Paper Castles (27 page)

All day, Savannah couldn’t stop crying. Later that evening, curled up in her own bed, she wondered how her own heart could continue to beat when Neenie’s had ceased.

Beverly was sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching over her. The doctor left a few pills in a brown bottle and she saw him bend to whisper something in her mother’s ear before he closed the door behind him.

Savannah reached for the little yellow pill in her mother’s outstretched hand. Dr. Fritz was wise to only leave a few. She might have swallowed the whole bottle if she had the chance. The thought wrapped around her conscience and pulled tight. Why not succumb to her destiny? She’d spent her life fighting against Beverly’s genes, but still they swam through her blood. They might win after all.

Sleep. Sleep. She clung to Neenie’s pillow as her eyelids fluttered a few times. Beverly rocked in the chair, and Savannah could hear the hum of voices downstairs, but she was alone. More alone than she’d ever been.

T
HE HOUSE was in mourning. Its big shoulders slumped as the window shades were pulled down. No life left in the kitchen, no chamomile tea on the bedside table. Savannah wandered through the empty rooms by day and haunted the halls at night.

A drug-induced sleep kept her down on the first night. After that she could only find comfort in Neenie’s bed, the smell of fresh linens in her fists. Pretending the covers were Neenie’s arms wrapping around her. Sometimes she sat on the edge of the bed holding the pillow’s imaginary hand, trying to conjure Neenie’s last moments, and put herself there. Present, attentive, whispering the right words.

I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. Why didn’t you wait for me?

Beverly stayed at the house. They didn’t talk much, but every time Savannah came downstairs, her mother was there. Angela and PJ were on their way back from Clearwater. Rebecca was coming, Kip was on his way, too. Savannah waited for the reinforcements, but these troops would already be battle-weary. She could only hope if they joined hands, the circle would be strong enough to hold them all up.

Phil stopped by, shattered by the news. He and Savannah stood in the kitchen, gripped by an awkward silence. He told her he was heading back to Philadelphia for a week. This was her time to mourn with her family. He’d just be in the way.

“Here’s my card,” he said.

She stared at the formal lettering,
Philip J Hannigan, Attorney at Law
and a Philadelphia phone number. It felt cold and impersonal. Then he turned the little card over pointing to his sharp handwriting on the back.

“My home phone number,” he said. “Call me if you need anything. Or even if you don’t need anything. Day or night.”

“Thank you.”

He closed her fingers around his card, around his name. She wanted to clutch at him. Ask him, even beg him to stay. To hold her hand and keep reassuring her:
it’s not your fault.
Because it felt like everything was her fault. Instead, she nodded and let him go.

The doorbell heralded a continuous stream of visitors, mourners making a pilgrimage to Savannah’s door. Young, old, black, white—they came to honor the woman. They brought dishes of food which piled up in the kitchen, waiting for someone with an appetite. Every woman outdid her neighbor with secret family recipes. Cakes and pies and cheese straws. Home-made pickles, tomatoes fresh from the garden and, fried chicken. Oh, the fried chicken. A southerners version of the Last Supper.

Neenie always said, “A good Baptist knows the surest way to get into heaven is with a covered dish.”

They brought covered dishes and deep casseroles. And they brought stories. Wonderful stories. Women she’d never heard of stopped by to tell her how Neenie used to carry on about her Baby Girl. Savannah’s aching heart found comfort in the shared memories. Just hearing Neenie’s name was a cool cloth on a fevered brow, but the anecdotes and jokes of a long, well-lived life made Savannah gather her courage. She took everything they gave her. Fists closed tightly around every word. Then tucked them into the wound in her heart.

The stories reminded her how far the little brown girl had traveled in her seventy-one years. Neenie may have only made it to the other side of town, but it had been a long walk. And a walk not made alone.

Before Rebecca was even through the doorway, Savannah was reaching for her. “Beck, thank God you’re here.” The two sisters clung to one another, Savannah’s tears becoming Rebecca’s tears as they rocked back and forth. They got through the day hand-in-hand and later that night, in Savannah’s room, Rebecca sat brushing Savannah’s hair.

Savannah looked in the mirror at her younger sister’s serene face. Where Savannah was constantly wringing her hands, Rebecca remained calm. The ugliness didn’t seem to stick to her. When was the last time they’d shared an intimate moment like this? Savannah couldn’t remember.

“You know Beck, you’ve been doing an awful lot of hand-holding for me lately,” she said. “I’m supposed to be the big sister. “

“You need it more right now. Besides, I’m glad to play the big sis for once. My whole life I’ve wanted to be you.”

