The Summer I Learned to Dive (3 page)

Chapter 3

Five hours later, I was in Greenville, South Carolina. Elizabeth hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, “Good luck honey. They’re going to adore you.” She embraced me again and then let me go.

I watched her eagerly meet her daughter and granddaughter, they looked at me curiously. Her daughter asked her a question. Elizabeth said something to her and then smiled at me, waving goodbye. They appeared to be a loving family. She had offered to drive me to my grandparents but I told her no. I didn’t want to impose, and I knew I needed to meet them on my own. I was unsure how they would react towards me and didn’t want my reunion with them to be witnessed by someone I had just met. I called another cab company and waited at the bus station, watching people meet their loved ones, wondering if my reunion with my grandparents would be the same. I wasn’t thrilled about riding in another cab, in fact I dreaded it. But there wasn’t any other way to get to where I was headed.

The cab arrived. It was old, like its driver, Herb. He spoke with a thick southern accent and his long, white mustache curled at the ends. He had a long drawl that made him a little difficult to understand. He chewed tobacco and spit into an empty Coke bottle every so often. I read him the return address that had been written on the envelope my grandparents sent.

“Graceville’s where I play bingo. I think I can gauge where that is,” he said and took my lone suitcase and placed it in the trunk. He opened the back door and closed it. Country music played on the radio. A Jesus Saves air freshener hung from the rear view mirror. Thankfully this cab didn’t smell like onions. Instead it smelled like pipe tobacco and evergreens.

Herb was very chatty. He talked about anything, nothing of importance, nothing I could really understand. I barely said a word, only an “uh huh” or “yes” here and there, but that didn’t seem to bother him. I learned about the town of Graceville, when it had been established, and why it was called Graceville.

“John Brown and his wife Grace were the first inhabitants. He named the town after her,” he said and then spit into his Coke bottle.

He knew all sorts of facts about the upstate of South Carolina. A native, Herb had never lived anywhere else, and was proud of his heritage.  “I gotta stop and get me some more chew, you mind?” He turned to face me, still driving. I would have normally been nervous that he wasn’t facing the road, but there wasn’t a car in sight, the road was empty.

“That’s fine,” I said, trying to smile. What else could I say? He was driving the car.

We drove down Main Street, which ran directly through the town. I felt like I had stepped back in time and entered the set of an old movie. A large white gazebo stood in the middle of the town’s square. Main Street was tree lined and full of red brick storefronts. The town was quaint and historic with a strong feeling of nostalgia.  An old man sat in a rocking chair waving at us. It took me by surprise. I wasn’t accustomed to people being so friendly. I waved back at him and smiled. We drove further down the road, toward the town limits. Herb parked the cab in front of the RX, a local drugstore. I sat in the cab listening to the country music. It felt like hours. Herb had obviously stopped to chat with someone.

Needing to stretch, I got out of the cab and walked down the sidewalk toward the community pool. The pool could be seen from the main road. It was adjacent to the Graceville community center. A wrought iron fence surrounded it. The pool was full of children and adults. The summer heat must have made it a popular place to go. The cool water looked enticing. I wiped the sweat off of the back of my neck and watched as several children splashed each other. Their voices carried from a far distance. They were having the time of their lives. I envied them for their pure delight, for their ability to not have a care in the world. I watched as a very tan boy, who looked about my age, walked to the high dive, standing confidently at the top. One of the kids shouted something at him. He looked down at the kid and smiled and then he dove into the pool, diving the most beautiful swan dive. He made it look so effortless and graceful. I couldn’t dive and so badly wanted to emulate what he had just done, to dive head first into the water without a fear in the world.

Herb shouted something to me forcing me to turn my head away from the boy and toward the cab. Herb motioned for me to come on. I walked toward him, ready to go.

“You can’t lollygag all day,” he said. I didn’t respond. It would have been a moot point to tell him that he had been the one “lollygagging.”

The ride to my grandparents’ house was long and arduous. Nausea set in, thanks to the winding roads and the rollercoaster-like hills. The flat roads that I was accustomed to did not prepare me for the mountainous terrain that made my body forcefully swerve back and forth. Rolling the window down didn’t help ease the sickness. The car kept going in circles, up and down and up and down all over again. I felt like I was going nowhere.  It didn’t help that Herb drove well above the speed limit, holding onto the steering wheel with one hand, spitting his dip into a bottle that he held with the other. I questioned to myself whether he even had a driver’s license. The faster he went, the more I moved. He had warned me that we were headed in the country and that some of the roads could be a bit rough. Rough as a description didn’t give it justice.

