Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  He shrugged. “I’m guessing it means that someone—I’m thinking my grandfather—didn’t believe the fire that caused your grandmother’s death was accidental. Remember, this was almost sixty years ago. They didn’t have the forensic capabilities we have now. So maybe ‘suspicious’ just means there was a lack of evidence to rule on one side or the other.”

  “Is there any more of the official record in here?” I asked.

  “No. Just a few clippings about hurricane damage and flooding in the area, and a couple of articles about your mother, who was a toddler at the time.” He riffled through the small pile of newspaper articles, and slid one toward me. “This talks about how Ceecee was found unconscious on the front lawn, her body thrown over Ivy’s to protect her. Ceecee was called a hero, but apparently she couldn’t remember what happened or how she managed to escape.”

  I looked down at the photo of my mother, about age two, her fine hair pulled back with an enormous bow. She sat on someone’s lap—I imagined it was my grandmother’s—smiling into the camera. There was something pure and untouched in her expression, and I realized I’d never seen my mother without haunted, burdened eyes that always seemed to be looking beyond what was in front of her.

  My first instinct was to put all the papers back in the folder, out of sight. To move on to something new, to forget. Because that was what I’d always done. The whole reason why I’d left was to start over and pretend I didn’t have a past.

  “What are you going to do now?” Bennett asked, his tone expectant instead of chiding.

  “I don’t know,” I said without meeting his eyes. “It all happened so long ago.” I looked down at my grandmother’s photo. She was younger when she died than I was now. “I wonder if Mama might have found something—maybe that’s why she went to ask Jackson about the insurance on Carrowmore. I’ll just wait for her to wake up, I guess.”

  “Larkin.” Bennett’s voice was gentle.

  “I know.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “She might not.” It was the first time I had allowed myself to truly consider it, to press on that particular bruise.

  “You know you’ve got people here. You don’t have to go it alone. And you’ve got your daddy. He’s dying to be a part of your life again.”

  I looked away. I’d been avoiding that whole situation, hoping I could put it off till I left again. “He left a message on my phone this morning. Wants me to come over later.”

  Bennett just looked at me, which was worse than him scolding. Uncomfortable, I looked at the obituary and fire record again, and the handwritten, double-underscored word suspicious. I thought of my quiet studio apartment in Brooklyn, the bare walls of my cubicle. The gym where I worked out every evening but knew no one’s name. That was my life now, and if I wasn’t exactly happy, I was content. The past was done; there could be no changing it or reliving it.

  “Just a thought,” Bennett said, reminding me of when he tutored me in high school algebra and he was about to point out a big flaw in my calculations. “Wasn’t Bitty good friends with your grandmother and Ceecee? She might know more.”

  “Does it really matter now? I don’t see the point in raising the dead.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked. “Because the way I see it, what happened to your grandmother affected not only your mother, but Ceecee, too. It dictated the way you were raised. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “Not really,” I said, although his scrutiny was making me squirm. “It’s all tragic and sad, but even if we rebuild Carrowmore, there’s nothing we can change. Thank you for showing me all this, though. I had no idea how much I looked like her.”

  He avoided my gaze by stacking folders and papers on top of the card table. “I have to go back to Columbia tomorrow. There are some work projects I need to deal with that can’t be done from here. But I’ll be back Friday—just in time for the Shag Festival.”

  I was surprised by the disappointment I felt knowing he wouldn’t be just a few blocks away. Which was silly, really, because we’d been in different states for the last nine years and I’d barely thought about him. “You’re not serious about taking me to the festival, are you? Because I doubt I even remember the steps.”

  He smiled, and my insides did that warm, twisty thing again. “Like I said before, it’s like riding a bike. Your body will remember what to do.”

  Before I could argue, he’d stood and pulled me up with him. “I’ll do the eight-count while you hum ‘Never Make a Move Too Soon’ by B.B. King. And don’t tell me you don’t know how it goes, because you know every song ever written.”

  Taking my right hand firmly in his left, he stepped backward with his left foot, making me move forward with my right. “One-and-two, three-and-four, five-six,” he said as I hummed.

  And he was right. I did remember, my feet easily moving with the familiar steps, my hand held tightly in his as if he was afraid to let me go. I remembered parties in his parents’ backyard and how I used to wish Jackson Porter would stop by and ask me to dance. How I used to pretend sometimes that Bennett was him. Looking at Bennett now, I couldn’t remember why.

  I kept humming until I realized he’d stopped counting, and then I stopped, too. We stood absolutely still, facing each other with our hands clasped. The space was quiet enough that I could hear the cicadas in the trees outside, and our heavy breathing that matched the rhythm of my thumping heart.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Mabry shouted from the doorway. Bennett and I quickly moved apart.

  “Perfect timing,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as high-pitched as it did to me. “I’m starving.”

  Without looking at Bennett, I followed Mabry to the house, trying to reconcile all I’d just learned with the unsettling knowledge that the past wouldn’t let me go no matter how much I wanted it to.

  twenty-two

  Ivy

  2010

  “I saw the mural you painted at the ice-cream store.”

