Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  2010

  Ceecee paused in front of the hall mirror before pulling out the top drawer of the small chest beneath it. Several tubes of lipstick rolled forward. She selected Cherries in the Snow, a Revlon classic from 1953 that she’d always loved and had already told Bitty she wanted to be wearing when it was her time to meet Jesus.

  She applied it carefully, listening as Bitty and Larkin finished their breakfast and conversed about the weather and the tides and everything except Ivy.

  I know about Margaret. Ceecee’s hand shook, smearing lipstick above her upper lip. What had Ivy meant?

  Her gaze shifted to the side window, to the old detached garage where Ivy had been allowed to set up shop for her furniture-refurbishment business. Ceecee had gladly given over the space, donated the old horse-drawn buggy that had once been stored there to a local collector. At the time, she’d assumed this would be another of Ivy’s phases, but it had lasted longer than most. It had been relatively lucrative, too, considering her work space was rent free and her business came word of mouth from Ceecee’s friends.

  As Ceecee smudged out the lipstick mistake, she made a mental reminder to go inside the garage when they returned from the hospital. She was fairly confident that Ivy had left out open cans of varnish and paint remover and Lord knew what else. As she’d always done, Ceecee would go behind her, cleaning up, putting on lids, and emptying trash bins overflowing with Diet Dr Pepper cans and cheese slice wrappers. It was all Ivy ate or drank when she was in one of her creative phases, finding the sheer monotony of meal preparation stifling to her creativity.

  “Are y’all ready yet?” she called out to Bitty and Larkin, impatient to go now. She had her notepad and pen in her purse, prepared to interrogate Ivy’s doctors as to what kind of care she’d need when she returned home. When, not if. Ceecee had already decided she’d convert the library on the first floor to a sickroom. Ivy wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs to her old bedroom until she was completely healed.

  She hadn’t bothered to ask Mack if he agreed. She was Ivy’s mother, and considering what Ivy and Mack’s marriage had been like for the last ten years, his opinion simply didn’t matter.

  “What are those for?” Bitty asked, looking at the bouquet of tea roses Ceecee had placed in a vase.

  “They’re from my garden, and I’m bringing them to the hospital for Ivy’s room. I thought the scent might help bring her around. She’s always loved my roses, and they bloomed a little early this year, as if they knew she’d need them.”

  Larkin appeared behind Bitty in the kitchen doorway. “I’m ready.”

  Ceecee looked at Larkin’s face, scrubbed clean and bare. She had beautiful skin, most likely thanks to Ceecee keeping her out of the sun when she was younger and insisting on the importance of a good skin-care regimen. Although she’d inherited the Darlingtons’ vivid blue eyes, Larkin’s lashes were pale gold, even lighter than her hair.

  “Aren’t you going to put on some makeup?” Ceecee asked. “Maybe a little mascara and lipstick?”

  “I think Mama will recognize me without it, don’t you?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” Ceecee smiled tightly. “But if you change your mind, I’ve got some in my pocketbook.”

  Ceecee was aware of Bitty and Larkin exchanging a glance behind her back, but she didn’t care. She’d kept this family together for too long to mind what other people said about her.

  “I’ll drive,” Larkin said, stepping in front of them and holding open the door.

  “Only if you promise to go at a safe speed. I still haven’t recovered from yesterday. And we don’t need to pick up your daddy. He called me earlier and said he was already there. No news,” she added, in anticipation of their question.

  They made the drive in silence. Ceecee’s tight grip on the door handle had nothing to do with Larkin’s relatively sedate pace. She was thinking instead of the ribbon they’d found in Ivy’s hand when she fell, and of Larkin asking what it meant. Ceecee closed her eyes and sent a desperate prayer to a God she hoped had a short memory. She needed Ivy to wake up, to be okay. To listen to her story, to understand. To forgive.

  For the first time in her life, Ceecee could feel her age, could sense the tightening of her joints and the slowing of her steps. Every so often, when she’d see a gray hair or another wrinkle, she’d have the disloyal thought that Margaret would have hated getting old.

