The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  She braced her arms on the windowsill, the pain still intense but moving out now to other parts of her body, slowly dissipating. Her nightgown stuck to her skin despite the central air-conditioning she’d installed in the house when she’d redone the tabby house, but it was no match for the humid summer air and her dreams. Biting her lip, she pulled back the blinds, then slid open the window lock and raised the sash, letting the wet, sticky air hit her face. The smell of the boxwoods by the front door rose to greet her, reminding her as they always did of home, and a whippoorwill called out from the lane of oaks. Long ago, Josie had told her the legend of the whippoorwill, how they were lost souls come back to remind the living how tenuous was the line that separated them.

  The whippoorwill called out again and Lillian shivered despite the heat. A horse whinnied from the direction of the stables, and she thought of the horse Tucker had been working in the lunge ring and wondered who was winning that battle. She hoped it was Tucker. He needed to win at least one.

  Lillian sank down in the stuffed chaise lounge Odella had arranged for her in front of the window and felt her eyelids sag despite the pain. She was so very tired. She wondered why God kept her alive and she didn’t like the answer when she thought about it. How did a person seek redemption for a sin committed long ago against people now dead? Lillian had always imagined that when Annabelle died her guilt would pack its bags and leave like an unwanted houseguest. But it remained, a suitcase of memories left behind.

  She thought again of Annabelle’s granddaughter and her letters and a thread of doubt began unraveling in her head. What if she’d done the wrong thing by turning her away? Shifting in the chair, her old bones rattled inside the loose flesh of an old lady. Funny, in her mind she was still the young Lillian Harrington, beautiful and lithe, the pride of her father. It was only when she saw herself in the mirror that the truth found her and she was confronted with the old woman she’d become, the lines on her face and crooked fingers the price she paid for keeping secrets.

  Closing her eyes, she let her head sag against the back cushion of the chaise as sadness, like a moth, fluttered to her chest and settled there. Her useless fingers found the angel charm she still wore around her neck and she twisted the chain tightly until she could feel it pressing into the soft skin of her throat, a noose of lost chances and broken promises.

  When Lillian woke again, the sun streamed through the open window and a dawn chorus from Carolina chickadees and song sparrows had replaced the nocturnal call of the whippoorwill. She kept her eyes closed, clinging to the respite of a dreamless sleep. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that she was a girl again, to the time before knowing that growing older meant giving up things you loved, and that making choices could reach farther than into the next day. She teased herself with the thought that today was the day she would tell her secret, that she would at last be free from it. But she thought of Tucker and the shadow of grief that followed him, and of Helen who loved her and thought of her as the mother she never really had, and Lillian knew it was too late. Not now, when Tucker’s grief was as raw as broken glass and Helen’s love kept Lillian from dissolving her past in alcohol.

  Her heavy lids drooped, and she allowed herself to drift off to sleep again, just for a few moments she promised herself. The music was already playing as her eyelids closed and she was dancing with Charlie and they were laughing because the first four names on her dance card were his. It wasn’t until she opened her eyes and felt the wetness on her cheeks that she remembered where she was and that the worst thing that could happen to you could happen twice.

  I slid on a pair of cream-colored cotton walking shorts, checking the length to make sure they covered my scarred knee and then slid on my sandals. After gathering up my purse and notebook, I checked the handwritten map Helen had given me, looking for the best way out of the property. I studied the neatly drawn lines and lettering, precise enough that it almost didn’t appear hand-drawn at all, and I wondered who’d made it.

  I traced the line of the road I’d come in on, and it appeared that my GPS had taken me the long way. Glancing at my watch, I calculated how much time I had if I wanted to make it to the library in downtown Savannah before dinner at Asphodel Meadows at seven. The Bull Street branch of the Savannah library had a genealogy and local history room and I’d already figured that one morning and afternoon probably wouldn’t be enough time to find all the information I needed, but it was a start.

