Saving Cicadas
S
AVING
C
ICADAS
OTHER NOVELS BY NICOLE SEITZ:
The Spirit of Sweetgrass
Trouble the Water
A Hundred Years of Happiness
S
AVING
C
ICADAS
a novel
Nicole Seitz
© 2009 by Nicole Seitz
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, character's, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Seitz, Nicole A.
Saving cicadas : a novel / by Nicole Seitz.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59554-503-9 (soft cover)
1. Single mothersâFiction. 2. Mothers and daughtersâFiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.E426S38 2009
813'.6âdc22
2009034529
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 RR D 09 10 11 12 13
For Janie
âListen!' said the White Spirit. âOnce you were a child.
Once you knew what inquiry was for. There was a time when you
asked questions because you wanted answers, and were glad when
you had found them. Become that child again; even now.'
âTHE GREAT DIVORCE
BY C.S. LEWIS
Contents
Part One: The Macys Hit the Road
Chapter Two: The Smartest Macy
Chapter Four: The Keeper of Secrets
Chapter Five: Great Mother of God
Chapter Six: The Wind and the Hollow
Chapter Seven: Traveling in Style
Chapter Eight: Thank God for Grocery Stores
Chapter Nine: Mountains to Move
Chapter Thirteen: Heading South
Chapter Fourteen: Welcome to Forest Pines
Chapter Fifteen: A Step Back in Time
Chapter Sixteen: The Secrets of Mocking birds
Chapter Seventeen: The Little Thief
Part Two: Eating the Gingerbread House
Chapter Eighteen: Whichever Way the Pot Falls
Chapter Twenty: The Invitation
Chapter Twenty-one: The Past Life of Grandma Mona
Chapter Twenty-two: The Ladies of Forest Pines
Chapter Twenty-three: The Longest Walk Ever
Chapter Twenty-four: Confession
Chapter Twenty-five: Hot Enough to Boil
Chapter Twenty-seven: The Burdens of Apple Snails
Chapter Twenty-eight: The Promise
Chapter Twenty-nine: Stuck in the Middle
Chapter Thirty-one: The Getaway
Chapter Thirty-two: Hold Your Breath
Chapter Thirty-three: Dead and Buried
Chapter Thirty-four: Stealing Baby Jesus
Chapter Thirty-five: The Matriarch
Part Three: The Macy Family Ghost
Chapter Thirty-six: The Burden She Bore
Chapter Thirty-seven: The Dead Wall
Chapter Thirty-eight: Right Under Their Noses
Chapter Thirty-nine: The Big Question
Chapter Forty-one: Love Never Dies
Chapter Forty-two: On Thieves and Stealing
Chapter Forty-three: A Purpose in Life
Chapter Forty-four: Midnight Stroll
Chapter Forty-five: Feeling Is Believing
Chapter Forty-seven: Ripe for the Picking
Chapter Forty-eight: Fresh Peach Ice Cream
Chapter Forty-nine: Under Pressure
Chapter Fifty: Saving Earthworms
Chapter Fifty-one: Speaking the Truth
Chapter Fifty-two: Flowers in the Sidewalk
Chapter Fifty-three: The Ghost of Great - Aunt Gertrude
Chapter Fifty-four: The Family Tree
Chapter Fifty-five: The Spirit - Filled Life
Chapter Fifty-six: Sidewalk Writing
Chapter Fifty-seven: The Book of Life
Chapter Fifty-eight: The Long Road Back to Cypresswood
Chapter Sixty: Rise Up Shining
“Do you believe in . . . past lives?”
She's waited a week to get the gumption to ask him, but now she's second-guessing. Priscilla keeps her knees together and smoothes the flowers in her skirt. She pulls her hair to the right side of her head and stares at the big black book on his desk. “I mean, I know you don't, butâ”
“Why?” he says. “Do you believe?” A flash of sunlight fills the roomâa temporary break in the clouded sky. And then it's gone, and all is gray again.
“I'm not sure. I'm starting to wonder.”
