Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  Bitty started to laugh, but it turned into another racking cough, making her whole body shudder with the effort.

  Ceecee stood in front of her friend, waiting for it to subside. “It’s not just acute bronchitis, is it?”

  For a moment it looked as if Bitty would deny it before she realized that it was pointless to lie to the one person in the world who knew her better than she knew herself. She gave one short nod. “Lung cancer. Stage two.”

  Ceecee looked at her matter-of-factly. “And you’re still smoking.”

  “Yep. I’ve tried giving it up, but I can’t.”

  Ceecee reached over and snatched the pack of cigarettes, crushing it in her hand. “You can now. I’m going to help you quit. And then I’m going to help you get better.”

  Bitty sat up. “Give those back.”

  “Nope. They’re going in the garbage. You’re quitting today.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “Yes, I can. You’re going to move in here with me so I can take care of you and take you to your doctor’s appointments and make sure you never smoke another cigarette.”

  Bitty just stared at her openmouthed.

  “I’m glad we agree.” Ceecee sat down next to Bitty, putting her arm around her shoulders. “See? I can be selfish. I’ll be lonely now, without Ivy. But with you here, I won’t be.”

  Bitty let out a long, shuddering breath, as if a world of worry had been told to leave. She leaned her head on Ceecee’s shoulder. “I guess I was the one who said you should learn to be more selfish, wasn’t I?”

  “You sure did. And you might as well tell me now where you keep the rest of your cigarette stash. I’ll find them eventually, so I’d appreciate it if you’d save me the trouble.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Ceecee felt Bitty’s smile against her shoulder. “Do you still miss Margaret? The way she was when we were girls?”

  “I miss the way we all were when we were girls. What was it that my mama used to say? Something about Margaret suggesting something outrageous, me cautioning against it, and you goading us all into doing it anyway.”

  “Sounds about right,” Bitty said. “And I wouldn’t change any of it.” She felt Ceecee look at her. “Except for one or two things.”

  Ceecee watched as an egret perched on one of the dock pilings, looking out at the smooth water of the Sampit, happily oblivious to the cycle of life and death that took place beneath its beautiful wings. “Maybe Larkin can fill in for Margaret when she moves back home.”

  “She’s moving back?” Bitty sat up with surprise.

  “She hasn’t said so yet, but of course she is. Like Boyd used to say about our Ivy, she’s got salt water running through her veins. I don’t know what she’s been surviving on in New York, but I say it’s time for an infusion.”

  They heard a car pull up at the front of the house. “Larkin’s here,” Ceecee announced as she stood. She gave her hand to Bitty and helped her stand. “Whatever’s in the letter, we’ll be okay, won’t we?”

  Bitty squeezed her hand. “Of course. Friends forever, remember?”

  Ceecee squeezed back, remembering the day they’d put their ribbons in the tree the first time, wishing that they’d simply told Margaret no. “Friends forever,” she repeated with a smile as they entered the house together.

  * * *

  • • •

  Larkin

  2010

  Bennett met me at the front door. All the tears I’d been holding back found their way to my eyes as I faced him, feeling the burden of my sadness shift from my shoulders because he was there. Like he’d always been when I’d needed him. Before I could say anything, he’d wrapped his arms around me, making me feel comforted without the benefit of words. “I’ve got the coffee on, as promised,” he said, kissing the top of my head. He smelled of soap, and his skin was still damp from the shower. I had the oddest sensation that I could get used to that.

  “Thank you,” I said, my tears leaving a wet patch on his shirt.

  When I got to the kitchen, I watched as Ceecee and Bitty walked through the back door, holding hands and looking like coconspirators. When they saw me, they each hugged me as we cried together, and it was a little like having Mama back.

  Ceecee went immediately to the fridge and began pulling out eggs and cheese and other breakfast fixings. “We’ll need to start making phone calls and begin with the arrangements for your mama, but we can’t do that on empty stomachs, can we?”

