Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  I picked up the phone. “Please excuse me,” I said to Josephine. “I need to take this.”

  “Fine,” Josephine said. “Just know that if your body is ever found behind some Dumpster in Queens, we won’t know who to call.”

  Ignoring her, I turned my back to the cubicle opening. “Ceecee?” I spoke into the phone. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, sweetheart. I’m afraid it’s not.” Her voice sounded thick, as if she had a cold. Or had been crying. “It’s your mama.”

  I sat up straighter. “What’s wrong with Mama?” I tried to prepare myself for her answer. Ivy Lanier was anything but predictable. But anything I could have imagined couldn’t have prepared me for what Ceecee said next.

  “She’s missing. Nobody’s seen her since yesterday morning. Your daddy said when he got home from work yesterday that she and her car were gone. We’ve called all of her friends, but nobody’s seen her or heard from her.”

  “Yesterday morning? Have you called the police?”

  “Yes—the minute I heard. The sheriff has filed a report and he’s got people looking for her.”

  My mind filled and emptied like the marsh at the turning of the tides, enough stray bits clinging that I could form my first question. “Where was she yesterday morning?”

  A pause. “She was here. She’s been here just about every day for the last month, refinishing her daddy’s old desk out in the garage. She’d come inside—I only know that because she left the kitchen a mess, the drawers yanked out. Like she was looking for something.”

  “And you have no idea what?” The thread of panic that had woven into my voice surprised me.

  There was a longer pause this time, as if Ceecee was considering the question. And the possible answer. “I thought she might have wanted more spare rags for the refinishing. I keep a bag on the floor of the pantry. It’s empty, though. She must have forgotten she’d used them all.”

  “But she was looking through the drawers and cabinets.”

  “Yes. When I saw her car pull away, I thought she was just running to the hardware store. But the police have checked—she didn’t go there. Your daddy and I are beside ourselves with worry.”

  I closed my eyes, anticipating her next words.

  “Please come home, Larkin. I need someone here. I’m afraid . . .” Her voice caught, and she was silent.

  “Ceecee, you know Mama is always off in one direction or another. You’ve always called her a dandelion seed—remember? This wouldn’t be the first time she’s run off without explanation.” The words sounded hollow, even to me. My dream returned to me suddenly, jerking me backward as if I’d finally hit the ground, the air knocked from my lungs.

  “She always comes back the same day,” Ceecee said fiercely. “They’ve checked all the roads within a hundred miles of here. Your daddy’s driven Highway Seventeen all the way up to Myrtle Beach, as far south as Charleston.” She paused again. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I had a dream last night. I dreamed I was falling.”

  I stared at the black letters against the white background on my computer screen, lines and symbols that suddenly meant nothing at all. “Did you land?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember.” There was a long silence and then, “Please, Larkin. Something bad has happened. I feel it. I need you to come home. We need you to come home.”

  I closed my eyes again, seeing the place I was from, the creeks and marshes of my childhood that fed into the great Atlantic. When I was a little girl, my daddy said I bled salt water; it was in my veins. Maybe that was why I didn’t go back more than once a year, at Christmas. Maybe I was afraid I’d be sucked in by the tides, my edges blurred by the water. There was more than one way a person could drown.

  “All right,” I said. I opened my eyes, disoriented as I imagined the brush of spartina grass against my bare legs, but saw only my metal desk under fluorescent lights. “I’ll take the first flight I can find into Charleston and rent a car. I’ll call you to let you know when to expect me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll let your daddy know.”

  “And call me if you hear anything about Mama.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you called Bitty?” I asked.

  Her voice had a sharpness to it. “No. I’m not sure if she’s really needed—”

  I cut her off. “Then I’ll call her. If something’s happened to Mama, she’ll want to be there.”

  “She’ll just make a fuss.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. But despite her own flurried wind, Bitty always helped me find the calm in the eye of whatever storm I found myself. “But she loves Mama as much as you do. She needs to know what’s happened.”