  Bitty is sitting close to my bed, her hands clasped together like she’s praying. Her hair is bright red, the spikes beginning to wilt as the hair grows longer. I guess it’s because she’s been here since my accident and hasn’t been home to get it cut. She speaks quietly so no one else can hear her.

  “I knew you’d painted it even before I asked Gabriel. I recognized your style. Your creativity with the little details. It’s what sets you apart, that attention to detail. I don’t think you learned that from me, so I won’t try to take credit. Although maybe I should. I bought you your first easel-and-brush set, remember? You’re a fine artist, Ivy. A very fine artist.”

  She looks down at her nails. They’re starting to grow out, too, but they’re still ragged and stained at the beds with dark paint, and I can tell she bites them. This must be a new habit, because I don’t remember her biting her nails before. Must be since my accident.

  We’ve all changed since then. Besides being unable to communicate, I don’t dream anymore, either. I’m convinced this means I’m in a dream already. Larkin always told me that dreams are meant to teach us something. So, I’m waiting to learn whatever it is and move on. I have my suspicions. Whatever it is that I’m supposed to learn has something to do with Ceecee and Larkin. And me. Because each time they come talk to me and tell me something new, I feel myself get lighter.

  “I saw what you painted in the corner, that little detail you have to know to look for. Being artists means we’re different from others. We see so much, don’t we? Things others are blissfully unaware of. It’s a burden, isn’t it?”

  Bitty sits up straighter and begins to cough, and thin black clouds like crows form around her head. I don’t think they’re real. I think they exist in my dream, so only I can see them. But they’re there, and she’s coughing out all that toxic air, cigarette smoke, and secrets trapped inside her. And each time she coughs, I feel a slackening of my tethers, a slight release in the tens
ion, and I think I’m onto something here. The ceiling crackles above me, and I know that I am right.

  She runs her hand through the droopy red spikes on top of her head. “I wondered why you’d been asking about the insurance, and about removing Ceecee as trustee. And then when I saw the mural, I understood. You must have remembered something from the night of the fire.” She’s silent for a moment, thinking. “And whatever happened to make you remember wasn’t recent, was it? Mack and Bennett seem to think it’s connected to the developers’ interest, but I disagree. I believe it’s something else entirely. Because I happen to know that you’ve always been one to chew on a hurt, taking your time before deciding what to do. You didn’t tell anyone what you remembered because you needed to think about it first. And the way you think through your problems is by being creative. Like sewing new curtains for your dining room. Or painting a mural.”

  She sits back in her chair. “I’ve figured that whatever it was that made you remember that night of the fire happened somewhere around the time you went to see the lawyer. I just can’t decipher what that could have been.”

  She coughs again, and the crows lift from around her head like a cyclone, circling the ceiling and attempting to flit through the widening cracks, but their wings are too big, and they fall down to the floor in a sooty heap.

  Bitty takes a bottle of water from her large purse and drinks about half of it before putting it down. “There’s so much you don’t know. Things that happened before you were born.” She leans forward. “We only kept secrets because we wanted to protect you. And Larkin. Please know that. Our choices were made out of love.”

  She sits back in her chair, exhausted. I know what it means to make choices out of love. Just ask Larkin. Love, I have found, is a treacherous companion. When you do something out of love, it usually backfires. People need to know that. They need to know that they should do something because it’s the right thing to do and not because they feel they have to because of love. It’s the best way to destroy it.

  “Open your eyes and talk to me, Ivy.” Bitty’s voice is pleading, and that scares me a little, even more than the black crows coming from her mouth. She’s always been so bossy and take-charge. To hear her plead breaks my heart.

  “I want to tell you the whole story. What Ceecee and I should have told you long ago. Before you discovered something by accident, and perhaps misunderstood. I wanted to, but Ceecee didn’t want to upset you. Because she loves you. So do I, but I’ve found that keeping secrets is never the way to show love.”

  There’s fluttering up by the ceiling, and I see the crows again, perched upside down with their claws in the cracks, their beady black eyes staring down at Bitty. What did she say about me asking about the insurance, the trusteeship? As if someone has suddenly turned on a fan, the burning smell of paint thinner wafts across my nose, erasing the hospital smell of disinfectant and latex.

  And that’s when I remember where I was and what I had been doing when I discovered a truth about the night my mother died. Remember how the world seemed to crash in on me as I tried to put the pieces together, and understand how so many lies could have been told in the name of love.

  I feel the anger that’s anchored me to my bed begin to slide away like unlocked handcuffs. I remember why I was at Carrowmore. Why I put my ribbon in the tree. And I at last know why there were two ribbons stuck in the tree after I fell through the rotting wood floor and the world crashed in on me for real.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ceecee

  1951

  A week after finding out about Margaret’s pregnancy, Ceecee and Boyd were sitting on the front-porch swing at her parents’ house. Boyd had moved in to the Griffiths’ carriage house two days earlier and had already started meeting Dr. Griffith’s patients. Despite appearances that all her wishes were coming true, Ceecee couldn’t overlook the heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. It was as if she were sitting in a boat in strong wind with her eyes closed, wondering from which side the waves would strike and how high they’d be.

