Sometimes one decision can set your life on a totally different path. Mama’s told me this before, but it’s the first time I’ve ever understood it. If I had inherited Mama’s secret sense, I probably would have known today would turn out this way. Instead, I’ve been ignorant and embarrassed myself in front of Crow and his family.
Even though the day is cooling, I feel hot and roll down the window. I shake my head in disbelief that this much trouble could happen in the 24 hours since that woman showed up in Katy’s Ridge. She’s like a bad luck charm, if there is such a thing. Yet at this moment, Melody Monroe seems the least of my worries. Mama wants to talk. And I’m guessing it’s about what I saw at the mill, not what Melody Monroe told me.
Instead of going home, Mama pulls off on the side of the road near the river. It’s a place she’s never taken me before, and I thought I knew every inch of Katy’s Ridge. I wonder if Granny is waiting supper for us, and figure both of us will be in plenty of trouble if she is. Then I think about all the complaining I’ve done over nothing ever happening in Katy’s Ridge. Turns out I didn’t know how lucky I was.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wildflower
Talking to Lily at home isn’t an option since Mama is an expert at overhearing things. And the sawmill is definitely out, given what just happened there. I pull off at a place by the river where Daddy taught me to fish. The first fish I caught was a catfish. It was ugly as sin, as Mama would say, but was a delicacy once it was fried in cornmeal. My stomach growls just thinking about it, but my hunger will have to wait.
“Why are we stopping here?” Lily asks.
“We need to talk and we need privacy to do it,” I say.
“But it’s almost dark and it’s getting cold,” she says, as if these are things I haven’t noticed.
I’m hungry and tired and have no idea what I’m going to say to my daughter. From behind the seat, I pull out one of my old jackets and hand it to her. She puts it on.
“It smells like you,” she says, like she’s forgotten for a moment how much she hates me.
Lily pulls the smell close. She used to crawl into my lap when she was a little girl to smell the back of my hands and my hair, as if memorizing my scent. She is a creature of smells and songs.
What I forget sometimes is that it hasn’t been that long ago that Lily was a little girl and a person in need of a mother. At fourteen, she’s already practicing to be a woman. The same age I was when I had just given birth to her. If anything, seeing Lily now helps me see how young I was to have a baby. Too young. Mama had Jo when she was eighteen, but there are plenty of girls in the mountains having kids at fifteen and sixteen and dropping out of high school to raise them. Mama made sure I finished. She refused to let me be one of those girls. She kept Lily during the day so I could. She said it was what Daddy would have wanted. But she must have wanted it, too.
The day has wrung me out like a dishrag. I feel too tired to clean up the mess I made at the sawmill by not being discreet. No matter how hard it is, it’s important that Lily and I talk. That last morning I saw Daddy alive, my secret sense told me to run after him and tell him how much I loved him. Unfortunately, I talked myself right out of it. I told myself I’d have plenty of time to tell him later. Well, life doesn’t always give us a later. You have to make time to say things that need to be said.
I ran away the day Daddy died, just like Lily ran away from the sawmill. Sometimes running is the only thing we know to do. It was here that I ran, to this place by the river. A place I haven’t returned to in years. Somehow, Daddy’s death seems to have set everything in motion that has happened since. Not only what transpired with Johnny, but also all that’s happened today. It reminds me of all those begets in the Bible that Daddy used to read to me and my sisters when we were trying to get to sleep at night. So-and-so begat so-and-so. Everything and everybody connected to what came before.
“It’s getting dark, so we’ll need a few things,” I say to Lily. “Hand me those matches in the glove box.”
Lily opens the compartment and digs out the matches. When she tries to shut it the latch doesn’t grab and she slams it four times until I put my hand on hers. I latch it easily, knowing how to finesse it closed. Lily’s angry look returns.
We get out of the truck and I grab the flashlight I keep in the back.
“Stay close,” I say.
Lily huffs.