  I could hear the disapproval in Ceecee’s voice. “Fine. Call her, then. But please get here as soon as you can.”

  Immediately after I hit the “end” button, my phone buzzed with another incoming call. I recognized the 843 area code, but not the rest of the number. Thinking it might have something to do with my mother, I answered it. “Hello?”

  A deep male voice, almost as familiar to me as the sound of rain in a flood-swollen creek, spoke. “Hello, Larkin. It’s Bennett.”

  I quickly ended the call without answering, and put my phone on “silent.” I felt as if I were back in my dream, falling and falling into a dark abyss and wondering how long it would take before I hit the bottom.

  three

  Ceecee

  2010

  Ceecee stood halfway between her kitchen door and the detached garage, retracing Ivy’s steps and trying to figure out what Ivy had been searching for. She’d studied the antique desk, now stripped of its finish, the drawers pulled out and stacked—a gutted fish with only skeletal remains. She reexamined the pantry and the open kitchen drawers, trying to see whether anything was missing. To find any message Ivy had been trying to leave her.

  The more Ceecee didn’t see, the more worried she became. She’d turned to head back into the garage when she heard the cough of an exhaust pipe and saw a plume of black smoke billowing down her long driveway. She knew who it was before she caught sight of the outrageous orange hair reflecting the afternoon sun, or the faded and peeling paint of a once–powder blue Volkswagen Beetle, circa 1970.

  Bitty had been too old to own a Beetle in the seventies and was definitely too old for one now. She’d always said it was the only car built to her small scale, but she looked ridiculous, especially with that hair and her penchant for rainbow-hued flowing robe things that made her look like she’d been in a preschool finger paint fight. Perpetually single but with a swath of brokenhearted suitors left in her wake, retired art teacher Bitty lived her bohemian lifestyle on Folly Beach, earning her living as a painter, with occasional intrusions into Ceecee’s life.

  They’d known each other too long for the intrusions to be all unwelcome. Once, according to Ceecee’s mother, they’d been thick as thieves, she and Bitty and Margaret, inseparable since they were schoolgirls in smock dresses and patent leather Mary Janes. But time changed all things, oxidizing friendships like old copper pots, so they no longer saw their reflections in each other’s faces.

  As Bitty drew near, the clownlike horn of the car beeped twice, making Ceecee jump, as she was sure Bitty had intended. She heard the crank of the parking brake, and then Bitty was running toward her, nimble as a teenager, her arms outstretched. It wasn’t until she was in Bitty’s embrace that Ceecee remembered the security of an old friendship. Like an ancient sweater with moth holes that you still wear because you remember how it once kept you warm.

  Bitty looked up into Ceecee’s face. “You look tired,” she said.

  “And you smell like cigarette smoke.” Ceecee frowned at the bright blue eye shadow and round spots of rouge on Bitty’s cheeks. Her makeup hadn’t changed since the sixties. “If I wore as much makeup as you, I’d still look awful, but I’
d at least cover up my tiredness.”

  Bitty dropped her hands. “Good to see you, too. What do you think has happened to our Ivy?”

  Our Ivy. Those two words stirred up the old anger. Ivy didn’t belong to Bitty, no matter how much she wished she did. Some would argue that Ivy didn’t belong to Ceecee, either, but Ceecee disagreed. She’d raised Ivy, and Ivy called her Mama. That was as much proof as she’d ever need.

  “You’ll be wanting coffee, I suspect,” Ceecee said, walking back toward the kitchen and leaving Bitty to handle her bags. Bitty was the only person their age who still drank fully leaded coffee and could fall asleep and stay asleep at will. She’d been that way since high school, when they’d all started drinking coffee just because Margaret did, and it was as irritating then as it was now. “And no smoking inside.”