Savannah turned on the little stool and pulled Rebecca down to her level. “What are you talking about? You were the baby. Everyone’s curly-haired darling.”

“But you were glamorous.” Rebecca sat on the floor, her legs crossed, an elbow on her knee. She looked fourteen.

“Glamorous? Were we in the same house?”

“Well, to a pip-squeak, you were glamorous. Floating down the stairs in a formal. You were practically a movie star.”

“Like a movie star, it was all smoke and mirrors.”

Rebecca looked up into Savannah’s face. “I wish I’d known how miserable you were.”

“I wish I’d told you.”

“You can tell me now.”

The bond stretched across the six-year age gap as Savannah told her story. Not glamorous older sister and pip-squeak, but two adult women having a real conversation about love and life. About growing up in a house full of secrets. How Savannah had learned the lessons so well she carried them across the threshold when she married Price. Exchanging one set of secrets for another. Rebecca reached out and held Savannah’s hand.

“I had no idea.”

“No one did,” Savannah said, then smiled shyly. “Want to sleep over?”

They rolled back the years and curled up in Neenie’s bed, holding hands as they drifted off to sleep.

T
HE SOUND of car doors closing in the driveway had Savannah on her feet, rushing to the front door. Her babies were home again. More bad news to fill up their suitcases before the return trip.

How would her children survive this latest blow?

“You don’t have to be strong,” Savannah whispered to PJ as they clung to one another. She reached out to gather Angela into the circle, but her daughter brushed past, heading into the house.

Savannah’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t really expected a change in only the few days the kids had been gone. But she had hoped.

“It’ll be all right, Mom.” PJ tucked her under his arm and walked her into the house. She couldn’t remember when this switch had happened. Only yesterday, she was carrying him on her hip, soothing fears and scraped knees with a kiss. Now almost sixteen, he was tall enough to shelter her.

“I’m not staying here,” Angela said as Savannah walked into the kitchen. “Please, Grandma, can’t I stay with you?”

Beverly looked from Angela to Savannah, trapped.

“It’s all right with me, Momma,” Savannah said. Everyone had to make it through the next couple of days and she didn’t intend to spend them arguing with Angela.

Thanks to all the visitors, they had plenty of food to serve for dinner that night. Mixed platters and dishes were passed around. Kip and Jack ironed out the logistics of getting everyone to the funeral on time. Savannah sat back, toying with her tuna casserole, wondering if her black dress needed ironing. A faded memory floated to the surface and Savannah grabbed it before it blew away: little Savannah standing on a wooden crate, Neenie standing over her, giving precise instructions on how to iron Jack Kendall’s handkerchiefs. Savannah smiled at the picture.

She looked across the table. Angela’s eyes were boring into her.

“Did you kill her, too?”

The air in the room collapsed in a collective gasp, followed by a chorus of raised voices, forks dropped, napkins thrown down.

Jack Kendall stood up. “Young lady, apologize to your mother.”

“I’ve had about enough of your attitude,” Kip said.

Recriminations came from every seat.
Shame on you. How dare you?
And a crimson tide spread across Angela’s face, as the entire room turned on her.

“It’s all right, Daddy,” Savannah said.

“No. It’s not all right. She’s been nothing but a brat and it’s time someone put her in her place.”

“Jack.” Beverly touched his arm.

Jack planted a hand on the table and pointed in Angela’s face. “Don’t
ever
let me hear you speak to my daughter like that again.”

“Fine. I have no intention of speaking to her again.” Angela pushed her chair from the table and stormed from the room.

Savannah sat there, mortally wounded by friendly fire. She had to hand it to her daughter, Angela had no trouble speaking the truth. She didn’t hide, didn’t run, didn’t smile and play nice. She confronted the enemy. Even if the enemy’s name was Mom.

The bullet fired at the dining room table stayed lodged near Savannah’s heart the rest of the evening. When Kip found her on the back porch swing, she was still having a hard time catching her breath.

“How you holding up, kiddo?”

“I’d be lying if I said I was doing okay.”

“No need to lie.”

“Angela’s right, you know.”

“Angela’s thirteen and thinks the world revolves around her.”

“Maybe she’s the only one who sees things clearly.” Savannah leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in hands. “All Neenie did was love me, and I killed her.”

“What?” He sat up like a bolt and turned her to him, staring her down. “She was seventy-one, Savvy. You had nothing to do with it.”

“I had everything to do with it. Me. My situation. Angela screaming I’m a murderer on a daily basis. Neenie’s old heart couldn’t take any more of my crap.”