The Girls of August

by Anne Rivers Siddons

  Teddy held me close as we danced to Lionel Richie’s “Hello.” We slowly swayed to and fro and when he sang sweet and low into my ear the lyrics “And I want to tell you so much, I love you,” I thought I’d grown wings and flown to heaven.

  The song ended and I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was determined to make my way to the restroom and gather myself. I caught Rachel’s eye. She slipped from Oliver’s grip and, being a girlfriend with a sixth sense, rushed over and said, “Teddy, I’m borrowing your sweet gal for a moment. We’ve got to powder our noses, don’tcha know.”

  “Well, don’t borrow her for too long,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I might get lonely.”

  “Fat chance,” Rachel shot back and she looked at him as if he wasn’t fooling her or anyone else.

  Her stance confused me, but in my state of momentary exultation, I ignored any possible chance to feel anything other than supremely happy.

  I took her arm and she steered us over to Barbara, who had just planted a sloppy kiss on Hugh’s big face.

  “Girl time. Let’s go,” Rachel ordered, her voice deep and clipped.

  Barbara, who was obviously tipsy and dressed in a skintight zebra-striped sheath (those were very bad fashion days), wiggled her fingers at Hugh. “I’ll be right back, baby!”

  She stood, wobbly in her bejeweled black stilettos. A crooked smile crept across Hugh’s face and he slapped her on the ass.

  “Dr. Fowler,” she cooed, “behave yourself!”

  The three of us linked arms, drifted out of the ballroom, and made our way through the lobby and finally into the ladies’ room. I fanned my face with my hand. “Oh my God!”

  “What, what’s going on?” Rachel asked. “You’re acting like you’re fourteen.” She opened her evening bag and withdrew a cigarette.

  Barbara hung on to the counter and said, “Woooo. I think I’ve had too much bubbly.”

  “Listen!” I said, happiness coursing through me like a sparrow on the wing. “I think Teddy told me he loved me!”

  Rachel took a drag and blew the smoke in a roiling stream, angling it so that it missed her eyes. “Really?”

  Barbara squealed and then threw her arms around my shoulders. “Yay!”

  Her reaction was unreliable at present, so I focused on Rachel’s. “I think so.”

  “What do you mean, you think so? Either he did or he didn’t.”

  “This is wonderful news,” Barbara said, slurring every single word. She let go of me and stumbled backward but the wall caught her.

  “He sang me the ‘I love you’ lyrics.” I turned to the mirror, opened my bag, withdrew my compact, and dabbed the shine off my face, watching Rachel all the while. She seemed impressed.

  “Hmm.” She cocked her head and took another drag. “That beats all.”

  “What do you mean?” Even I noticed that my voice lowered a register as I asked the question.

  Barbara wobbled over to the love seat in the corner. She kicked off one shoe. “Don’t let me drink any more.”

  “Look, honey, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that Oliver said the other night that he was a little worried. That you looked so smitten and happy. And, well, he thinks Teddy isn’t ready to commit. Something about guys being guys.”

  “What are you trying to say?” I knew he could go out with just about anybody. But had I fooled myself into thinking he actually liked me, that I was somehow special?

  Rachel shook her head as if freeing it of stupid thoughts. She pulled out a tube of gloss and painted her bottom lip. She paused and, holding the gloss aloft, said, “Obviously Oliver is wrong. Just look at you! And look at Teddy!” She leaned into the mirror and glossed her top lip. With the job done, she said, “I think you two were made for each other. And you know what I always say…”

  “What’s that?” I asked, choosing to believe in her upbeat assessment and block Oliver’s words from my mind.

  “Lyrics never lie.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and we started giggling.

  Barbara kicked off her other shoe and curled up on the love seat. She yawned and then, within seconds, fell sweetly asleep.

  “Goodness! I’ve never seen her this smashed before,” I said, walking over to her. She was snoring, light and breathy, like a child. “What should we do?”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Just let her sleep. We’ll tell Hugh he needs to take her home. In fact, they ought to take a taxi. He’s pretty smashed too.”

