baton. Can't say winning that trophy made much difference in my life, though. That's a weekend in my life I'll never get back.” I smiled, but she wasn't looking at me.

She shoved the trophy back on the shelf. “That's so lame.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

“Did you keep a diary?” Her voice sounded almost hopeful.

I shook my head. “No. It wasn't my thing, really.” I couldn't tell her that the only reason I didn't was because my mother had kept a diary as a girl. I'd never seen it after she came back, and I figured she'd left it behind, like she did with everything else she didn't want.

Chloe started scanning my room again, scrutinizing the drooping wallpaper, the various awards and trophies. With her back turned, I reached for the bottle and shook out a pill into my palm.

“What's in here?” She held up the box of watch and clock parts that Tommy had found tucked in the attic of his workshop.

“Leftovers. My grandmother's cousin Emmett used to have a clock and watch repair shop. Those are all the extra pieces he never wanted
to get rid of. Tommy wants me to sort through them. You can help me if you like.”

“Right. Sounds almost as much fun as reading a book.”

I rolled the pill around inside my fist as I watched her replace the box on the shelf.

“Your mom keeps calling me JoEllen.”

My hand dropped to my side, my fist clenched over the pill. “That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. It was her best friend in high school. She married a man from Pascagoula who she'd met in college, and moved there. She'd come visit sometimes with her two boys when my mom was home.” I smiled at the memory. “JoEllen was always telling me how much she'd always wanted a girl, and I would ask her to take me with her. It always upset Carol Lynne. I think that's why I did it.”

Chloe stared at me in silence with the same concentration she'd given the wallpaper and my trophies, and I wished I'd held back that last part.

“Well, my name's Chloe, not JoEllen.”

I stood and moved to my suitcase on the floor and began rooting through it for a pair of jeans and clean underclothes, wishing I knew what to tell her about why my mother couldn't remember her name. Should we correct her? Wear name tags with the day and year written on them? I was unprepared for this—unprepared for pretty much everything that had been waiting for me upon my arrival back home. But to see my mother again, without the benefit of her remembering our shared history, was like showing up for a party at the wrong house on the wrong date. My anger and hurt were my own now, a loose thread on the hem of my life, and I had no idea how to knot it or cut it off.

“I'm sorry, Chloe. She's not herself anymore. I guess we just need to learn to be patient.”

I thought she would argue, but she didn't, making me feel like the child. Instead she said, “Where's Carol Lynne going today?”

I straightened, clutching a pair of clean jeans. “What do you mean?”

“She's downstairs by the front door sitting on two suitcases. I asked her where she was going and she just said, ‘Away.' And she keeps asking me for a cigarette.”

I dropped the clothes I'd already gathered back into my suitcase,
then headed for the door, shoving the pill into my mouth when I knew Chloe couldn't see.

I stopped near the bottom of the staircase, right near the old watermark, and stared at my mother. Her hair was in braids again, circa 1966, and she wore bell-bottom jeans and the same floral top I'd seen her in before. Her long fingers plucked at the denim covering her thighs, something I'd seen her do whenever she'd decided to go cold turkey and give up her cigarettes. Her feet were clad in the house slippers, and she sat on top of an ancient mustard yellow American Tourister hardcover suitcase. I hated those suitcases, hated seeing them in the foyer, because it always meant that my mother was leaving. Or coming back.

“Where are you going?” I asked carefully, praying that the pill would work a little faster on an empty stomach.

She looked up, surprised to see me. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school?”

“It's Saturday,” I said quickly, not even sure myself what day of the week it was.

She frowned as she took in the pajamas. “I think those are too small for you, Vivien. You're growing like a weed. I suppose we'll need to make a shopping trip to Hamlin's and find you something that fits.”

I took another step down, wishing I'd remembered to ask Tommy what the appropriate responses would be, and praying that Cora Smith would walk through the door any minute.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said as Chloe moved down the staircase beside me.

My mother stood and walked toward us, her gaze focused on Chloe. I gritted my teeth, remembering what Tommy had said about our mother no longer having filters.

She reached up and tucked Chloe's hair behind one ear and then the other, and I watched in shock as Chloe let her. She was so prickly about her looks; any suggestions or comments I might have had for her always ended up with screaming and slamming doors. I suppose that's what happens when one's plastic surgeon father can only see you as a project to fix.

Carol Lynne touched Chloe's cheek. “You have the most beautiful skin, and I think the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I wish I could see
them, but it's hard to with your hair in your face and all that eyeliner.” She reached for one of her own braids and pulled off the rubber band that held it in place. “I'm real good at doing French braids. Come sit down and let me play with your hair.”

Without waiting for a response, she took Chloe's hand and led her to one of the Chippendale chairs that sat on either side of the demilune hall table. With a backward glance at me, Chloe went with her without comment and sat in the chair that Carol Lynne had moved from the wall.

I sat down on the steps, mesmerized by how quickly my mother's fingers worked through Chloe's hair, moving the strands in and out with deftness and precision. It was odd to see, to know that she couldn't remember Chloe's name or that I wasn't in high school anymore, but she could remember how to French-braid hair. When I was a little girl, she'd braided my hair as we sat at the dressing table in her room staring into the same mirror. My mother would lean over me, letting her hair fall over my face as if it were my own, and we'd delight in how identical the color was, and how we couldn't tell where my hair stopped and hers began.

I looked away, happy to feel the fog of the pill begin to slip into my memories and soften their sharp edges.

The sound of a key in the front lock brought my attention to the door as Cora Smith let herself in, pausing for a moment to take in the suitcases, me on the steps wearing ill-fitting pajamas, and my mother braiding Chloe's hair on the antique chair in the foyer.

“Good afternoon,” she said cheerily.