  I threw everything on the passenger seat of the Buick, then slid onto the hot vinyl seat, the backs of my legs through my shorts feeling scorched. After starting the car I blasted the air-conditioning and rolled the windows down all the way, sticking my face outside to suck fresh air into my lungs. The old familiar smells that always made me think of what could have been startled me at first, and made me remember where I was. I slumped in my seat, feeling my heart squeeze, remembering defeat like a phantom limb. It was like an old war wound that ached in cold weather, and being on a horse farm was like moving to a perpetually arctic climate. Quickly, I slid the windows up again and put the car into drive.

  Slowly, I drove down the drive that I remembered from before, the golf course on one side and the oak alley of twisted trees on my right. Ignoring my GPS’s commands to turn around, I followed Helen’s map instead, and continued to drive down the red dirt road past the alley of trees. Shortly after that, the road became nothing more than two bald tire tracks on a pate of red clay, the grass on the sides tall and rising from marshy water. This made sense since Asphodel had once been a rice plantation with fertile bottomlands near the river. Although the old rice fields weren’t marked on the map, I figured I’d found them, the first piece of history I’d actually discovered since coming here.

  I’d driven less than a mile when the road abruptly ended in a stand of tall Georgia pines, the narrow road no longer visible. Throwing the car into park, I studied the map again, seeing no correlation to anything on it with this place I seemed to be. Annoyed now, I slid the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. Mud splattered my rear window as the tires ground into the soft mud, leaving me in the same place I’d started.

  Putting the car into drive again, I gently pressed on the gas. The car moved forward gently, than slid back down into the red mud, where it seemed to make itself comfortable. I tried reverse and then drive several times before finally admitting defeat.

  “Damn,” I said to the mud and the pines and my own stupidity, and banged my hands against the steering wheel. I climbed out of the driver’s seat, my sandals sinking into the muck. “Damn,” I said again and would have kicked the car if I didn’t know from experience that doing so would mean only that I wouldn’t be able to walk for a day or two.

  I glanced inside the car to where my useless cell phone sat on the dash. I didn’t know the number at the house or anybody who would be remotely nearby. I briefly considered calling George, but realized I would owe him more than I was prepared to give as a matter of thanks for making him drive from Savannah to save me.

  With another damn, I left everything in the car, then tugged my sandals out of the sucking mud and walked about ten feet toward drier ground. My knee ached from the effort and I had to grit my teeth before continuing on.

  Small insects darted around my head and ankles but none bothered to bite me. My grandfather used to joke that it was because I was too bitter. A fellow competitor once told me it was because I had steel running through my veins instead of blood like the rest of the mortals. And for a very long time, until that final jump, I had believed it to be true.

  About ten yards from where I’d left the car, I came upon a railroad-tie fence. Tall weeds grew at the fence posts, confirming my opinion that it marked an empty horse paddock. And, judging by my sense of direction, climbing over the fence would be a shorter path back to the tabby house and possible help.

  Very carefully, I hoisted myself up on top of the fence and swung my right leg over before lifting my left leg to follow. Th
en bracing myself on my arms, I let myself down into the grass on the other side of the fence.

  I headed to the right in a slight diagonal, thinking I’d reach the far end of the paddock eventually and that the fence on that side would run relatively parallel to the oak alley. I kept my head down most of the way to watch where I put my feet, and used the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face, taking most of my makeup with it.

  I’d walked about twenty yards when I heard an old, familiar sound. I stopped and stood motionless, then listened again, hoping it had been the heat and the throbbing of my knee that made me hear things that weren’t there. But there it was again, the sound of chewing, of large, powerful jaws crunching on long grass.

  Slowly I turned to my left and spotted a cherry bay gelding, its large expressive eyes regarding me with a wary gaze as it continued to chew. He was a large horse, about sixteen hands, with a red-brown body and black points. His black tail flicked away a fly as he considered the intruder.

