Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (29 page)

Over and over, my mother’s voice echoed around me,
“You’ll be sorry if you don’t go . . . you’ll be sorry . . . you’ll be sorry . . .”

I reached for the handle of the car door, my insides blistered with guilt. I crawled onto the seat, tucked my knees to my chest, and clamped my hands over my head. But the sound of her voice and the vision of her lying dead in the street stayed with me. Sweat poured off my forehead. I was burning up.

Then, like sugar in the rain, the image of my mother melted away. And she was gone, just gone.

In the distance I heard the jangle of keys. The trunk was opened then closed, and Aunt Tootie’s voice floated over my head: “I got some beautiful peaches. Oletta will be so happy. Just wait till—Cecelia? What’s wrong?”

I felt her hand on my back. “What is it? Cecelia, talk to me.”

Then everything went black.

I
woke to the chirping of birds and the fresh scent of cool morning air. My eyelids felt like they’d been sewn shut, and when I forced them open, something wavy and dark floated in front of me. Once my vision came into focus, I recognized Oletta’s face.

She leaned close and smoothed her hand over my head. “Well, look at this. It’s about time you woke up. I told you a long time ago that I ain’t got time for no lazybones.”

I looked around the room, feeling confused. I was lying in the four-poster bed in the bedroom Aunt Tootie had referred to as the Snowflake Room. I pushed against my elbows and tried to sit up, but my head flopped back on the pillow.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a moment later Aunt Tootie’s face appeared next to Oletta’s. “Oh, Cecelia, it’s so good to see you awake.”

Oletta smiled. “I’ve got to check on the bread in the oven. I’ll be back a little later and bring you some nice apple-butter toast.”

As Oletta left the room, Aunt Tootie sat on the edge of the bed and brushed my bangs off my forehead. “You just rest and let us take care of you.”

My throat felt scraped and raw, and my voice sounded raspy when I said, “What happened?”

She lifted a glass from the bedside table and held a straw to my lips. “Take a sip of this lemon and honey water. It’ll make you feel better.” After I took a long drink, she set down the glass and patted my hand. “You’re a little groggy, don’t let it scare you. Last night Dr. O’Connor gave you a shot to help you sleep for a while. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But . . . what happened?”

She rubbed my arm and a shadow moved across her face when she said, “We’ll talk about it later. For now I think it’s best that you rest.”

“How long have I been in this bed?”

“Not all that long—just since yesterday afternoon.”

A surge of panic washed over me.
Is this the beginning? Am I losing my mind like Momma did?

“Please, Aunt Tootie, I need to know. What happened?”

She nodded and squeezed my fingers. “All right. Why don’t you tell me what you remember and we’ll see if we can piece things together from there.”

“We went to the peach farm. I was petting the dogs, and then . . .” Words clumped in my throat. I looked away and chewed my lip. I ached everywhere, as if I’d been beaten up on the inside.

“What is it, Cecelia?”

“I saw things . . . bad things. They came at me like a storm. But now I’m here. How? How did that happen?”

“It’s all right,” she said, rubbing my arm. “I brought you home from the peach farm.”

I looked around the room. “But how did I get in this bed?”

Aunt Tootie tilted her head. “You and I did it together, honey. We climbed the stairs and I got you into bed. Now, tell me, what did you see?”

I closed my eyes and said, “I saw the day Momma died. It was like watching a movie. When she got hit by the truck there was a terrible thud, and then I saw her lying in the road. It made me hurt . . . everywhere. Then I fell into a black hole. That’s all I remember.”

Aunt Tootie gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord. Cecelia, are you saying that you were
with
your mother when she died?”

I swallowed hard and shook my head. “No, I wasn’t with her. I was at home. But in my mind I saw things as if I
was
there. And the sound of that thud, I never heard it with my own ears, but it echoed in my mind as if I did.”

Tears burned my eyes. “It’s my fault. She wanted me to go to the Goodwill store, but I said no. And I said mean things to her too.”