  She’d told Boyd about Margaret’s baby, even though Bitty had pleaded with her not to. But Margaret had asked her to tell him, believing that Boyd might be able to reach Reggie. It also had allowed Boyd, as a doctor, to ask her about her condition and give her advice on the pregnancy without giving her a full exam. She needed one, but Boyd also understood that since Dr. Griffith was good friends with Mr. Darlington, that would be out of the question.

  Ceecee was torn between her love for and devotion to her friend, and her all-consuming love for Boyd. She’d once believed that loving more than one person—a friend, a child, a husband—just meant your heart was supposed to get bigger to accommodate all of that love. Yet she found herself resenting Margaret for her demands on Ceecee’s and Boyd’s attention and affection, Ceecee’s heart seeming to shrink as it sought to exclude her friend.

  The more Ceecee felt guilty over her unsettled feelings about the time Boyd spent with Margaret, the more she overcompensated, showering Margaret with affection and impromptu gifts of flowers from her garden and pretty ribbons for her hair to brighten the limp strands and the paleness of her skin. Bitty simply stood by in silence, smoking her cigarettes, her eyes silent as if she were watching an epic movie unfolding on the big screen.

  Boyd had informed them that Reggie had already been sent to a training camp in Japan. Margaret’s only hope was that he’d come home in time to marry her before she started showing. Except for Margaret, none of them saw that as a feasible option. Boyd suggested that Margaret tell her parents as soon as possible so that her mother could orchestrate a visit to her fictional old maiden aunt in Columbia until the baby was born, and then the Darlingtons could pretend to adopt the child of an impoverished relation and raise it as their own. It had been done enough times for them to think it could work. All Margaret had to do was find the courage to tell her parents. Something she was struggling to do.

  “Have you spoken with Margaret today?” Boyd asked.

  Ceecee shook her head. “No, but Bitty and I are planning to visit her tomorrow. I’m not sure if she realizes that she’s running out of time. I’m worried about her. She’s so thin, it just can’t be good for her or the baby.”

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed. He put his arm around her. “I feel partially responsible for all this. Reggie’s my younger brother. I know we’re both adults, but I’ve felt responsible for him my whole life. I hope Margaret knows that she can turn to me for guidance in Reggie’s absence.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Ceecee said stiffly.

  “You’re a good friend to her, Sessalee. I hope she knows it.”

  “You think so?” She paused a moment before blurting out, “Because I find myself feeling so much anger toward her. Anger for getting herself in this situation. And anger because she’s doing nothing to help herself.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know how,” Boyd suggested gently. It’s one of the things she loved most about him. His compassion for others even when they didn’t seem to deserve it.

  He continued. “She’s been raised with others taking care of her every need. Being born beautiful doesn’t help, either. She’s never had to work very hard to get people’s attention, so she’s never had to wait for something she’s wanted or needed. She expects it all as her due.”

  Everything Boyd said was immediately forgotten as soon as he said the word “beautiful.” “You think Margaret’s beautiful?” Ceecee asked, trying to keep her voice light and playful, and was afraid she’d failed completely. It was a stupid question that did nothing to hide her insecurities. A person would have to be blind not to notice that Margaret Darlington had a rare kind of beauty.

  “Yes. But in the way a marble statue in a museum is beautiful. So lovely to look at, but you’re a little afraid to touch it in case it might break.”

  Mollified, Ceecee curled her legs up on th
e swing and rested her head on Boyd’s shoulder. She knew he was getting close to proposing, felt it in her bones. She’d been working very hard to ensure they had enough time alone. Which was difficult, considering she had two younger brothers and a mother with eyes like a hawk. Even now, before dusk, the front-porch lights were on, and the front room draperies were pulled wide open to allow ample viewing of the porch from inside the house.

  Boyd looked down at her, his eyes twinkling. “Have I told you lately that I think you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met?”

  “I don’t remember. But I don’t mind you repeating yourself.”

  He smiled, his gaze traveling down to her lips, and something that felt like fire raced from her heart to her toes and back again. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, stretching her neck so that their lips were almost touching. “But you can say that as many times as you want, too.”

  His lips brushed hers just as the front door slammed open and her brother Lloyd ran out onto the porch, stopping in front of the swing. “Mama wants to know if you want some sweet tea.”

  Ceecee could tell Boyd was trying very hard not to laugh. “Thanks, Lloyd. I wouldn’t mind a glass, and I’m sure your sister would like one, too. Please thank your mama for being so thoughtful.”

  Lloyd stood staring at them, as if he hadn’t anticipated Boyd’s answer, and for a horrible moment, Ceecee wondered if her mother had any sweet tea at all or was just playing her chaperone role a little too thoroughly.

  “All right,” he said, dragging his feet as he moved closer to the door and opened it, the sound of the phone ringing inside.

  The door banged behind her brother as Boyd turned back to her. “Where were we?” he asked softly, his lips brushing hers.