  Of course, Margaret would have found ways to still be beautiful and vibrant. If things had turned out differently, she’d have been dancing on all of their graves. Over the past week, the three of them and Mack had taken turns sitting with Ivy, talking to her, or reading articles from magazines, watching a steady flow of trauma nurses and doctors check her vital signs and change her position in the bed. It comforted Ceecee, knowing that even if Ivy hadn’t opened her eyes or squeezed a finger or wiggled a toe, things were being done to make her better.

  She closed her eyes even tighter, making another bargain with God. If Ivy woke up, she would tell her everything. Of course, the fact that Ivy had been found at Carrowmore with that ribbon in her hand meant that she already knew. But how? And what?

  Had Ivy been angry when she’d gone to Carrowmore? Angry at Ceecee over what she’d somehow discovered about Margaret? The thought made it so much worse.

  At the hospital, when it was Ceecee’s turn to sit with Ivy, she set the vase of flowers on the table next to the bed, then pulled out her knitting. It was a skill she’d learned during one of Ivy’s phases, when Ivy had wanted to make sweaters for Larkin, living up in New York. Ivy had never made it past one long sleeve, and Ceecee had thought she’d hang up her own knitting needles for good, too. Yet here she was, working on Ivy’s unfinished sweater, pretending to be calm enough to remember how to knit one, purl two.

  After the nurses left them alone, Ceecee pulled her chair closer to Ivy. “Mama’s here, baby girl. Everything is going to be all right, I promise. I brought you some of my tea roses.” She slid the vase closer to the edge of the side table so Ivy could smell them. “They just bloomed in the last couple of days. Open your eyes, Ivy, so you can see them. Please. Please open your eyes.”

  She waited for a response, but Ivy remained still, her skin waxlike and stretched taut over the fine bones of her face. Tubes ran in and out of her, helping her breathe and eat. She looked more like the little girl she’d been, and Ceecee’s heart squeezed in her chest, wringing out memories of this child she’d always loved as if she were her own.

  Sitting back in her chair, Ceecee let the ball of yellow yarn rest on her lap. “You probably have questions for me. Questions about your mother.” Ceecee touched Ivy’s hand, the skin cool under her fingers. Leaning closer, she whispered, “Please wake up, Ivy. Please. I need you to look at me and tell me you forgive me.”

  She sat back again and picked up the yarn and her knitting needles while she thought for a moment of a good place to start.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ceecee

  MAY 1951

  Ceecee leaned into the mirror, picked up the red lipstick Margaret had given her, and applied it to her lips, just the way Margaret had shown her. Carefully, she closed the lid and placed it inside the small clutch bag Margaret had loaned her, then smiled at her reflection. She didn’t feel like Ceecee Purnell anymore. She was the young, wild woman who’d spoken to a man she didn’t know at a gas station and swung her hips as she’d walked back to the car.

  “You look divine, Ceecee. You really do,” Margaret said, admiring her handiwork. She’d styled Ceecee’s hair in shiny, thick waves and loaned her a pale blue eyelet-embroidered batiste dress with a becoming draped bodice and matching shoes. It was the most beautiful dress Ceecee had ever worn, and even with the short bolero thrown over her bare shoulders, she still felt a little scandalous.

  “Aunt Dottie says things are a lot more casual at the Ocean Fo
rest than they were before the war, so we don’t have to wear long gowns, but I think we look glamorous,” Margaret said. “And you really do look lovely, Ceecee. Now, when all the handsome gentlemen ask me who is that divine woman I’m with, I’m going to tell them your name is Sessalee. You look too regal to be just a Ceecee.”

  Bitty, standing next to Margaret, nodded her agreement. “I agree. And here, take one of these. When one of them approaches, put it between your lips so they’ll light it.” She took a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her purse and handed one to Ceecee. “Cigarettes make everyone look more sophisticated.”

  Ceecee frowned at the cigarette a moment before accepting it, trying not to think of what her mother would say. “Thank you, Bitty. I’ll try to remember. But from what Margaret has told me about how to sit and smile and flirt, I think my head is almost too full for one more thing.”