  I closed the refrigerator door. “Breakfast and phone calls can wait. We need to read the letter now. I know that’s what Mama would want.” Knowing this was the only thing keeping me from shrinking into my grief.

  Ceecee and Bitty exchanged a glance, then sat obediently at the kitchen table. “I’ll get the coffee,” I said, bringing the pot over, along with four mugs and cream from the refrigerator.

  Bennett excused himself, then came back with the letter. “Who’d like to read it?”

  I looked at Ceecee, but she shook her head. “Your mama would want you to. Go ahead.”

  Bennett slid the paper in front of me, and I looked down at the small, neat handwriting that filled the front and back, took a sip of my coffee to clear my throat, and began.

  October 10, 1993

  My Dearest Ivy,

  I’ve already spent too much time deciding to whom this letter should be addressed, and have decided on you. You’re a mother now, more prepared to understand what it means to love someone more than yourself, to make choices dictated by your heart, and not your head. Life is full of choices, and it’s up to us to decide what part will guide our actions.

  My doctors tell me that my time is limited, and this is the last task on my list of things I need to take care of before I’m gone. It wasn’t a long list, but I took my time, dreading this part even though my intent in writing this letter is more to clear my conscience than to confess. I made a choice long ago, a choice that affected so many lives, and I’ve never regretted it for one second. Still, it has haunted me for four decades, visiting me in my dreams. You and I have both been suffering through the same nightmare, it seems. Dreams of fire. Which makes sense since we were both there the day your mother died.

  The day of the fire, I knew your mother and Sessalee were with you at Carrowmore, preparing to ride out the storm. But despite the hurricane, it was Margaret’s state of mind that worried me most. Knowing that Sessalee was with you gave me what little consolation I could find, allowing me to stay at the hospital through the long night, focusing on my work.

  After the storm passed us in the early morning, I couldn’t wait anymore, and I headed to Carrowmore, frantic with worry. It took me a long time to get there, having to stop and remove tree limbs and other debris from the road, and to navigate around flooded parts. I remember looking through the woods as I approached the house, searching for the flash of white through the trees. Instead, I saw flames shooting up and turning to thick smoke in the driving rain. I don’t remember stopping the car before the long driveway, although I must have been aware of the heavy mud. I don’t remember running toward the house and entering. I only remember seeing you in the threshold of the front door, fast asleep, as if someone had just dropped you there. I picked you up, calling Margaret’s name and Sessalee’s, hoping against all hope that they were safely outside. I must have known that couldn’t be the case, because Sessalee would never have left you behind.

  I brought you to the large magnolia tree in the front yard, its thick branches giving you shelter from the wind and rain. You were still sleeping, and I realized Margaret must have given you something. She’d done it before, and I’d taken the pills away from her. But she must have saved some, because you didn’t even open your eyes.

  When I came back to the house, the flames had consumed the white parlor, the smoke billowing out into the foyer. A shout came from upstairs, an
d I took a deep breath before running up the steps two and three at a time, desperation making me faster and stronger. I went into the first bedroom, the one I knew Sessalee usually stayed in. She was sound asleep in the bed, the same kind of dreamless dead sleep you were in, and Margaret was beside the bed, trying to pull her out and coughing in the smoke.

  I picked Sessalee up, throwing her blanket over her face to protect her from the smoke, then shouted to Margaret to hold her breath, and follow me. As we got to the top of the stairs, Margaret collapsed. And that’s when I had to make a choice. Should I listen to my heart, or my head? I knew I couldn’t safely carry them both down the stairs and out of the house. I had to choose between my wife and the woman I loved.

  I stopped reading, and glanced at Ceecee. Her head was bowed, her fingers clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white. Bitty saw it, too, and placed her own hand on top. “The fire was downstairs,” she said. “Not in your room. So you couldn’t have started it.”

  Ceecee nodded, but it didn’t erase her expression of misery. I took another sip of my coffee, barely aware that it had grown tepid, and continued to read.

