Waiting for Sunrise (34 page)

“Oh. How long did I sleep?”

“A few minutes, I guess.” He pulled the wet part of the shirt from his chest. “I was telling you . . . I wanted you to know . . .”

Patsy looked from the white tee held by strong fingers to the gentle eyes of the man who’d brought her here, in more ways than one. They shimmered with moisture. “Gil?”

The tears spilled down his cheeks. “I love you so much . . .” he wept. “I’m sorry. I told myself I wasn’t going to do this . . .”

Patsy slipped her arms around his neck, pulled him close to her as he brought her closer to him. Chest to breasts; for a moment she thought she felt their hearts beat as one. “Oh, Gil. I love you too. I do . . . and I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry for all I have put you through these years. I know you thought I was just slap crazy, but I couldn’t seem to control my fears. I’m not saying my fears are miraculously gone, but . . . somehow I think things will start to get better now.”

He squeezed. “I’ve been thinking. Not just this morning. For weeks. Months even. And I want you to know that I understand, Pats.” He pushed her away from him so that they looked into each other’s eyes. “Well, maybe I don’t understand fully. But I realize you’ve lost so much in your life and that you are afraid you’ll lose me too.” He took a breath. “But nothing has changed for me. I’m still here for you. Always.”

Patsy placed her hands on both sides of his face. “On the way from the marina, I was thinking that, yes, I have lost a lot. But, you were right, Gil.
You
were also on that bus. And it brought me to Trinity. To Mam. To Papa. To Lloyd. To Rayette and Sandra and, my gosh, really such a good life. And, I guess you could say that eventually that bus led me to Greg and Pam. And Kenny and George and Donna.” She made a show of saying the last three names.

“But first, to me.”

Patsy kissed him soundly on the lips. “To you.” She kissed him again and again and again. “You, you, you.” Her arms slipped around his shoulders once more.

“Careful,” he whispered in her ear. “You may not know this, but there’s a man over there standing in his yard, pretending to water his flowers, but most definitely watching us.”

She nuzzled his neck. “Let him get his own girl.”

———

Gilbert stopped the car just inside the gates of the cemetery. He shut off the engine before turning to her. “Are you sure you want to do this alone?”

Patsy nodded.

He draped his arm over the steering wheel, looked out the windshield. She did the same. Just past a cluster of graves, the grasses of the marsh waved against the afternoon sun. Beyond the marsh, she spied fishing huts.

“Patsy.”

She looked at her husband.

“I have something for you. Stay right here.”

Gilbert left the car, walked to the back, opened the trunk, closed it, and returned to his seat. He carried with him an oblong box and an envelope. “What in the world . . .”

“Mam wanted me to bring this. She said . . .” He took a deep breath. “Mam said to tell you that it’s time.”

Patsy took the offering, knowing full well what was inside without so much as opening it. “The cupid lipstick holder.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

She shook her head. “Not just yet.” But she pulled it from the box, ran her hand over its ornate brass structure, then set it on the seat between them. She picked up the envelope, opened the car door, and said, “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Take your time,” she heard him say.

A narrow path snaked between a few of the grave markers and up a slight incline. Patsy walked it, allowed her eyes to glance over the headstones and monuments. Some were still shiny in their newness. Others, sectioned off by wrought-iron fences, were old, moss-laden. Shadows from massive live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss that shimmied in the breeze, danced over the cement and brick and—interestingly—oyster shells marking final resting places. Palm fronds in tans and browns and greens rustled. The smell of salt and fish wafted across the cemetery. She saw a wooden fence up on the hill towered by a wooden cross; a boundary to a single grave. Just as Billy said it would be. She walked toward it, reading names engraved in stone until she came to the one she sought.

Bernice Elizabeth Sweeny
1916–1963
Beloved Mother

Elizabeth? Had she known that? It was the middle name Patsy had given to her firstborn daughter. Perhaps somewhere, in the recesses of her memory, she’d remembered. “Hey.” She swallowed hard. “Hey, Mama.”

Patsy looked down to the envelope in her hand. Across the front, her name was written in penmanship she’d all but forgotten but now found familiar again. “To My Daughter,” it read, “On Her Wedding Day.”

Patsy sighed, slipped her fingers under the back flap, and released the seal, tearing the paper as she did. She pulled two pieces of paper folded together from inside, opened them. Even after all these years, the scent of her mother reached her nostrils.

Coty
.

For a moment, Patsy was back in the car, inhaling her mother’s fragrance, begging her not to put her on the bus.

“I’ll stay away from him . . .” She opened her eyes, realizing she’d just whispered to the grave at her feet.