  She was at the kitchen door before she heard the sound of another car. “It’s Larkin,” she said, although it was obvious from Bitty’s vigorous arm waving that she’d already recognized the driver. Ceecee said it again, as if to claim ownership, and moved to stand next to Bitty. When Larkin’s tall form unfolded from the driver’s side, she wished she’d kept walking toward the car so she didn’t seem to be making Larkin choose between them.

  Then Bitty was running toward the beautiful young woman with the honey gold hair that was just like her grandmother Margaret’s, and both Bitty and Larkin were laughing and crying, as if at a joke Ceecee hadn’t been part of.

  But then Larkin turned toward Ceecee and smiled, and Ceecee put her arms around her before holding her at arm’s length and shaking her head.

  “You’re too thin,” she said. “A strong wind might blow you away. I’m going to make some of your favorites while you’re home—my sweet corn bread and fried chicken.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Ceecee. Any word from Mama?”

  Her bright blue Darlington eyes searched Ceecee’s face, and again Ceecee felt like she was looking at Margaret. Dear, sweet, impossibly beautiful Margaret. Never “Maggie” or “Mags” or “Meg”—always “Margaret.” Margaret Darlington of Carrowmore, the former rice plantation on the North Santee River. The Darlingtons were as shrewd as they were good-looking, their luck legend. Until it wasn’t.

  Ceecee squeezed Larkin’s shoulders, feeling the bones, sharp as blades, beneath her hands. “No, honey. I’m so sorry. Nothing yet. Let’s go inside and get you something to eat, and I’ll call your daddy to let him know you got here safely.”

  “I’ve already eaten, but can I have some coffee?”

  Bitty came up on the other side of her and slipped her arm around Larkin’s waist. “A girl after my own heart. I knew I taught you something.”

  Larkin leaned her head against the top of Bitty’s. “You taught me a lot. Like how to drive a stick shift—remember?”

  Their strained reminiscences did nothing to hide the worry they all felt about Ivy. Her Ivy. Without checking to see whether they followed, Ceecee let herself into the kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee. Then she picked up the phone to call Mack to invite him to dinner. She knew Larkin would stay with her and not with her daddy. Not that she blamed her. It was hard to forgive a father who’d fallen rapidly and spectacularly from hero status in the eyes of his only child.

  She held the phone absently, still scanning the tidy kitchen counters and her pretty antique teacup collection, which she dusted daily. She bent to straighten the dish towel on the handle of her oven, but stopped.

  An unidentifiable object had fallen in the space between the oven and the edge of the cabinet and was peeping out at her from where it had wedged itself near the floor.

  Ceecee left a brief voice message, letting Mack know about Larkin’s arrival, then ended the call. Her knees popped and cracked like breaking glass as she squatted. Reaching her fingers into the small space, she grasped the object and pulled it out.

  “Are you stuck?” Bitty asked, standing over her, one of the rare occasions when Ceecee had to look up at her friend.

  Ceecee started to say something but stopped, the thought lost the moment she realized what she held in her hand. Holding the counter, she pulled herself up, ignoring Bitty’s outstretched hand.

  “What is that?” Bitty asked.

  They both looked down at the white cardboard spool, the Hallmark price tag faded but still legible. A small section of gold foil ribbon was stuck to the inside, held in place by yellowed tape. Their eyes met in mutual understanding.

  “What are you looking at?” Larkin asked.

  Ceecee and Bitty turned toward Ivy’s daughter, unable to speak. Larkin stepped forward and took the spool. “Is this for ribbon?”

  Finally, Ceecee found her voice. “Yes. I think it might have been in the kitchen junk drawer. Your mother must have dropped it.”

  Larkin screwed up her face the same way Ivy did when she was confused or angry. Margaret had done the same thing in her day. “So, what? Why are you both looking like that?”

  Bitty spoke before Ceecee could. “We think we know where your mama is.”