Who can blame her for being upset? To protect her, I’ve deliberately kept things from her for years. Or maybe it was more to protect me.
As we take the skinny path to the river, the flashlight offers circles of light for us to follow. Crickets voice their surprise at seeing us. The sun has dropped further behind the hillside and the river holds the last of the light. A sliver of a new moon has risen and it promises to be as dark a night as it gets in these parts.
“Gather sticks and branches for a fire,” I tell her.
Thankfully, she doesn’t sass me.
We rummage around the trees along the riverbank for dropped branches that we break against our knees and throw in a pile. After arranging them, I light a match and place the flame at the bottom.
“Would you like to sit?” I ask Lily. My nerves feel as jumbled as the mound of sticks I’ve just laid.
She shrugs and then sits near the fire, positioning the coat to sit on instead of the cold ground.
In the dim light, Lily pulls something out of her pocket. It is a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, a toothpick piercing the thin covering like a safety pin to hold it all together. It looks like it’s been in her pocket for a long time. She tears the sandwich down the middle and hands me half. It is one of Mama’s leftover chicken sandwiches, with a generous helping of mayonnaise. The bread is soggy, but at that moment I’ve never tasted anything better. I thank Lily for sharing. When we finish, we lick our fingers and dry them on our coats, then we sit in silence as the river gently laps the shore.
“I wish you hadn’t run away,” I say.
Lily doesn’t answer. The only other time she was this quiet was last spring when I told her about the birds and bees, as it is commonly called. She finally confessed to reading Meg’s romance novels hidden in the bedroom closet, and figuring it out on her own. Compared to the awkwardness we are experiencing now, that talk feels like nothing.
A fish jumps near the riverbank, a flash of silver in the dark water that echoes the silver of the moon. Water continues to lap gently at the shore. I am ready for this day to end, but I have things to say if Lily will listen. At least I don’t have to worry about her running away this time. It is too dark to go anywhere.
The ground is cold underneath me and the fire warms my face. I throw another stick on the flame and an owl hoots in the distance, as if to ask what we’re doing in his territory. I imagine him swooping down with silent wings to capture my words before I have time to speak them.
The last time I sat at this spot was the day Daddy died. My heart was breaking. At least nobody is dead this time. I take a deep breath, knowing I can’t put off talking to Lily any longer. It is too cold to take the time to grow the courage I need or choose perfect words.
Still I hesitate.
Lily looks at me, her face a mixture of shadow and firelight. She wants this to be over, too. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Bee and I—Miss Blackstone and I—love each other,” I begin, surprising myself with my honesty. “We’ve loved each other for a long time. Almost ten years now.” My voice falters. “Nobody knows. We’re afraid people won’t understand. Not that it’s any of their business, anyway. But we love each other, Lily. We truly do. And I don’t see how that’s anything different from what your Aunt Jo and Uncle Daniel have.”
“Except they aren’t ashamed,” Lily says. “That’s the biggest difference, isn’t it?”
I turn to look at her, wondering how she became so wise. She’s right, of course. It isn’t the same. Like dew on a foggy morning, shame covers every aspect of my life wit
h Bee.
“The world is a complicated place,” I say. “At your age, you’re not meant to understand everything.”
“Do you understand it?” she asks.
I pause. “Actually, I don’t. I wish I did.”
“You need to stop this,” Lily says. “You need to never see her again.”
Her words surprise me. They sound hard, like Mama’s get sometimes. But I don’t blame her for saying them. I’ve said the same thing to myself.
“I wish I could,” I say. “Bee and I have tried to break it off many times.”
“Try harder,” Lily says. She pokes the fire.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” I say.
“That makes no sense at all,” Lily says with another huff. I can’t believe how much she sounds like Mama.
“All I know is that I’m a better person when Bee’s around. A happier person,” I say, determined to hold my ground.