Don’t make this harder than it is . . .

She nodded, wiped tears from her cheeks, wishing she hadn’t already started to cry, grateful at the same time that she had. Her fingers opened the tri-folded paper. Tucked inside was an old photograph. Patsy held it up and close. It was of her mother on her own wedding day, the one when she’d married Patsy’s father. She’d been so very young, so beautiful. Her lips held a deep Cupid’s bow and were painted what appeared in the sepia finish to be red. Her dress was elegant; the veil wrapped the crown of her head then spilled to the floor with her gown’s train. A single strand of pearls dipped at the base of her swanlike throat, and a massive cluster of flowers was clasped in her hands.

Patsy slipped the photograph behind the letter and read.

“Dearest Patsy,” it began.

Patsy took a deep breath. This was it. The words of her mother’s heart she’d put off reading for too many years. Words Mama believed Patsy would have read on her wedding day. The day her life started anew.

Patsy swiped tears blurring her vision. When the writing became clear again, she continued.

I have pondered for days what I would say to you here in these few lines. I have wondered if I could even go through with the writing of them. Or putting this piece of paper into an envelope, the envelope into that tiny piece of luggage sitting across the room from me right now. Waiting.

Oh, Patsy! How I would that this were all so different. I don’t know how much you will remember. The good, oh please let it be so! And not the bad. I pray to the good Lord above that you will never recall how life was for a while for you and me. That you will only remember the happy moments we spent with your father. Above all, that you will know I made my decision to marry Ira Liddle not fully knowing what kind of man he was, only that he could provide for you and me when we needed it so desperately.

I am sorry, Patsy, for what I put you through these past few years. I make excuses, but that is all they are. Just know I never did anything thinking it would hurt you. Nor would I ever, even after today is but a bitter memory.

This afternoon, you will arrive home from school. The boys will be at Mrs. Dabbs’s house. You will get off the bus, unaware of what I am planning to do. And you will question me, I know you will. We will cry. But, no matter how much you beg—and you will—I will put you on the bus and send you to Mr. and Mrs. Buchwald. Because I have to, Patsy. For your own safety, even if, every day, I die a little bit more.

I trust the Buchwalds, Patsy. I have trusted them. They will hold two of the most precious possessions. I pray you will be blessed by them as I have been.

Sweet Patsy, I have asked Mrs. Buchwald to give you this cupid lipstick holder on your wedding day. I saw you holding it that day I asked you to help me get ready for Mr. Liddle’s return, and I know you find it pretty. I want you to have it now, with all my love.

Patsy, what this cupid holds is for outer beauty. Promise me, your mother—for I will always be your mother—that you will never depend on physical beauty but always the loveliness that comes from within. I know you will do that for me.

One final thing because the time is almost here that you will be home—promise that you will remember me with kindness. That you will know what I have done is for your own good. And that while I cannot go with you, Patsy . . . I cannot . . . I am with you in a deeper way. Today, as you stand before God and the man I pray will be as good to you as your father was to me, I will be close enough in spirit to hear the words of forever you speak to your young man.

I have prayed already and will continue to pray that death will not part you any time soon. Not for a good long time. That you will be blessed with happiness and health and beautiful children whom I will gather on my knee and hold, even if only in my heart.

I love you, Patsy. Never forget that. I will love you until the day I die.

Have a happy day, my child. And a happier life. Don’t let anything come between you and that. Life is too precious to waste. Live it to its fullest. My Patsy. My child.

Yours,
Mama

Patsy swallowed.
For your own safety.
She read the words again through a veil of unbridled tears. Patsy gasped. “You didn’t give me away,” she whispered. “You made sure I . . .” The remainder of the words wouldn’t come. Nor did they need to. Patsy knew now that her mother had made a most grievous of choices, but the right one for Patsy. While she’d never understand it all, she at least understood this much. Her mother had loved her. Very much.

She wiped her eyes, started to fold the paper, but stopped short. A line near the bottom begged that it be read once more. And so she did.

“Life is too precious to waste,” Mama had written. “Live it to its fullest.”

Patsy looked from the paper to the car where Gilbert sat waiting, just like he always had. Waited for her in the diner at the bus stop. Waited for her to grow up enough to declare his intentions. Waited to marry her. Then waited for her to get to this moment, right here in the cemetery of a town she’d never heard of until just a few days ago. He’d picked her up when she’d fallen and held her up when she couldn’t stand.

He’d been brave enough to bring her here and strong enough to let her walk from the car to the grave alone.

Patsy folded the letter, slipped it and the photo back into the envelope, then took a final look at the slab where her mother’s name was carved. “I’ll live life to its fullest, Mama,” she said. And then she smiled. “I promise.”