  I wanted to step back, to continue on my hunt for the fence and the drive, but my feet had developed their own mind and refused to move. I smelled the horse then: sweat and grass and the heady odor of sun-heated horseflesh. The scent made me dizzy with remembering, my head swimming with the alarming thought that I might pass out. And then the horse turned and I stood riveted, staring at the vivid scar that bisected his flank, as stark and raw as my own.

  I almost forgot my fear, distracted by the brutality of whatever had caused the animal’s injury, and for a brief moment considered us kindred spirits, damaged yet somehow back among the living.

  The horse lifted its head and nickered softly, then began to approach. “No!” I shouted, knowing I was being unreasonable and silly but his scent and the memories were colliding in my head, and nothing seemed irrational anymore.

  “No!” I shouted again, my voice shrill, the edge of it tempting panic. I forced myself to move backward and managed to dislodge a foot, but my sandal caught on something solid and immobile protruding from the ground. My arms flailed as I tried desperately to regain my balance before falling into the sun-soaked grass. I lay still, frozen, just as I’d done in the grass as I waited for Fitz to slam into me, my broken body unable to roll away.

  The horse startled, then continued its approach, his massive head appearing even larger from my supine position. I turned my head away as he nudged at my hip, nipping at the fabric of my pants. In the rational part of my mind that still functioned, I realized the horse was simply looking for a snack, but behind my closed eyelids all I could see was Fitz’s body blocking the sun above me for that single moment that seemed to last a lifetime, and then the sudden, unbearable pain followed by blackness and my hope that I would never wake up again.

  A low whistle came from the direction of where I thought the fence should be and then a man’s voice called, “Here, boy. Come here, boy. I’ve got you some carrots.”

  I stayed where I was, mortified to be seen cowering like a frightened child. A shadow fell on my face and I turned my head, opening my eyes to see a tall man wearing riding boots and jeans, towering over me.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  God. Knowing my only alternative was to lie still and play dead, I rose up on my elbows and squinted at my would-be rescuer, who had his arm extended toward me. With a moment’s hesitation, I took it and allowed myself to be hoisted to my feet. I stared down at my mud-covered sandals and grass-stained shorts and saw myself as I must appear to the stranger’s eyes. There’d been a time, long ago, when I’d been somebody, a person to admire. A world-class competitor. And now I wasn’t sure who I was, but I knew it was none of those things I’d once been. I cringed from my rescuer’s close scrutiny, knowing I’d come up short.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled, brushing grass from my pants and trying to rub off some of the mud on my sandals in the tall grass. Furious at myself for being so stupid, I vented my anger on the nearest possible victim. I pointed an accusing finger at the cherry bay, who’d turned his attention back to eating grass. “You shouldn’t allow your horse to roam freely like that. He or an innocent bystander could get hurt. Or is that how he got that scar on his side?”

  I saw a flash of anger in the man’s green eyes but it was quickly replaced by something that looked a lot like amusement.

  “Not to disagree with a lady, but you climbed the fence, not him. So, basically, you’re the one roaming freely and, I might add, trespassing on his property.”

  Embarrassment and ire filled me to capacity, leaving no room for apologies or silent mortification. Drawing back my shoulders, I met his laughing eyes. “Then I’ll just remove myself from danger.” Stiff with anger and carrying my bruised ego, I marched away in the direction I’d been heading when I’d been accosted by the horse.

  I hadn’t gone far before I heard him jogging up behind me, then felt him pulling me gently to a stop with a firm hand. “You’re limping. You must be hurt.”

  I turned to glare at him, an angry retort on my lips, but paused. I could see his eyes clearly now and wondered how I’d missed it before: the darkness that hovered there that spoke of grief so fresh he hadn’t yet learned how to hide it.

  Looking away, I gently disengaged my arm, feeling blood rushing to my cheeks. “It’s from an old accident. I’m fine.” I began walking away again, conscious of my limp and feeling his eyes on me.

  He called after me. “If you’re trying to find the drive, you’re going the wrong way.”