“Oh, honey. Is that what this is about?” Aunt Tootie tucked the covers around me and took hold of my hand. “Your mother’s death had nothing to do with you, Cecelia. I promise it didn’t. The human mind is an amazing thing. It protects us when we can’t protect ourselves. Sometimes when we’re holding pain and it gets to be too heavy or goes too deep, we have to give in to it, let it knock us over and pull us all the way down. Once we hit bottom, we rest in a quiet place for a while. Then, when the pain eases and we’re ready to face the world again, we come right back up.”

She leaned down, wrapped me in her arms, and held me for a long moment. When she sat up, she searched my face. “I called Gertrude last night. We had a long talk.”

“Mrs. Odell? You talked to Mrs. Odell?”

“Yes. I called to see if she knew anything about your medical records. I had asked your father to get them for me, but I guess he either forgot or hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Gertrude was so kind and helpful. She loves you very much, Cecelia. She said you’d always been healthy as a horse but that you had a tendency to hold things in.” Aunt Tootie looked deep into my eyes. “Gertrude gave me a clearer picture of what you went through with your mother. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I had no idea how ill she was.”

I was mortified. That old familiar heat of embarrassment burned my cheeks. I looked away and covered my face with my hands.
What had Mrs. Odell told Aunt Tootie? How could she do this to me?

“Cecelia Rose, please look at me,” my aunt said, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “Will you do that? I want you to know something. Gertrude didn’t tell me about your mother’s problems to hurt you. She told me so I’d know more of your history, so I could understand and help you.”

It seemed that no matter how far away I moved or how hard I tried to forget about all that had happened, my past would always be lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag me down. I rolled on my side and buried my face in the pillow.

“Let me tell you a story,” Aunt Tootie said, stroking her hand across my back. “One afternoon I went to the grocery market. Taylor had been gone a little over a year, and though I was still grieving, I was doing a pretty good job of holding myself together. Or so I thought.

“I was standing in the checkout line and glanced down at my basket. And there on top of my groceries was a carton of Taylor’s favorite ice cream—Strawberry Surprise. I used to buy him a carton every week, and he loved it so much it’d be gone in three or four days. I never cared for strawberry ice cream, and I’d have never bought it for myself. Now, I can assure you I had no recollection of putting that ice cream into the basket, but I knew I must have—how else would it have gotten there? I stared at that ice cream for the longest time, and then a horrible pain took hold of me. It was so awful I couldn’t breathe. Next thing I knew, I dropped the basket and ran from the store.

“That’s all I remember of that day. How I drove home is something I’ll never know. It was Oletta who found me on the floor of my bedroom the following morning. I was so out of sorts I couldn’t even talk. But with some rest and Oletta’s care, I eventually came around. Before too long I was back in the middle of my life, doing things and going places with my friends. But I had to plunge deep into my pain and grief before I could move on.”

I rolled on my back and rubbed my eyes. “But, Aunt Tootie, I never even cried the day Momma died. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I feel terrible because all she ever talked about was moving back to Georgia—it was her dream. But now I’m here instead of her. And I’m scared.”

Aunt Tootie furrowed her brow and looked at me thoughtfully. “Why, honey? What are you scared of ?”

I stared at the ceiling. Visions of Momma swam through my mind. I could see her standing at the bathroom mirror, wearing a slip and her red shoes, screaming at my father who wasn’t even there. And I smelled the sour scent of her when she was so far gone that she hadn’t bathed for days.

I couldn’t even look at Aunt Tootie. It was as if I were standing outside myself. Watching. Waiting. Wondering who that girl in the bed really was, and what would become of her.

“Talk to me, sugar. Please. I need to know why you’re so afraid.”

It wasn’t until my aunt squeezed my hand that I opened my mouth and the truth fell from my lips. “I’m scared that no matter where I go, how many books I read, or how hard I study, I’ll never have a normal life because I’m
not
normal—I’m
her
daughter. I’ll end up going insane just like she did.” I let out a raspy sob. “And what happened at the peach farm proves it. I’m already starting to go crazy.”