The fire in Lily’s eyes grows wilder. It is obvious she is confused and doesn’t understand. I’m not sure I understand, either. In fact, I feel exhausted from all the years I’ve spent trying to be normal.
My shoulders drop. Emotion chokes out my words. I tell myself not to weep, but I am too tired to resist. The tears come. Not of someone grieving, but of someone defeated.
The crossness leaves Lily’s face. She apologizes. I seldom let Lily see the side of me that isn’t strong. The side that is just as lost as everybody else about how to love and be loved.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her, my tears slowing. I use the handkerchief Bee used earlier to dry my face, and then sit straighter. “The funny thing is, it all feels so natural. Like I’ve loved Bee my whole life.”
My confession brings her into my arms. Our reunion brings more tears. I think of times I’ve held Lily while she cried. The result of scraped knees, hurtful friends and the rejections life brings, either real or imagined. I got fighting mad at whoever hurt her, and at this moment I feel fighting mad at myself. I wish I could be different.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with anything like this,” I say to her. “I’ve spent fourteen years trying to protect you from hard things.”
Lily releases our embrace and sits back to stare at the fire.
“I’m not sure if I can get used to seeing you and Miss Blackstone together,” she says thoughtfully. “But I think it would be the same if you fell in love with a man.”
I exhale, not even realizing that I’d been holding my breath.
“I don’t want to share you,” she continues. “But I don’t want you to be alone, either. Nobody should be alone.”
She looks off into the darkness, her thoughts taking her far away.
Meanwhile, a ripple of gratitude washes over me, and the crickets turn up their volume to remind us they are here. It has been unusually warm this fall and the cricket season has been extended. I imagine this concert offers one of their last songs before winter.
For the first time this evening, I think about Melody Monroe. Daniel said Lily went over there this morning, which means we have more to talk about. It is perhaps the most important conversation we will ever have. But it seems neither of us have the strength for that one. At least not now.
“Nobody else knows about you and Miss Blackstone?” Lily asks.
“The Sectors know,” I say. “Sometimes Bee and I go over for lunch on a Saturday so we can have time together where we don’t have to worry about people seeing us.”
“You mean Pearl knows?” Lily asks.
I nod.
“But Pearl never said a word to me, and she’s never, ever been able to keep a secret.”
“Well, she’s kept this one,” I say.
“Crow knows, too?” she asks.
I nod again.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” She looks hurt again.
“Because of what happened today,” I say. “I was afraid it would scare you or make you hate me.”
A possum sticks her long nose out of the brush to investigate the fire, a welcome distraction. Her beady eyes take us in, and she sniffs in our direction. She hisses at us before turning away and disappearing into the underbrush.
Bee was one of the few people in Katy’s Ridge who didn’t turn away from me when I was carrying Lily. My best friend Mary Jane wouldn’t have anything to do with me after that. Or maybe her parents wouldn’t allow it. But it was hard losing a best friend. It helps to have a big family. But we are meant to have friends, too. So it was a lonely time. People just stopped talking to me. Or did their best to avoid me.
For months after Lily was born, Bee came over every Saturday morning to help me with her. She’d bring a loaf of banana bread that her mother made. Then we’d talk about books and about different things that were happening in the world. We could talk about anything. We became really good friends. It was years later before we admitted our feelings had grown into something more than a friendship. I remember how hard those days were. Both of us feeling crazy and bad. Feeling drawn together one minute and denying it the next.
Lily wraps her coat closer, and we stare into the crackling fire. Her confusion hasn’t left her face, but it would be impossible—at least before we have our other talk—to explain how it was when I was pregnant with her.
“For a while, I didn’t think I’d ever see Bee again,” I say, reaching toward the fire to warm my hands. “She moved to Nashville to teach,” I say. “I was heartbroken, but I understood.”
“How old was I?”
“It was the summer of your third birthday.”
Sticks collapse into the fire and sparks fly. I toss on more branches realizing how cold we’d be without the flames.