  Defeated and robbed of my noble exit, I turned toward him. He was trying very hard not to smile as he pointed me in another direction. As I began to walk away again, the man said,“If it makes you feel any better, that’s the first friendly overture I’ve seen that horse make since I rescued him more than a month ago.”

  “It doesn’t,” I called back over my shoulder. “But thanks for trying.” I considered for a moment asking him for help in extricating my car but quickly dismissed the idea. I had no desire to extend my humiliation by engaging him in more conversation and furthering our acquaintance.

  I continued walking toward the fence without glancing back, and it wasn’t until I was safely on the other side of the fence that I remembered the brief moment when I’d looked into the horse’s eyes and seen the horrible scar, and felt for the first time in a long while that I was no longer alone in the world.

  I ended up walking all the way back to the caretaker’s cottage. My knee ached so much that I had to wrap it with ice and rest for a whole hour before finally calling Helen, who sent for a tow with apologies about the map. It had been drawn by Susan, she explained, when she’d first devised the idea of renting some of the outbuildings, but the road that I’d been on hadn’t been in existence since the seventies when the golf course was built. We were both silent for a moment, wondering why Susan might have included a road that led to nowhere.

  Setting my laptop on top of the pine kitchen table, I flipped it open, having resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to wait until the next day to head to the library. I had a wireless card, so at least I could do preliminary Internet research on my grandparents’ house as well as a search for any more news articles on the baby found in the Savannah River.

  Still, my finger hesitated over the power button, my attention diverted to the scrapbook pages and tattered front cover that I’d placed in the corner of the table, an ever-present reminder of the real reason I was here. I’d had more than ample time to go through all the pages, but I resisted like a dieter contemplating fruitcake, desiring the sweetness but not sure if it would be worth the calories. I couldn’t help but wonder if by continuing I’d be opening Pandora’s box. But, I reasoned with myself, that box had been opened the moment the armoire had slid across the attic floor and exposed the hidden door.

  After closing my laptop with a firm snap and sliding it away from me, I reached across the table, dragging the pages toward me before opening them up to the place I’d stopped the day before. I studied the drawing o
f the necklace again before flipping the page, staring at a sketch of the now familiar angel, and recalled that I hadn’t seen an angel charm on the necklace in the box. And then I began to read.

  March 29, 1929

  I was right. My father did buy me a new mare for my birthday. She’s a dun, with black zebra stripes on her legs and I named her Lola Grace.The Lola part was an inside joke for me, Lily, and Josie, but I’ll call my beautiful horse just Grace. I always wanted a sister and that’s the name I would have chosen, but I’ll have to make do with using the name for my horse since Mama’s been gone for so long and I don’t think Papa has any plans to get married again.

  We board Lola Grace at Asphodel, which is hard for me because I have to wait until somebody can take me there to ride. Papa is always seeing patients and can only take me on Sundays unless he’s helping with a birthing, but most days it’s Josie’s older brother, Freddie.Their mama, Justine, has been taking care of the house and doing her best to raise me since my own mama passed, and seeing how Freddie is working at Asphodel while he’s home from boarding school in England for the summer, it seems to make sense.

  Freddie didn’t seem too happy with the arrangement at first until he learned that I could keep a secret.The first few times he drove me in Papa’s old cart—now that he’s got that fancy new automobile he doesn’t use it anymore—Freddie took me directly to Asphodel Meadows. But then he started to make a few stops on his way, in neighborhoods my papa would have had a heart attack if he ever knew I’d been anywhere near them, to visit friends. I don’t see how these people could be called friends. Firstly, they’re all Negroes and Freddie’s as white as I am although Justine and Josie are the color of my morning coffee with lots of milk.You can hardly tell they’re black except there’s plenty in this city who seem to make a big deal out of separating people and in their eyes Justine and Josie could never pass as white. But Freddie can, which is probably why he gets to go to school in England.