  “Come on,” Ceecee said, grabbing her flip phone and the keys to her Cadillac off the counter. “We’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  “On the way where?” Larkin plucked the keys from her hand. “I’ll drive—you talk. Just tell me where we’re going, and I’ll get us there as fast as I can.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ceecee

  APRIL 1951

  The three girls—or “women,” as Ceecee’s mother insisted on calling them now that they were all eighteen—sat on top of the eyelet bedspread on Margaret’s four-poster rice bed, a fluffy tulle petticoat and three manicure scissors between them. Graduation from Winyah High School was only a month away, and Margaret had invited Ceecee and Bitty to Carrowmore for the weekend, promising a big surprise.

  “Won’t your mama mind?” Ceecee asked, knowing with her whole heart that her mother would mind—very much. As the wife of the Methodist church’s pastor, Mrs. Tilden Purnell was all about doing her best to be an example of piety, propriety, and poverty. Not that they lived in poverty—Ceecee’s father never would have allowed that—but Ceecee and her two younger brothers knew their mother took frugalness to a level her Scottish ancestors would have admired greatly. Her proudest achievement was reusing the same soup base for an entire week, adding scraps from previous meals each day. Lloyd, the older of Ceecee’s brothers, insisted that only their father’s position with God allowed all five Purnells to get through that particular week without dying of food poisoning.

  Her frugalness extended to her shows of affection toward her children, although Ceecee and her brothers never doubted that their mother loved them fiercely. She simply had a quiet way of showing it—a squeeze of the hand, a smile behind their father’s back as he was sermonizing after some small infraction, an extra slice of cake when no one was looking.

  Margaret arched her left eyebrow—she was the only one of the three best friends to accomplish that feat. They’d practiced for hours in a mirror after watching Gone with the Wind. It made her appear even more regal and aristocratic than usual. “Mother wants me to do whatever makes me happiest. Even if it means cutting up a petticoat I haven’t worn yet so we have something to send to the Tree of Dreams.”

  Ceecee and Bitty exchanged glances, then picked up their scissors and began cutting the undergarment into strips. Nobody—including Margaret—knew when or how a narrow opening in the trunk of an old oak tree on the river at the edge of the property had become known as a special place for storing dreams, a kind of thin place that acted as a conduit to the other side. All Margaret knew was that it had been called that since the Revolutionary War, when the first Mrs. Darlington had placed a ribbon with messages for her absent soldier husband in a small opening in the tree’s trunk. It had been used in the Civil War—their history teacher refused to let them refer to it b
y any other name, even if this was South Carolina and Margaret’s recently passed grandmother had refused to call it anything besides the “Late Unpleasantness”—and ostensibly for any crisis in which the Darlingtons had found themselves since.

  Margaret’s mother called the tree divine, placed on the property as a gift from their Creator, a symbol of the family’s good fortune. After all, the Revolutionary War ancestor had come home to father fourteen children, and the family and property had seen nothing but good health and good fortune ever since, even being spared during the Civil War because the Darlington owner at the time was a Mason.

  Ceecee’s father called it pagan, this writing notes on ribbons as a sort of good luck token, instead of good on-your-knees prayer. But Margaret stubbornly called it the Tree of Dreams, the place she went when she needed some of the Darlington good fortune to shine on her.

  Whatever people called it, it seemed to work. Everything the Darlingtons touched turned to gold. Their men were handsome, their women beautiful, their children brilliant. They were always a little bit more than others. If Ceecee hadn’t loved Margaret so much, she might have hated her.

  And Ceecee’s mother knew that, and that was why she’d tried to discourage their friendship. Jealousy was one of the seven deadly sins, and even if you disguised the green-eyed monster with admiration or friendship, it would always be a sharp-toothed beast waiting to pounce.

  “I brought my paints and brushes like you asked,” Bitty said. Her father was the school principal, and her mother the art teacher. Ceecee was pretty sure that neither her parents nor Margaret’s approved of their friendship with a girl whose mother worked, but the bond that had formed in first grade couldn’t be broken, no matter how much their parents tried.