Aunt Tootie pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Cecelia Rose, it’s not your fault that your mother died. And whatever was wrong with her isn’t something she passed down to you. We’ll never fully understand what all happened, but as sure as I’m sitting here on this bed, I know that whatever it was that went haywire in your mother’s mind
isn’t
going to happen to you.”

“But how?” I squeaked. “How do you know that?”

She took hold of my hand and kissed it, leaving a pale tattoo of red lipstick behind. “Because I just
do
. This isn’t something I think in my brain—it’s something I
feel
in my heart, and there’s a mighty big difference between the two. It’s our hearts that tell us the truth of things, honey, and my heart has never betrayed me. Not ever.”

“But I looked up
psychosis
in the dictionary, and it said that sometimes mental illness is passed down. And—”

Aunt Tootie’s voice was so firm it shocked me. “Cecelia Rose Honeycutt, you are
not
going to lose your mind.” She leaned close and her voice softened when she said, “Now, here’s something else I know. You might not think you’re grieving, but grief comes in all sorts of ways. There’s the kind of grief that leaves you numb, and the kind of grief that rips your world in half. And then there’s another kind of grief that doesn’t feel like grief at all. It’s like a tiny splinter you don’t even know you have until it festers so deep it has nowhere left to go but into your soul. I think that’s the hardest kind of grief there is because you know you’re hurting but you don’t know why.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“You know what else I think?”

I didn’t want to hear another word, but I didn’t want be rude, either, so I let out a tired sigh and said, “What?”

“I think while your mother was alive you held tight to the hope that one day you’d wake up and she’d be healthy—behave like a
real
mother. Then you’d be able live your life the way children are supposed to. But that day never came. Oh, honey, you’ve held so much inside for such a long time. You’ve been very brave.” She pressed her palm to my cheek and tilted her head. “But even the bravest among us can’t hold that much hurt inside. I believe you’re not only hurting but you’re grieving too. Not only for the mother you had but for the mother and the childhood you didn’t.”

For the next few days I stayed in bed and slept a lot, but during the hushed hours of the night, I’d get up and switch on the bathroom light. Rising on my tiptoes, I’d lean close to the mirror and look deep into my eyes. I knew what happened when people lost their minds—for years I had watched my mother’s eyes dilate until they became round black voids. Whenever that happened, I knew the storm would soon follow. I promised myself that if I saw even so much as a hint of that void in my own eyes, I’d run to the nearest bridge and heave myself over the side.

I’d stare into the bathroom mirror until I was sure my eyes looked normal, then I’d go back to bed. But I would lie awake and think about all that had happened to me in the first twelve years of my life—years that now collapsed around me, as lifeless and flat as the bedsheets.

I felt small and lost in the big bed, so one night I took my blanket and pillow and made a nest for myself on the window seat. With my knees tucked close to my chest, I rested my head against the pillow. A light rain began to fall, and as I listened to the roll of thunder far off in the distance, I thought about the upcoming school year and wondered how I’d find a way to fit in. Though I could spell words from
archipelago
to
zibeline
and tell you what they meant, I had no idea how to interact with girls my own age.

As I watched raindrops glide down the windowpane, I thought about Momma and all the crazy things she did and said. Though I didn’t want to admit it, a part of me missed her. Not the way she was before she died, but the way she was before she got sick.

I had been ashamed of her for so long that any good memories had been distorted and smudged by her illness. I’d forgotten how much fun she was when I was real little, how she’d tell me bedtime stories about fairies who used daisies as umbrellas, how she’d buy me coloring books and sit at the table and help me pick out what crayons I should use. And then I remembered something that happened on a cold winter’s morning when I couldn’t have been much more than three years old.

Momma came into my bedroom and woke me. Her eyes shone bright in the violet tint of predawn light. “There’s magic outside,” she said, scooping me into her arms. “Come see.” Her robe was soft against my cheek as she carried me down the stairs.