37

2012, Cedar Key, Florida

Patsy Milstrap liked getting up early in the mornings. She enjoyed the feel of the house when it was still cool enough for her to need a thin housecoat and a warm pair of socks. She liked the sense of calm when only a small table lamp lit the way from her bedroom to the kitchen, where a single nightlight shed only the tiniest glow along her spotless countertops.

Every morning was the same, really. She rose in the dark, poured herself a glass of iced tea, then went out on the balcony of the house she and Gilbert had vacationed in and she had retired to, to wait for sunrise. The evening before, the television weatherman told her what time the sun would rise the following day. That morning, the previous night’s broadcast said 6:34. A look at her watch told her it was now 6:15. She had a few minutes. Maybe more. The weatherman was never exactly right.

She took a sip of tea. She was seventy-eight years old now; next week she’d be seventy-nine. Another year older. And, she figured, another year closer to seeing Jesus face-to-face. Not that she was sick. Goodness, she felt just fine. A little tired, maybe. But at near seventy-nine, she should be.

She smiled. Funny how when you’re young you think you’ll never get old, and then you start to get old and you fear getting older. And then, you’re older and you find yourself ready to see Jesus. “When you’re ready, I’m ready,” she spoke out loud. “I’m not rushing you, but I wouldn’t mind being with the one I’ve worshiped for so long now.” The one who had taken her sad rags and turned them into a dancing frock. Like the one she’d worn to the formal, the night Gil had come home from the service. Peach taffeta.

Patsy chuckled. She had probably looked like a big ole bowl of frilly sherbet. But she’d been young, and when you’re young you can pull things like that off.

Mama. I’ll see you too. You and Daddy and Mam and Papa.

Not to mention Rayette, who’d died just a few years back, so suddenly, with a massive stroke. No one had seen that coming any more than when Papa had passed away.

Oh, and Gabby. My, how she’d missed her over the years. They’d made quite an impression on Trinity and Charleston and everywhere in between. Almost gotten themselves in a world of trouble a few times, but God had protected them both.

And of course, her beloved Gilbert. Oh, after six long years apart, wouldn’t he be pleased to see her! She wondered if the good Lord would allow her darling to greet her at the pearly gates instead of Saint Peter, and if he would let them slip off somewhere private for a welcome-home kiss.

The rushes, thick along the marsh, swayed in the early morning breeze. The wind caught in the fronds of the palm trees, and they rustled like a baby’s toy. Patsy’s eyes darted from one to the other and then back to the horizon. Life around her was stark and black against the sweet lavender of the sky. She noticed the way the clouds had formed, like pink sand the Almighty himself had swept with one hand across the heavens.

Patsy sipped on her tea. “Oh, Lord God,” she spoke softly. “You are the Creator of all things beautiful and good. I thank you now for this day and all that it holds. May you keep me safe in the palm of your hand until that time you call me home.”

She thought then of her children, Gregory and Pamela, who’d also be waiting for her entry through heaven’s gates along with their daddy. Finally, she’d hear their voices again, after so long of not . . . Not since 1976. It’s a terrible thing for a parent to bury a child. But to bury two at one time, young lives snuffed out by what some called unfortunate and others called an accident. She just called it “heartache.” But she’d gotten through it, grateful she and her firstborn had managed over the years to meet somewhere in the middle. Even if it wasn’t all the way, it was better than it had been back in ’63 and the few years after.

She closed her eyes. The gulls were waking; they called to each other. Some cawing, some laughing. Or so it seemed. She wondered what they found so amusing this early in the day. Perhaps, she reasoned, they were simply saying hello to their Maker as she just had.

We each pray in our own way, Pats.

The fingers of her left hand drummed the arm of her chair, but they stopped at what she thought she’d heard. Gilbert’s voice. She opened her eyes; the sky had grown lighter. The dark curtain of night was being pulled from the wings. She sighed as she waited.

A motorboat from somewhere close by buzzed along the water’s edge. It always reminded her of Gilbert’s old electric razor, which was preferable to allowing her mind to liken it to the sound of the engine of the boat where her oldest had played. And died.

The sound was faint, then loud, then grew faint again. A fisherman, off to work. He’d soon be followed by another, she knew. And then another.

All of this around her, this was the way of morning in Cedar Key.

Patsy breathed in deeply. Her chest grew tight in memory, recalling the day Gilbert brought her to the island for the first time. How sad she had been. How lovingly he’d treated her. How gentle and kind. Bringing her here to see Billy, not that he’d known for certain. But loving her as he did, he was willing to chance it. Anything, anything at all, for his Patsy.

