A Long Time Gone (3 page)

Uncle Joe came and picked me up soon afterward, so Sarah Beth and I didn't have a chance to further speculate on what we'd discovered that afternoon. But I couldn't help wondering why those dead babies had all made it into the Heathmans' family Bible and Sarah Beth had not. I looked out the car window at the cotton fields and considered all the possibilities.
Everybody has secrets,
I thought, thinking about my mother and how she'd jumped into the river, leaving me to always wonder what it was about me that wasn't enough to make her stay.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND
, MISSISSIPPI
APRIL 2013

I
woke up in my girlhood room, the sunlight shining through the pink eyelet canopy. Large butterflies the size of my head flitted around the wallpaper, the corners beginning to sag as if the insects had grown weary of flying. When I was eight and Mama left again without us, Bootsie had taken me to pick out new wallpaper, like my mother being gone was just another way of redecorating my childhood. And here it was, nineteen years after it was first stuck up on the walls, a reminder that at least on the surface, things hardly changed at all in this corner of the world.

“Here.”

I turned my head to the side of the bed and saw Tripp sitting in a chair and holding out a neatly pressed linen handkerchief. He'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, looking more like the boy I'd known.

When I didn't take it right away, he said, “You've been crying in your sleep.”

I closed my eyes, calling back the fading streamers of my dream, plucking at them like sticky strands of cotton candy. But they crumbled
when I touched them, disintegrating until all that was left was the desolation. I took the handkerchief and held it over my face with shaking hands.

Then I remembered my mother in her odd dress, and Tommy, and the curve of a white skull against the dark earth, the ruined cypress scattered across the backyard. “The bones,” I said, trying out my voice, wondering why I'd chosen the skeleton as a place to start. “Who is it?”

“I'm not sure yet. The Mississippi crime lab has sent a CSI team to assist in the recovery of the remains. You have an Indian mound on your property, which could account for the bones, but maybe not, since they were found so far away. I won't know for sure until the remains are examined, but it looks like they've been there for a while.”

He spoke slowly, and I noticed it now because I'd grown used to the West Coast and how people there spoke quickly and in abbreviated sentences, like verbal texts. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed his voice and the time between words that gave you time to listen.

Tripp sat back in his chair, regarding me silently for a moment. “Bootsie's old housekeeper, Mathilda, would never go near that tree, remember? She said there were haints who haunted the tree. It's where we used to go when we stole biscuits from the kitchen, because we knew she wouldn't follow us.”

I could barely focus on his words, the throbbing in my head obscuring all thoughts. “Tripp, I left my purse in my car. Would you mind . . .”

I stopped at the familiar shake of a plastic pill bottle and I pulled the handkerchief away to see Tripp holding up the bottle. “This is powerful stuff, Vivi. Not to mention the two empty bottles of other medications.”

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my anger overpowering my embarrassment.

“Tommy brought up your bags and your purse, and they fell out.”

“And you had to read the labels.”

His steady gaze held mine, and I knew he wouldn't answer. It had always been this way with us. It's why we'd been best friends since, by the sheer virtue of our last names being alphabetical neighbors, his desk had been placed next to mine in kindergarten.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I didn't take the other two medications. I emptied them in the toilet.”

“But you kept the bottles because refills are available.”

I didn't argue. He'd always had a knack for pulling out the truth like a magician with a card trick.

“Who's Dr. McDermott?”

I closed my eyes. “My husband. Ex-husband,” I corrected. “He's a plastic surgeon.”

Tripp's eyebrows rose, making me feel defensive and pathetic all at once. As if he'd just made me admit that I was so messed up in my head that I'd blindly take narcotics for anxiety and depression prescribed by a plastic surgeon.

He shook the bottle, the pills clicking against the plastic. “These are addictive, you know. And dangerous if not taken with close medical supervision.”

I shrugged, trying to pretend that I didn't care. “I've had a tough time of it these last few years. And I don't take them all the time—just when I need one to get over a rough spot.” I looked away so he couldn't see the lie in my eyes. “Mark never told me. He just called them happy pills. And they are,” I added defensively.

