Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (30 page)

“Look,” she said, holding me in front of the living room window. “See what the angels did? Isn’t it pretty? They came last night when you were asleep and scattered sugar from the sky. Cecelia, look at the trees. Aren’t they the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen?”

“That’s snow,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“No, look again. See all the sparkles way up in the tree branches? That’s sugar.”

I looked out the window, feeling confused, but then decided she was right—it
was
sugar. “Why, Momma? Why did the angels do that?”

She pressed her nose to mine and looked deep into my eyes. “Because you’re the sweetest little girl in the world.”

Now, as the rain came harder, I lifted my finger and traced the trail of a raindrop as it slid down the windowpane. My chest ached when I remembered how often she had said, “Promise you’ll never leave me.”

I could smell her Shalimar perfume, and I could feel the gentleness of her kiss on my cheek.

And then they came. Tears. Hot and stinging.

Not tears for me, for my shame, or for all the things I feared about the future. They were tears for Momma: the haunting sadness she felt—the years her illness had slashed out of her life—her tragic death.

I burrowed deeper under the blanket, and as the rain beat against the window and thunder rolled over the house, I closed my eyes, let go, and fell into the depths of my sadness. And as I fell, I accepted the truth I had fought for so long—I missed my mother.

I woke to the sound of the door opening and the spicy, warm aroma of Oletta’s famous cinnamon rolls, her tried-and-true antidote for sadness, gloom, and all that ailed one. She set the breakfast tray on the bed and came to sit next to me on the window seat.

Her eyelids sagged like the roof of an old porch when she took hold of my hand. “Child, child. You’re too young to have all that sadness in your eyes. I was thinkin’ this morning that you ain’t read me that book like you promised. You know, the next Nancy Drew you talked about?”

“I’ve tried to read, but sometimes the words look like a string of little black bugs creeping across the page. Aunt Tootie says I should just rest and give myself time. But what if I never get better? What if the words never stop moving?”

Oletta gazed out the window, her eyes shining like wet stones. “Maybe them words keep moving ’cause they’re tryin’ to show you something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look out the window. Can you see it?”

I leaned forward and pressed my nose to the glass. “What? What do you want me to see?”

She reached over and pushed up the window. A rain-freshened breeze rolled in like an unexpected gift.

“Look,” she said, smiling out at the trees, the sky, and the birds flying by. “That’s life out there. See how it’s movin’? Even the leaves on the trees is movin’. Life don’t wait for nobody, and even as special as you are, it ain’t gonna wait for you, neither. So it’s time to make up your mind that you’re gonna join it.”

I looked out the window and thought about what she said. And for the first time in days I felt a smile curve the corner of my lips.

Before leaving the room, Oletta told me she loved me. Well, not the exact words
I love you
, but what she said was, “Ain’t no sun in the kitchen without your face lookin’ up at me.”

That was the finest thing anyone could have said.

Dr. O’Connor, who smelled of pipe tobacco and looked a lot like Jack Benny, came to see me every day. He’d press a cold stethoscope to my chest, take my pulse, and talk with me about how I felt. Then, on a crystal-blue Thursday morning, Dr. O’Connor examined me from head to toe. He zipped closed his brown leather bag and announced to Aunt Tootie, “Your girl doesn’t need the likes of me. All she needs is some exercise and sunshine.” He gave me a wink, gently pinched my toes, and left.

The Snowflake Room was too big and too fancy and definitely too white. I felt like I’d been held captive in the middle of a perpetual wedding. I missed my little tree-house bedroom with its happy colors and views of the ever-changing sky, and I was glad when Aunt Tootie said I was well enough to return to the third floor.

My legs felt weak as I climbed the stairs, but it felt good to be up and walking. After showering and washing my hair, I got dressed. From the bookshelf next to my bed, I removed
The Clue of the Broken Locket
and made my way down the stairs.

Oletta was busy in the pantry and didn’t see me walk into the kitchen. I pulled myself onto the stool by the chopping block and waited. Oletta didn’t notice me when she stepped out of the pantry with a sack of flour in her arms, and she still didn’t notice me when she set it on the counter and shuffled to the oven to check on the bread she was baking.