By the time I arrived, I was white as a ghost. My palms were sweaty. I felt as if I may vomit at any moment. I stepped out of the car, unable to stand. My legs shook. I bent over and dry heaved. He came over to me.

“You gonna make it?” he asked. He spit into his Coke bottle.

I shook my head and moved my lips giving a faint yes. I stood up and looked at my grandparents’ house for the first time. It was huge— a two-story farm house that appeared to have been built generations ago. The white paint was peeling and the shutters were a faded red, but it was still beautiful, like something I may see in a painting. On the porch, a swing swayed from the tepid breeze. The air was warm, but not as humid, not as intense as most of the summer days were in Tampa. The heat from the sun makes a direct bee line to Florida making it almost unbearable to be outside for more than an hour. The air felt cooler higher up and out of the foothills. The wind blew gently. This was the first time I had ever been in the mountains. I inhaled the aroma. It smelled sweet and pleasant like nature. There wasn’t a hint of smog or pollution, just pure air untouched by industry. To my left I saw a garden full of tomatoes, lettuce and other vegetables. Trees lined the driveway; beautiful enormous trees that I had never seen before. They were lush and a variety of colors—green, red, and purple.  At the base of the house, there were flowers in full bloom, in colors vibrant and rich. The scenery nearly took my breath away. Everywhere I turned, I could see majestic, enormous green mountains. A white picket fence stood in the distance, giving the home a welcoming feeling.

Herb interrupted my thoughts. “That’ll be fifty dollars.” He wiped his forehead and spit into his bottle again. He moved his head around searching for someone and saw no one was there. “You sure you want me to go? Ain’t no one here?” he asked.

“No thank you. I’ll be fine,” I said, but I wasn’t even sure I would be welcome. For all they knew, I had brushed them off for years. They might want nothing to do with me. I handed him the cash; more of my savings—gone. He asked me one more time if I wanted him to go. I told him again that I was fine and he got into the cab and drove off quickly, in a hurry to go nowhere.

I walked toward the front door and up the porch stairs. I put my suitcase down and knocked on the door several times, even though I knew that no one was home. No one answered. A large wind chime rang in the background.  A hummingbird fluttered nearby. I peered through the window and could see that no one was home; all of the lights were off. Panic started to settle in. What if my grandparents had decided to go on vacation and I was stranded? Herb was gone, and I was in the middle of the mountain countryside. The last house I had seen was more than a mile away. I looked at my cell and saw only one bar. It needed to be charged. This was worrisome. I sat down on the swing and swayed back and forth, wondering what to do. I sat there for a long time and contemplated my next move.

I finally stood up and moved around the porch, peering into every window.  I was curious. Gingham printed curtains lined one window; another was covered with lace sheers. It was a challenge to see inside. The curtains were covering the view. What I could see, I liked. The house had a warm feeling like there was life and love in it.  I decidedly walked down the steps toward the garage. It was separated from the house. An old structure, it had small glass windows in the garage door. I stood on my tippy toes trying to see what was inside. I felt intrusive, but I was curious, too curious to just sit and wait. An old teal green Chevy in pristine condition was parked inside. I couldn’t tell what model it was. It looked like it was from the 1970’s. Cows mooed in the pasture across the road. I watched them for a few minutes. It was rare for me to see cattle. Cow pastures are nonexistent in Tampa. The cows ate constantly, unaware of me staring at them. 

I meandered toward the back of the house, discovering a small pond. I wanted to jump in it, but decided against it once I saw the murkiness of the water. I would never have jumped in a lake in Florida. Alligators and water moccasins made every lake in Florida their permanent home. I never swam in them, the bottom was too gross, full of plants and weeds and other things that felt slimy.  I looked again at the pond inundated with lily pads, watching as tiny fish swam aimlessly. I sat on the ground with my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. Taking my shoes off, I allowed my feet to breathe and rest from the last 24 hours. I sat there for a long time and thought, wondering what was going to happen next.