Eager to switch the subject, I pulled myself up against the headboard. “Why are you the coroner? I thought you wanted to go to medical school.”

His face remained expressionless. “I did. But then I changed my mind.”

“But why? All you ever talked about was becoming a cardiologist.”

His silences might have been unnerving to anyone who hadn't grown up with Tripp, but to me they were plain frightening. Because they always meant that he was thinking deeply, and what he said next was never what you thought it might be.

“You left,” he said, allowing me to interpret what he'd meant.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the meandering words ricocheting around my head, words to form questions I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answers to. I opened them again to find Tripp staring calmly back at me.

I opened my mouth to ask about Bootsie and what was wrong with my mother, but the headache stabbed at me from behind my eyes. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answers to my questions, and knew that I needed a pill before I could even think about asking.

Refocusing on the bottle of pills, I said, “I need one. Just one. I need it for my nerves. I don't even need water.”

He didn't give me the bottle. “When was the last time you ate?”

My head throbbed, nearly blinding me. “In Arkansas. Yesterday sometime. I don't remember.”

He stood. “You're dehydrated and you need food. Tommy's making breakfast. I'll bring up a plate of eggs, bacon, and grits, and after you eat, I'll give you a pill with a glass of water.”

I pressed the back of my head against the headboard, desperate to quell the throbbing. “Who died and made you king?”

Tripp shoved his hands and the bottle into his pockets, his unflinching gaze never leaving my face. Finally he said, “I'll be back.”

I stared at the butterflies on the walls, wishing I could get out of the bed and storm downstairs and demand answers to all the questions that were hurtling themselves against my skull. But my whole body was shaking now, and I couldn't quite figure out how to throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand.

After what seemed like hours, Tripp appeared with a tray of food. I looked behind him, feeling disappointed when I realized he was alone. “Where's Tommy?”

Tripp took his time depositing the tray on my lap and making sure my glass of water was within easy reach on my nightstand. He waited until he was back in his chair before he answered.

“He's not ready to talk to you. You left him behind, too, remember.” He indicated the tray with his chin. “Eat first and I'll give you a pill. Then we can talk.”

I wanted to refuse, but the last nine years had beaten all the fight out of me. I'd learned that acquiescence was always the path of least resistance. And the smell of the food had reminded me just how hungry I was. I ate quickly, without speaking, then pushed my plate away and picked up the glass of water. Tripp removed the tray from my lap and set it on the dresser before taking the pill bottle out of his pocket and opening it, expertly spilling out one pill onto my palm. I swallowed it, then drank all of the water under his watchful eye.

He placed the nearly full bottle on my nightstand almost as a challenge. Leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, he waited.

“Where's Bootsie?” I asked, ready to hear the answer now. It could
have been my anticipation, but the pill seemed to have already begun to form its cushion around all of my nerve endings, making even the harshest blow more bearable. It was the soft bed into which I disappeared to escape the realities of what had become of my life. I had left this house at eighteen with all the hopes and dreams a young girl could stuff inside her head and heart, and returned with empty bags. Only my grandmother knew how to fill them again.

“I'm sorry, Vivi. She died last spring. Pneumonia. It was real quick. She died in her sleep.”

The words skimmed over me like geese on an autumn pond, the pain blocked even as I remembered the unread letters I'd thrown away before I'd moved again, leaving no forwarding address; my unlisted phone numbers; and my constant vigilance just in case somebody from home came to find me. Shame and regret slid down my arms, and I folded my hands as if I could put those useless emotions away permanently.

“Tommy and I wrote to let you know.”

I turned my head and found myself staring at a large butterfly, its wings seeming to beat slowly against the wall. “And my mother . . . ?”

“Tommy should tell you. . . .”

I shook my head. “If he's angry with me, it could take months, and I doubt I'll be here that long.” Holding grudges wasn't reserved for only the females in our family.