But that was Gilbert! He’d taken care of her from the moment they’d met on the bus to Trinity. Treated her with the kindness of an older brother, then a young man in love, then a husband—a lover and a friend, a provider and confidant, and sometimes the source of her aggravation, all at once.

My, my. She needed to call her new friend Kimberly Granger today. Make sure she was doing all right, expecting as she was. That girl wasn’t a spring chicken; having babies could be difficult enough on a woman’s body. Miss Kim was forty-two. Praise God in good health though.

Oh and Billy. She really must call him today as well. He and Veronica were supposed to see the cardiologist—a three-month follow-up to his recent stent surgery—and Patsy wanted to make sure he was all right. How she wished they’d come back to Cedar Key to live and not just to visit like they sometimes did. Then again, living and being so close to a big hospital like he was over there in Gainesville . . . well, that was a good thing. And they were close to Veronica’s brothers and their families. Family was so important. She knew, what with hers scattered here and yon. Just like Billy and Veronica’s children. Now, why didn’t young’uns stay close to their parents when they grew up these days? That’s what she wanted to know.

Her fingers drummed the chair’s arm again, fast at first, then leisurely. They slowed with her breathing.

My goodness, but wasn’t she ready for a nap. And so early in the morning too.

She wondered how come.

Her eyes closed again, this time feeling as though it was without any effort from her at all. They burned a little, like she hadn’t slept well the night before when she knew good and well she had.

She breathed in salt air and marshland. So, what would it hurt if she took a little nap? She’d miss the sunrise. That was okay. There’d be another one tomorrow, and the day after that . . . and the day after . . .

———

Patsy’s body swayed on a big seat in a long bus. She opened her eyes; the world went by in a blur of dark and light greens intermingled with dark browns. And cypress trees with fat bases jutting up from flat-as-glass swamp water.

Old fear washed over her. Where was she going? Who’d be there to meet her when she arrived?

Someone sat next to her; she looked to find her mother, her beloved mother, dressed as she’d been that awful day. Hat, gloves, lipstick.

“Mama?”

Mama turned slowly to gaze at her. “Why, Patsy. Look at you, all grown up. How old are you now?”

“I’ll be seventy-nine next week.”

“Clearly not . . .”

“Mama, what are you doing on this bus? Did you decide to come with me?”

Mama smiled. “Oh no, child. I’ve already gone this route; no need for me to go again. I just wanted to let you know now, while I can, that I was there in my heart.”

“Where?”

“On the bus that took you to Trinity. And on the day you graduated from school. And the day you married. That first time you held a tiny life in your arms . . .”

“You were there?”

“Oh yes.” She pointed to her chest. “In here I was.” As her hand came down, the other pulled the hem of her glove away to reveal the old watch Patsy had not seen since 1946. “Darling, do you have a mirror and a comb?”

Patsy looked to her lap. There was the small embroidered purse, the one she took with her to school that day. The one she clung to as though it were a life preserver and she were sinking in a vat of water. “I think there’s one in here.”

Mama smiled. “Make sure your hair is combed before you arrive.” She leaned to the right and looked straight up the aisle. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

Patsy opened the purse and pulled out the comb and mirror. She turned back to her mother, but the seat was empty. Her mother was gone.

Patsy brought the mirror up to her face. Her eyes grew large. Gone were the lines and wrinkles, the eyes that had lost some of their vibrancy. Looking back at her now was the young face of a thirteen-year-old girl. The girl she had once been. She blinked, touched her fingertips to the bone just under the right eye sockets. She pulled the skin down; it sprang back with youthful zeal. “My, my . . .”

She looked out the window again. The world had grown dark, and she was becoming tired. How was it she’d felt energized one moment and so worn out the next?

Then, as though she held some great knowledge, she said to herself, “Such is the way of dreams.”

She put the mirror and comb away, leaned her head against the window, and allowed the rocking of the bus to lull her back to sleep. A few of her muscles twitched as the blanket of rest fell over her. It felt good. And warm. Everything was going to be all right. This time. She knew it. Because Papa was waiting for her at the bus stop. And Mam and Lloyd at home. In Trinity.

———

Someone shook her shoulder.

“Sleepyhead . . . hey, you.”

She blinked. Wiped her fingertips across still-moist eyelashes. “Where . . .”

“Hey there.”

She looked to the seat beside her. And there he was, her Gilbert, looking so dashing in his airman’s uniform, cap tucked under his arm. He was smiling, a single dimple buried deep within the flesh of his right cheek.

“Hey, little sister,” he said, his voice sounding like it belonged to an angel coming to take her home. “Hungry?”