I got up, picking up my shoes and carrying them in both hands, and trekked barefoot toward the front of my grandparents’ home. It felt good to walk in the grass. Even the ground felt different. The soil was clay rather than sand. The blades tickled my feet, feeling like silk as I brushed my feet against them on the ground. It felt so different than the sharp St. Augustine blades of grass that I was used to: grass that could never be walked on in bare feet for fear of fire ant bites. I sat down on the wooden swing, stained in a beautiful mahogany. The warm breeze blew gently on the back of my neck that was speckled with beads of sweat. I swayed back and forth, still lost in thought. The sun was starting to set. The sky was clear and cloudless, almost a perfect shade of orange and blue.

The loud noise from the truck startled me. It smelled like exhaust and sounded like a semi-truck, but instead was a small truck that had seen its fair share of heartache. The engine roared its way into the driveway. The person driving was unconcerned with following a speed limit. The truck sped through the gravel driveway, rocks flying everywhere. Squirrels ran for their lives trying to avoid being hit. I worried the truck was going to slam into the outdoor garage as fast as it was going. It came to an abrupt stop, the engine cut. Out came an older petite woman with very short, salt and pepper hair. She was wearing jeans that were rolled up to her ankles with red tennis shoes and a pink Lilly’s Diner t-shirt. She had a small, delicate face. Her buttermilk complexion was smooth and had few wrinkles. Looking at her, I could see the resemblance. I was seeing a future vision of myself.

She moved hesitantly toward me, skeptically. She looked at me curiously, probably wondering why a teenage girl lingered on her porch in the early evening.  I stood up, moving slowly toward her.

“Hey there,” she said with uncertainty. “Can I help you?”  She looked at me like she knew who I was, but was second guessing herself. She squinted at me, trying to see me better.

“I’m Finley Hemmings, your granddaughter,” I said, my voice quivering. We were within a few feet of each other now.

“Finley.” She rushed toward me. She grabbed me and held me tight. She smelled so good, like jasmine. “I’m so glad you are here.” Her accent was faint, slow and sweet sounding. Her face touched mine, it was smooth and soft. She continued to hold me. I tried controlling my emotions. The last thing I wanted to do was stand there and cry.  But the emotion of it all got to me, and I couldn’t contain myself. I started crying, sobbing like a baby for several minutes while she just stood there and held me. We never stopped embracing. I think we both were too afraid to let go.

She let go of me and put her hand under my chin looking directly into my eyes, smiling at me appreciatively, appraising my facial features. “Look at you. You’re grown into such a beautiful young lady.”

I blushed from her remark, pleased at what she said.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Let’s go inside.” Before I could say anything, she grabbed my suitcase without much effort, motioning to follow her inside her home. Her reception was what I had hoped it would be—welcoming and without any judgment.

The inside of the house smelled like vanilla and sugar cookies and instantly felt warm, like a country home. It was inundated with antique furniture, beautiful oak furniture that was still in good condition made more than a hundred years ago by expert craftsman. The craftsmanship was evident throughout the home. Oak trim and oak doors with old glass door knobs could be seen in every room. The walls were adorned with an eclectic grouping of art: rich landscapes, vibrant abstracts, and old family photos of relatives I had never met nor knew existed. The house was full of color. Each room was painted in a cheery bright color: orange, green, yellow, and blue. No wall was plain white or bare. The old oak floors creaked loudly as we made each step. She placed my suitcase at the base of the massive wooden staircase. The railing was a stunning wrought iron that was intricately and uniquely designed.

“How about we have a cup of tea while we get to know each other?” she offered, leading me into her kitchen.

It was large, big enough to fit a breakfast table for six with room to spare. The cabinets were painted white, the walls a bright yellow. The room felt sunny, happy, like it had a lot of life. She had a knack for strawberries
that
was obvious. Strawberry wallpaper accented one wall. A large painting of a basket of strawberries hung on another. There were strawberry placemats on the table, and something I’ve never seen, a strawberry cookie jar. Even her rug was red, the color of strawberries. I looked around curiously.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fix us something to eat. Surely you’re hungry,” she said. As she opened the lime green refrigerator door, it squeaked loudly. She took out a jar of grape jelly, setting it down on the counter. She opened one of the cabinets, and it made a loud creaking sound. She took out a jar of peanut butter and slathered peanut butter and jelly onto two slices of bread, bringing the sandwich over to the table.