“I remember when she came back,” Lily says. “It was such a relief not to have Mr. Collins anymore.”
Lily had Mr. Collins for first and second grade. He was unmerciful in how he disciplined the boys, and Lily feared him. I don’t think there was a single student or parent who wasn’t relieved when Bee returned.
“She told me she couldn’t stand living without me,” I begin again. “Truth is, I was having a hard time living without her, too. To find somebody you truly love is a rare thing, Lily, and isn’t to be taken for granted.”
She turns away, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Crow, her crush of many years.
A nearby bullfrog begins a throaty, vibrating call.
“Can we go home now?” Lily stands. “Granny might be worried about us.”
“Do you have any more questions?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“Well, whenever you do, I’d be happy to answer them,” I say.
“Okay,” she says back.
She has listened. That’s all that I could ask for. If she is stunned or hurt by the news, she doesn’t let on, and her anger seems to have died away like the fire. I trust her not to tell anyone what we’ve talked about. I imagine she wants to keep it a secret as much as I do.
With my boot, I sweep a layer of sandy soil over what’s left of the embers. The world slowly becomes dark again. The moon winks at us. I turn on my flashlight and lead us back to the truck. Cold air nips at my cheeks, reminding me that winter will be arriving soon. The sounds of the river fade, and Lily is quiet. Too quiet, I decide, as we get into the truck. But I honor her need for silence.
Within a couple of minutes, we arrive back home and get out of the truck to climb the dark hill to our house, the flashlight growing dimmer with every few steps. Our footsteps join the sounds of our breathing, mine heavier than Lily’s. As we walk the familiar path, I think of Bee. We will have plenty to talk about the next time we get together. I squeeze the buckeye I always carry with me. Bee and I found them on a walk together one day over at Sutter’s Lake. We each carry one. Buckeyes are good luck when carried in a pocket and are even known for curing headaches.
We ascend the steepest part of the path and see our house, the single bulb on the porch calling to us like a beacon. Mama will be upset with us for coming hom
e so late. But she will have also saved us supper in the oven, a plate covering it to hold in the heat and moisture. Some things I can count on with Mama.
Walking up the porch steps, I am reminded of the year the country fair came to Rocky Bluff. It was the first time I ever rode a roller coaster. Today has felt just as harrowing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lily
Mama falls asleep fast, her breathing deepening into her usual light snore. After what happened at the mill today, we didn’t even have a chance to talk about my visit to see Melody and what I found out there. In some ways it feels like an entire week has been crammed into this one day. All that’s happened weighs heavy on me like Great Aunt Sadie’s quilt that Mama put on the bed tonight. No matter how much I wish for it, sleep refuses to come.
I try to imagine loving someone and having to keep it a secret. I think of Crow. Not everyone in Katy’s Ridge is accepting of the Sectors. If I married Crow, people might look at me the same way. Not to mention any children we have.
It dawns on me how difficult the world can be if you’re the least bit different. Who is it, exactly, that decided that white people rule the world, and everybody else is out of luck? Or maybe it’s that men rule the world and women don’t get to rule anything, except maybe the kitchen and the babies.
My frustration pushes me out of bed.
Mama startles awake. “You okay, sweetheart?” she asks sleepily.
“Can’t sleep. Going into the living room to read,” I whisper.
“Make yourself warm milk,” she whispers back, and then mumbles like she’s talking to someone in her dreams.
The bedroom dark, I’ve long since memorized every inch of it. I know the floorboards that creak and the way to turn the closet doorknob so that it doesn’t stick. I slide on a pair of corduroy pants Aunt Amy made for me to go with a wool sweater that was a gift from Great Aunt Sadie. I grab my shoes and socks to put on in the kitchen. Once I make it to the hallway, I find my way through the house with the help of the light in the bathroom that Granny leaves on with the door cracked. I am good at being quiet. As the resident night owl, it’s required.
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