His expression shifted. “She has dementia. We suspect she could be in the early stages of Alzheimer's, but she refuses to see a doctor and get tested. Tommy could sure use your help. He's been running the farm and the antique clock business, and he's pretty wore out taking care of your mama, too.”

I felt like I was having surgery while being completely awake, sensing the pressure of the scalpel without the pain.

I shook my head. “That can't be right. She's not old enough.” I closed my eyes, the beating wings of the butterfly making me dizzy. “And Bootsie can't be dead. I would have
known
. I would have felt it.”

He didn't speak for a long time, and I eventually opened my eyes again to see him still sitting by the side of my bed, his expression blurred. “Tommy would have called when she first got sick if he'd known how to reach you.”

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Numbness covered me now like a warm blanket, and I nestled further into it. I wanted to tell him that a mother's abandonment is permanent even if she comes back when it's too late to matter. That my leaving was meant to punish her and my family, who welcomed her back. If only I could have told my eighteen-year-old self that leaving home was like leaving behind a part of myself, that the pull of the land and the muddy river and the cotton fields would tether me to this place like an umbilical cord no matter how far I ran. I said nothing, inertia cocooning my body.

Tripp leaned toward me. “Tommy brought these in with your suitcases. He found them on the dash in your car and thought you might want them.”

He held out two photographs, one a sonogram and the other Chloe's third-grade photo. I stared at them like a stranger would, only a vague squeezing around the heart telling me that they meant something to me. “Thank you,” I mumbled from stiff lips.

He didn't ask—he wouldn't—but I could see the question in his eyes. I shrugged, burying myself further into the blanket of oblivion. “They're lost to me.” I was startled to feel the sting behind my eyes. “I was wrong to think I could be different.”

Tripp studied me with serious eyes. “Why did you come back?”

Because I've made a mess out of my life, and I needed Bootsie to make everything better. But now she's dead and I'm lost.
“No matter where you go, there you are.” I closed my eyes again, trying to remember where I'd heard those words before. I clenched my eyes tighter, realizing it had been Tripp who'd said them to my retreating back as I stepped into my Chevy Malibu, the trunk stuffed and the backseat piled high with everything I'd accumulated in the first eighteen years of my life. Bootsie, my mother, and Tommy had remained indoors, unwilling to accept my leaving. Tripp hadn't even shouted the words, knowing his calm Southern voice would stay with me longer than any words hurled at me like stones.

Tripp stood and walked slowly toward the door. “I don't know how long you're planning on staying, but don't leave just yet. I know I'll have more questions, and the sheriff will have to write up a report and might have some questions for you, too. I know it sounds redundant, but in real life the coroner just mostly handles the forensics part and the
paperwork. We normally don't get involved in the actual case.” He paused. “You need to make your peace with your brother. Your mama's gone back to bed, but Tommy's at his workshop trying to salvage what he can. You might as well get it over with.”

I leaned back against the headboard, knowing there was something else I had to say to him. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway just as I remembered what it was.

“I came back because I had nowhere else to go.”

He kept his hand on the doorknob without looking back at me. After a brief pause, he said, “I'm sorry to hear that.” He closed the door with a soft snap.

I sat up in bed and found myself facing the shelves Bootsie had hung on my wall to display my beauty pageant trophies, and the plaques and ribbons for my compositions and essays. I had once wanted to be an actress or a weather girl or a writer, and for one brief glimmering moment in time, it had all seemed possible.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, then made my way through the old house. The walls seemed to grow and swell as I passed through the familiar rooms, as if the house recognized me and were welcoming me home. I paused near the bottom of the front stairs, at the mark in the plaster that had never been painted or wallpapered over. Or ever would be, I suspected, much like how Yankee cannonballs were preserved in the stately columns of the Vicksburg mansions like marks of pride. It was a watermark on the wall that showed the height of the water during the great Mississippi River flood of 1927. It had killed five hundred people, including a family member, an event nobody talked about anymore. The mark was the house's scar, proof that it had suffered a loss as much as the family living inside it had.