I opened the book to the fi rst chapter and began reading aloud, “‘The light from the bull’s-eye window began to flash on and off. Surely this must be a signal . . .’”

T
he days passed, and I grew stronger. Oletta made my favorite foods—grilled cheese sandwiches, banana bread, and thick buttermilk pancakes. She even spent an entire Monday afternoon making a seven-layer chocolate cream cake from scratch. Aunt Tootie, who had rarely left the house while I was recuperating, resumed her hectic schedule of saving houses from the wrecking ball. But she always spent time with me after dinner, and we’d talk, go for a walk, or watch TV together.

When I went to bed at night, I no longer lay awake in fear that Momma’s illness had been passed down to me. In some ways my life in Willoughby had begun to fade, much the same way a nightmare loses its grip when you find the courage to reach out in the darkness and turn on the light. I was still a little nervous about going to school and meeting my classmates, but whenever those worries grabbed hold of me, I envisioned the strength in Oletta’s eyes when she lifted her chin and said: “Today’s the day—you’ve got to reclaim your power.”

One evening during dinner Aunt Tootie announced we’d be going to visit the Rosemont School for Girls the following morning. I went to bed tingling with both excitement and fear and woke early the next morning wondering what lay ahead. After breakfast I spent an absurd amount of time pulling dresses from my closet and holding them up in front of me, eventually deciding on a pink jumper and white blouse. I tied a ribbon around my ponytail, buckled my shoes, and went downstairs to the living room.

A moment later Aunt Tootie came down the stairs in a blue linen suit and matching hat. “Oh, Cecelia, you look so pretty. Are you ready to go see the school?”

I nodded but was too nervous too speak. When we headed for the garage, I had one of those strange moments where you’re so wide-awake and fully open that the air sparks when you move though it.

The Rosemont School for Girls was a three-story brick building with tall windows and a green-painted front door. A thick hedge ran along the perimeter of the property, framing a perfectly clipped lawn. As we got out of the car, Aunt Tootie said, “Well, Cecelia Rose, this is your big day.”

I could hardly breathe as we approached the front door. My aunt stopped and looked up at the building. “Isn’t this lovely? It used to be a private residence. I know from the front it looks too small to be a school, but there’s a big addition in the back. You’ll see it when we take the tour. So let’s go in and see what you think.” She took hold of my hand and pushed open the door.

It certainly didn’t look like a school—not with its high ceilings, mahogany moldings, and gleaming leaded-glass windows. Since moving to Savannah, I’d begun to recognize the aroma of wealth, and from the walls of this school there oozed the unmistakable scent of prosperity. Though the idea of attending a private school had originally sounded wonderful, I now wasn’t so sure. Clearly the Rosemont School for Girls was for the best of the best, the smartest of the smart, and the richest of the rich.

Before that thought could drag me down, Aunt Tootie whisked me into a small, brightly lit waiting room.

A white-haired, rosy-cheeked woman opened an interior door. She smiled, looking as happy and plump as a July toad. “Well, good morning, Tootie. What a fine day this is.”

Aunt Tootie shook the woman’s outstretched hand. “It’s so pleasant now that the humidity has let up. Iris, I’d like you to meet my grandniece, Cecelia Rose Honeycutt. And Cecelia, this is Mrs. Iris Fontaine, the headmistress of this lovely school.”

Mrs. Fontaine grinned and took my hand. “Cecelia, welcome to Rosemont. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

My cheeks colored up, and when I opened my mouth to speak, the words
Thank you, ma’am
came out as an unintelligible “Tat Hayo, man.”

I wanted to die.

Aunt Tootie looked at me kinda strange, but Mrs. Fontaine just smiled and said, “Please, come into my office so we can relax and chat.”

From a gray cardigan draped around her shoulders, I detected the faint scent of mothballs as she led us into a mahogany-paneled room that had a big desk plunked in the center. After listening to her give us a proud history of the school and its many virtues, she nodded toward the door. “I’d love to show you what we have to offer, Cecelia. Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Tootie gave me a quick wink as we followed Mrs. Fontaine out the door.