  I placed Sessalee next to you beneath the tree, then ran back to the house to get Margaret. But it was too late. The fire had reached the bottom of the stairs. I swear to you that I tried, but the flames and smoke beat me back. There was no other access to the upstairs, and there was nothing I could do.

  I returned to where I’d left you and Sessalee. I checked your pulses and breathing to make sure you were both all right. And then I heard the fire truck. That’s when I made my second choice—I could either stay and tell them the truth, or I could leave and let them believe that Sessalee had brought you out of the house. I didn’t want Sessalee to know the truth, that I had saved her life over Margaret’s. She couldn’t have lived with it. But I could. So I made the choice to leave.

  I saw Bitty as she was parking on the side of the road, and I knew she’d seen and recognized my car. I’ve waited nearly forty years for one of us to say something about how we knew we were both there that day, and never told anyone. But we never did. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I think I finally understand. Secrets can be used for subterfuge. But secrets kept out of love are different. In their own way, they sustain us; they keep us sane. They tell us that love isn’t about doubt, but about believing in spite of it.

  We have had a good life together, Sessalee and I, and you, our darling daughter. You have gifted us with a precious granddaughter, and I can only be grateful for the choices I’ve made. My one regret is that Sessalee doesn’t know Margaret tried to save her, or that she saved you by leaving you where I could find you. But I couldn’t tell her any of that without revealing the rest.

  I sometimes wonder if some of your own restlessness is because you might remember more than you think, that you were aware of the struggles going on around you, of the fire and being carried to safety. Maybe you picked up on the mental turmoil of those who wanted to save you. I hope you can forgive me for not telling you the truth. If I’d thought it could have helped you navigate your life better, I would have. I believe that’s why you put Carrowmore in trust for Larkin after she was born. She has no memories of it, nothing to sour her belief that it can one day be brought back to life.

  Never forget you are a Darlington, like our precious Larkin. It’s a legacy that goes back more than two hundred years, when it used to be said that the Darlington luck was legendary. But I don’t believe in luck. I believe that love creates good fortune and builds empires, and it’s doubt and envy that destroy both. My dream has always been to rebuild Carrowmore, but my health has other plans. My hope is that one day Larkin will decide to reclaim her legacy, to start anew, building on a foundation of what we have learned and the choices we have made. It can be a new legacy, born of love, not fickle luck.

  I’ve thought about placing this letter inside the Tree of Dreams, but instead I’ll leave it in the secret compartment of my desk. Fate can decide whether anyone reads it. Like I said, this isn’t a confession. Just the final words of a dying man trying to set the record straight.

  Ever since the day of the fire, I have had a recurring dream that haunts me into my waking hours. I dream of four martins flying home to Carrowmore, a ribbon in each beak. Maybe wisdom does come with age, because now that I’m facing death, I think I understand what the dream was trying to tell me.

  Each bird represented one of us—Sessalee, Margaret, Bitty, and me. We each had something to say, a message to bring back to our nest. Mine was of peace, for the choices I’d made and learned to live with. Bitty’s was one of constancy and faith—not blind faith, but faith born from wisdom and a deep friendship that knew no boundaries. Sessalee’s was one of unselfish love, for all of us lucky enough to be in her circle. And the fourth was Margaret, whose message was one of forgiveness. Not just for me, but for herself.

  I like to think that the nest they’re bringing the messages to is where we will find you and Larkin. A wise man named Atticus once said, “We are made of all those who have built and broken us.” We have all made mistakes. Just remember that you are loved.

  I love you, darling daughter. I know you and Larkin will be a great comfort to my Sessalee once I am gone. Be well.

  Love,

  Your devoted father

  I pulled a tissue from the box in the middle of the kitchen table and handed it to Ceecee, who delicately blotted her eyes—rubbing caused wrinkles—and blew her nose; then I grabbed one to dab at my own eyes. I leaned across the table toward her. “You put the ribbon in the tree, didn’t you?” I asked. “The one that said, ‘Forgive me.’ Because you always thought you’d left Margaret behind.”