He swivels his chair and leans back, cracking his knuckles, one after the other after the other. “I can tell you, you're not the first to ask. We've got some Cherokees here, and the traditional belief of rebirth comes up every now and again. Usually when somebody loses a loved one.”
Priscilla stares down at her knees.
“I certainly don't claim to know all the mysteries of God,” says Fritz, “but I do know we all have former selves, pasts we've got to deal with and learn from. Otherwise we carry these former lives on our shoulders, unable to let go.” Priscilla glances up at him finally, searching his face. “Some people remain stuck living
past lives
. But you can exchange that burden for something wonderfulâ”
“No. That's not really what I'm talking about, Fritz. I do understand what you're saying, it's just . . .”
“What is it, Priscilla?”
She tucks a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear and shakes her head, studying the lines of his simple pine desk. “She's . . . she remembers things. Things she can't possibly remember. She talks about family members, ones who've been gone for years now. I don't know, maybe it's the photographs, or maybe I've talked about them to her or around her. Maybe she's just extra sensitive, attentive. I can usually explain it away, except . . .”
“Except what?”
She looks him in the eye and says, “The window.”
Fritz pauses and glances at the window behind Priscilla's shoulder. It's simple and unadorned, unlike the ones in the other room with their magnificent colors and stories. On the other side of the clear-paned glass, a mockingbird swoops to the ground and calls out
warning
beneath a blanketed sky. “Tell me about this window,” Fritz says.
“She can describe it to me in detail . . . but I don't know how. I've never talked about it. To anyone.”
“I see.”
“It comes to me in my dreams. The window.”
“You're thinking she can read your mind now?”
“I don't know, Iâ”
“Maybe you talk in your sleep.”
“No. It's not like that,” Priscilla says. “She's special. You know her. There's something . . . different about her. There always has been.” “If you ask me, I'd say she's a bright, loving child. Tell me: does she seem troubled by these memories?”
“No. She acts as if nothing is strange at all, as if it was just the other day or something. She goes on and on about that summer too . . . when we left Cypresswood. It just unnerves me.” Priscilla uses her left hand to pull her right arm close to her side.
“If you'd like me to talk with her, you know I will. But maybe not just yet.” Fritz leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. He clasps his hands together and looks just over her shoulder, then finally meets her eyes. “We each have something, Priscilla, some memory that haunts us, that shows up in our dreams. In your case, it's a window. Maybe what bothers you is not that your daughter remembers this window she can't possibly know, but that she reminds you of the thing it representsâsomething you thought you'd let go of long ago.”
She looks up at him, and her lip trembles as if she may cry or speak. She does neither.
“She's a good girl, Priscilla. A blessing in your life. Sometimes God has a way of using children to speak to us. To lead us closer to him. If you want my advice, let her lead you. She may say something truly worth hearing one of these days.”
Fritz takes Priscilla's free hand and squeezes it, and the two sit engulfed in the moment, oblivious to the fact that they're not alone. Hidden in the shadowy corner of the preacher's office, a lone head bows and whispers, “Amen.”
{Janie}
Come over here by the light and let me see what pretty pictures you drew. Oh, this one here is my favorite, Janie. Is this a car?
Yes, ma'am.
Can you tell me about it?
I trace my finger along the red and blue lines on construction paper, the green blurred trees, the yellow circles for facesâthen I close my eyes. It's how I remember best.
It was about four years ago, the last trip we ever took togetherâmy mother, sister, grandparents, and me. 'Course, we didn't know it at the time. You never know something like that, like it's the last one you'll ever get, till it's just a memory, hanging like mist. This is what happened that summer, true as I can tell it. Not a one of us was ever the same.
I sat in the front seat, all eight-and-a-half years of me, twirling my hair and trying to hum a happy tune. I did this, knowing Mama was nothing at all close to being happy after just finding out she was having another child. In fact, sitting so close to her, I thought my mama's fear and anger smelled a lot like dill pickle relish and red onions. Or maybe it was just Grandma Mona, old and mean and full of egg salad, breathing down our necks from behind the seat.