  She giggled, partly on account of the champagne—Margaret had found a bottle in her uncle’s basement crawl space, which Margaret said he called his wine cellar. She promised he wouldn’t miss it, and if he did, he’d give her a conspiratorial wink and never tell her mother.

  “Will they be playing any of that ‘dirty dancing’ music?” Ceecee asked, half hoping the answer would be yes. She’d overheard her parents talking in the parlor one night about the music some young people were now dancing to, and how some jurisdictions were threatening arrest of any person found dancing to it. Bitty had taught her and Margaret how to jitterbug, but apparently the new dance steps involved “mimicking the act of procreation.” Her father had used the word “lascivious,” a word he usually saved for sermons involving fornication and adultery. It had sent her right to Bitty, whose family had a library full of books and their own dictionary on account of her father being the principal of the school, where’d they’d learned what “lascivious” meant.

  “I certainly hope so,” Bitty said, taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing a smoke ring—something she’d spent a lot of time practicing. Her parents allowed her to smoke at home; they considered her an adult and old enough to make her own decisions. Ceecee hoped no one ever mentioned that to her mother, or she’d be forbidden to see Bitty ever again.

  “At the Ocean Forest Hotel?” Margaret asked, crooking her eyebrow Scarlett O’Hara style. “I sincerely doubt it.” She dabbed some of her aunt’s Joy perfume behind her ears before handing the bottle to Ceecee. “They’re still strictly old-school. There was a joint on the colored side of town called Charlie’s Place where they played all the new music, but the KKK raided it just last year. I’m sure there are other places we can find new music, but it won’t be at the Ocean Forest.”

  “Have you been before?” Ceecee asked, trying not to feel guilty about the perfume. She placed a tiny dab behind one ear before handing it back.

  “When we visit my aunt and uncle, we go there all the time. It’s very upscale and elegant—they called it the ‘million-dollar hotel’ when it was built in the thirties.” Margaret angled her eyebrow again. “Maybe we’ll see a movie star or two. Aunt Dorothy was pretty sure she saw John Wayne in the lobby last season. But he stepped into an elevator, and it closed before she could reach it. She wouldn’t even run for a movie star.”

  Bitty crushed her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “I say it’s time to go. I’m famished, and I want to make sure we have time to eat before the dancing begins. I heard that couples can dance under the moonlight on the Marine Patio, and I swear if nobody asks me to dance, I’m going to do the asking.”

  Ceecee stared at her friend, the champagne taking the edge off her shock. “Surely you wouldn’t, Bitty! That’s what fast girls do. And your behavior will reflect on us, too.”

  Before Bitty could reply, Margaret placed her hand on Ceecee’s shoulder. “Ceecee’s right, Bitty. Which means when you want to ask a boy to dance, whisper it in his ear instead of shouting it across the table.”

  Bitty and Margaret laughed, and Ceecee, unsure what to do, picked up her champagne glass and took a long sip. Then she picked up her Canon camera, a graduation gift from her grandparents, and took a picture of Margaret and Bitty. It was the first photograph of the trip, and she hoped she’d brought enough film, because she imagined filling an album.

  The Ocean Forest Hotel was exactly what Ceecee had envisioned, with its impressive white-painted brick façade and red roof, a tall tower in the center surrounded on both sides by long wings filled with arched windows. A Federal portico protruded from the front of the building, as gracious as any mansion Ceecee had ever seen.

  As they approached the circular drive, admiring the fountain and the expensive cars parked around it, Ceecee was glad she wasn’t alone. She’d never find the courage to go inside such a place. But Margaret’s self-assuredness and Bitty’s unconcerned attitude gave her the confidence she needed to smile at the gray-and-burgundy-uniformed bellman as he opened their car doors at the main entrance.

  Ceecee had to remember to keep her mouth closed at the extravagance of the interior, the gold trim, the rich mahogany, the Persian carpets. She pushed back all the words that came to her, words that her parents would have been saying, about how there were starving people in the world and a rich man had as much chance of getting into heaven as a camel did getting through the eye of a needle. For tonight, at least, Ceecee was going to block out their voices and enjoy herself. She doubted she’d have another chance once Margaret and Bitty departed for college and she would be left alone to rebuke the advances of the eager Will Harris. At least until she gave in from sheer boredom and lack of options, she’d find herself living the sedate married life her parents had always expected.