  Ceecee clenched her eyes shut. “That’s why Ivy was so angry with me and questioned the trust. Because Boyd chose to save me instead of her mother. And she died feeling that anger toward me, waiting for me to ask for her forgiveness.”

  Bitty squeezed her hand. “No, Ceecee. She didn’t. She came back to tell you good-bye in your dream. Remember? Then she kissed you. I think that means she’s at peace and not angry anymore. I think she understood.”

  Ceecee looked at her friend, her face softening as she realized the truth of Bitty’s words. “Yes,” she said, “I think you’re right.” She thought for a moment. “So, who’s been tending the martin houses?”

  Bitty smiled softly. “I have.” She looked around sheepishly. “I don’t believe in luck or legends, but there was something about the story of the martins and Carrowmore . . . I wanted to help it survive. For Larkin.”

  I leaned over and hugged Bitty and Ceecee, realizing for the first time in my life how very lucky I’d been to have three very different women play the role of mother in my life. We are made by those who have built and broken us. So very true, I thought, grateful that my entire past, warts and all, had brought me to where I was now.

  A knock sounded on the door. Bennett stood to answer it, and we saw Carol Anne and Mabry, both carrying casseroles, my father arriving behind them.

  “Bennett called us about Ivy, so we’ve brought food.”

  I wanted to laugh at the Southern equivalent of grief counseling, but found myself crying instead, being comforted by the people I loved most in this world. Mabry hugged me, accidentally snagging her wedding ring on my necklace, breaking a link and sending the three charms scattering to the floor. The arrow fell close to my feet, and I picked it up, feeling the smooth gold between my fingers, the tip pointing toward my heart, and I knew at last what it meant.

  thirty-eight

  Larkin

  2011

  I sat next to Bennett in the middle of the front seat of his truck, my head on his shoulder and his arm around me, embracing with a vengeance being back in the South. My lipstick and nail polish matched, and my hair was pulled up into a ponytail beneath a USC Gamecocks baseball hat to protect my skin from the bright May sun.


  A song came on the radio, and I leaned forward to turn it up. “Ha! ‘We Rode in Trucks’ by Luke Bryan. How appropriate.”

  Bennett chuckled, and I could feel the rumble beneath my cheek. “I sometimes think you’re just dating me for my truck.”

  I pulled back to look at him. “Is that what we’re doing? Dating?”

  He gave me a half grin, then returned his gaze to the road leading to Carrowmore. “Well, that certainly sounds better than being your contractor with benefits.”

  I slapped his chest, then tilted my head to kiss him on his jaw right below his ear, where I knew he liked it. “Just be glad I hired you to do the restoration. Otherwise it might have been awkward.”

  He raised his eyebrows, placing both hands on the steering wheel to navigate the rutted road, still strewn with debris from the previous night’s storm. “Speaking of awkward, Mabry keeps on teasing me with snippets from your manuscript in progress but won’t let me read it. When are you going to let me see?”

  “When it’s done. Mabry has sworn to be honest in her critique. I’m afraid if I let you or Ceecee or Bitty read it, I’d be met with undeserved and unending praise. And that’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, pulling around the side of the house. “Because you’re right. I can’t see myself being unbiased about anything you write. Or say or do.” He grinned. “Maybe I just need to spend more time with you.”

  Before I could retaliate, my phone beeped, and I glanced at the screen. It was Josephine in New York, reminding me of our conference call at one o’clock. I’d been able to negotiate a remote working arrangement with Wax & Crandall. It was fewer hours, and less pay, but it was a sweet deal. It gave me time to work on the novel Mabry had reminded me that I’d always wanted to write, as well as to oversee the restoration of Carrowmore. Josephine kept threatening to move down to Georgetown so she could see for herself what it was that had pulled me away from New York.