Lining the walls of the first-floor hallway were framed photographs of the students, all of them wearing plaid kilts and blazers that had a crest on the chest pocket.

I stood on my tiptoes and scanned their faces. They were the kind of girls who played croquet on perfectly manicured lawns, their faces glowing with that luminous light of carefree privilege. I touched my cheek and wondered what it would take for me to obtain that same kind of radiance. How long I examined the pictures of those fresh-faced girls I don’t know, but I was startled when Aunt Tootie called from the other end of the hallway. “Cecelia Rose, c’mon, honey, we’re heading upstairs.”

After we toured the classrooms and the art department, Mrs. Fontaine showed us the new library, which was so wonderful I was left speechless.

“This was just completed in March,” Mrs. Fontaine said, gesturing to the massive bookcases and rows of study tables. “We’re quite proud of it.”

Aunt Tootie smoothed her hand over the side of a polished bookshelf. “You certainly should be, Iris. It’s just lovely.”

“You have three sets of encyclopedias?” I said, scanning a case full of research books.

Mrs. Fontaine nodded. “Yes, and we have an entire section dedicated to the American masters of literature and art.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Cecelia?” Aunt Tootie said. Then she turned to Mrs. Fontaine. “Iris, where’s the powder room?”

“Down the hall to your left.”

“Thank you.” She looked at me and said, “I’ll be right back, honey.”

I didn’t want her to leave, but I knew I’d look like a big baby if I followed her. My throat tightened as I watched her disappear.

Though Mrs. Fontaine smiled, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d sized me up and found me lacking. She folded her hands and looked at me thoughtfully. “Cecelia Rose, when I went through your transcripts, I was quite surprised. Pleasantly so. It’s rare for a student to consistently excel in such a broad range of subjects.”

I let out a breath and relaxed a little. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Fontaine pulled out a chair and sat down. She gestured to the chair next to her, and I sat, clamping my hands between my knees so she wouldn’t see them shake. We were so close I could smell the mothballs again.

“When I went over your transcripts, I was particularly impressed with your English scores.”

Her compliment made my cheeks color up, and I fiddled with the hem of my jumper. “I love English. It’s my favorite subject.”

Mrs. Fontaine smiled. “We’re kindred spirits in that regard. It was my favorite subject too. So tell me, Cecelia, what are some of your favorite books?”

“Well, I like anything by Agatha Christie, and I love Nancy Drew.” I looked around the library and tried to imagine what it would be like to study in such a beautiful room. “Are … are all these books just to read here in the library, or can they be checked out?”

“With the exception of the research books, everything can be taken home. We have a librarian who keeps track of everything.”

Just then the door opened and Aunt Tootie walked in. “The powder room is charming, Iris. I just love those tiny hexagon tiles and the pink wallpaper.”

“We tried to keep the new addition in keeping with the original house. I’m so glad you approve.” Mrs. Fontaine stood and rested her hand on my shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you two talk in private. If you have any questions, please stop by. my office.”

Aunt Tootie took Mrs. Fontaine’s hand and shook it. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s been a pleasure.”

When the sound of Mrs. Fontaine’s footsteps faded, Aunt Tootie leaned her hip against a study table and scanned my face. “Well, sugar, I think this school is full of lots of wonderful possibilities. But what I think isn’t important. What matters is what
you
think.”

I chewed my bottom lip and glanced at the pictures of honor students that hung above the door. They peered down at me, as if waiting to hear what I had to say. I took a breath and looked into Aunt Tootie’s eyes. “I love this school, but . . . but do you think I’d fi t in, being a Northerner and all? Do you think the girls would like me?”

She smiled and nodded. “I believe the girls would like you just fine. There’s a whole lot about you to like.”

I picked at my cuticles for a moment, feeling a wave of anxiety move through me.

“What is it, honey?”

“If someone asks me about, well . . . about Momma or Dad, what should I say?”