  But this night—these two weeks—was her graduation gift to herself. Not as practical as the quilt her mother and grandmother had made, but more memorable. For the first time in her eighteen years, Ceecee didn’t care. It wasn’t that she dreamed of living a life where exquisite furnishings and shiny patinas were commonplace, where everyone she knew wore silks and furs, because she didn’t. She’d been raised to be far more practical than that. But for a short time, she wanted to be like Margaret, exuding confidence, able to appreciate and enjoy lovely things without feeling any accompanying guilt. She wanted to feel beautiful and to walk across the room and pretend that every man was watching her.

  Margaret led the way as if she were a queen and Bitty and Ceecee her ladies-in-waiting, her hair glowing in the light of the large crystal chandeliers that hung above them, the marble floors and columns almost fading into the background as if acknowledging her superior beauty. Her dress, in yellow moiré, made her glow like moonlight, casting everyone else in her shadow. The maître d’ in the dining room seemed suitably impressed when she gave her name, and found them a table by the large windows that looked out on the ocean. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the sun hadn’t yet slipped behind the horizon, its rays just beginning to bathe the dining room and its inhabitants in a buttery glow.

  Before Ceecee could reflect on the beautiful view, the maître d’ appeared at their table with a complimentary bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. Margaret thanked him graciously before leaning in to Ceecee and Bitty. “Rumor has it that there’s gambling on the upper floors and my uncle is a frequent participant. Whether that’s true or not, I’m happy to use his name to get the best table. It’s all about attitude, Ceecee. Remember that.”

  She winked at Ceecee and took a sip of champagne, and Ceecee felt the sharp prick of anger needle the base of her neck. It was so easy for Margaret to talk about attitude. She already had everything else. Attitude was the frosting on an already perfect cake.

  The thing with Margaret, Ceecee thought, was that she insisted on believing they were the same, that all Ceecee needed was a little change to her mind-set. She would never understand that Ceecee didn’t have the foundation to support such a thing. It would be like Ceecee wearing Margaret’s debutante gown, with her lackluster hair and bad shoes. Sh
e wouldn’t fool anyone.

  Their bottle of champagne was followed by a bottle of wine, compliments of the maître d’, and then another, which they all enjoyed with their dinner. Dessert and cocktails followed before they moved out to the Marine Patio, where the orchestra had already begun to play.

  It was all so decadent. Ceecee knew she could never tell her parents. But her anger at Margaret had mellowed to a dull throb as she listened to her friend telling stories. She was a good storyteller, always able to keep her audience interested and hold their attention until she revealed the twist. Ceecee couldn’t stay angry with her. After all, she was at the Ocean Forest Hotel because of her friend. She wore Margaret’s dress and shoes and carried her pocketbook.

  Now Ceecee smiled through hazy, grateful eyes as Margaret launched into the story of the ghost of Theodosia Burr Alston, which reputedly haunted Brookgreen Gardens. Ceecee wanted to tell her to stop, that she’d have nightmares, but she didn’t want Bitty to call her a scared little girl. That’s how it went with the three of them—Margaret suggesting something outrageous, Ceecee cautioning against it, and Bitty goading them all into doing it anyway.

  “Excuse me.”

  The three of them looked up at the young man standing by their table, dressed in a dinner jacket, his hands held respectfully behind his back. He was tall, with auburn hair, and was the kind of handsome that made it seem okay to stop and stare. His hair was neatly combed back from his forehead, but an errant wave sprang forth at his left temple, giving him a boyish look and making him approachable. Ceecee liked him immediately because of that curl, because of that infraction against perfection.

  He smiled, and his eyes sparkled. “I hope I’m not intruding. My name is Reginald Madsen, and I’m going to be president of the United States one day.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly and sincerely that it was impossible to doubt him. He certainly looked the part. Ceecee could sense Margaret straightening in her chair, recognizing a kindred spirit, her attention focused on the young man.