  Her words slid right off me. In truth, I had only one thing on my mind. I went back to the mirror, fluffed my hair, refreshed my lipstick, and hummed the aching, soft refrain, hearing the words in my mind. Hello, is it me you’re looking for?

  Rachel lacquered on more mascara. She looked as if she could have been Raquel Welch’s not-quite-as-glamorous, shorter sister (in my imagination Raquel was eight feet tall). Rachel stared at herself in the mirror, a warrior queen ready to do battle. “Let’s go get our men.”

  We headed out, greeting some women I only faintly knew as they made their way in and started laughing when they spied Sleeping Beauty. I didn’t care. Nothing anybody could say or do would mar this perfect evening. We stepped into the glittering lobby. Rachel immediately spied Oliver by the stairs and whispered in my ear, “I’ll see you later. And don’t worry. I’ll deal with Barbara and her sodden beau.”

  “Thanks, honey,” I said, squeezing Rachel’s hand before she drifted toward Oliver.

  I headed back to the ballroom, assuming where I’d left Teddy was where I would find him. But as I picked my way through the happy crowd milling about in the lobby, I saw him. He stood, dashing in his charcoal three-piece suit, by the red love seat located directly under the domed skylight. He was in deep conversation with someone who was seated out of my range of vision. I started toward him, his possible admission of love propelling me forward, joy and hope fueling my brief journey. And then I stopped, suddenly aware of the hard floor beneath my feet, because the person he was in conversation with offered him her hand, which he took, and when she stood, my blood chilled. Blonde and stunning. Pale and glimmering. Her strapless white gown flowed like starlight. She was my opposite. She was Barbie-doll, Daisy Buchanan beautiful. I was quirky, minor-character attractive. She emitted not a single flare of insecurity.

  They walked toward the ballroom. Actually, she glided. People with money could do that—glide across surfaces the rest of us stumbled over. I froze, paralyzed by the possibility that I’d been jilted in the time it had taken to refresh my makeup. But then I thought, He can’t do this to me. I won’t let him. That was my joy talking. It didn’t want to let go.

  So I followed them. And I was right. Everything was OK. She had a date. A new resident. I didn’t even know his name. Teddy handed her over. Everyone was smiles and laughter. I walked over and lightly tapped his arm.

  “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He kissed my cheek, and he smiled as if he’d really meant those lyrics.

  And my blood flowed again.

  * * *

  Mac had not been at the Christmas party. He pulled a double shift so more of his colleagues could go. And though he was in our circle of friends, he never stayed very long at our parties, nor did he have a steady girlfriend. Mac simply had friends. And everyone seemed to admire him. What was there not to admire? He was affable, almost always in a good mood, sweetly handsome, and generous to a fault.

  Every time I arrived at the hospital for my shift, there would be two sugar cookies in my message box, wrapped in red cellophane and tied with a pink ribbon. For the longest time I thought the sweet gift was from Teddy. But one late afternoon, after I’d thanked him for them, he said indignantly, “Those are from Mac. Not me,” as if he would never stoop so low as to engage in a gesture that suggested sap ran through his veins.

  At any rate, the cookies always gave me the perfect excuse to go see Tiffany Hodges. One for her, one for me. We would talk about what she did not have: the
future. She told me she wanted her first prom dress to be cornflower blue to match her eyes. She wanted to be both an artist and an archaeologist because artists created life and archaeologists studied it. She was iffy about children but definitely wanted a dog.

  I loved Tiffany Hodges for many reasons, including the fact that she taught me about the power and grace you gain when you never feel sorry for yourself.

  Two days after Christmas—I had seen Teddy only once since the Christmas party and that was for coffee in the cafeteria because his schedule, he said, had “exploded”—I took the morning shift simply because I could, given that I was on holiday break. There in my message box were the cookies. I grabbed them, thought I should seek out Mac and thank him, but perhaps I wasn’t supposed to know the identity of my sweet tooth benefactor. After all, he’d never mentioned the cookies, so perhaps the proper thing to do was play along with the mystery.

  As I pocketed them and headed up to the CCW, I thought, Two birds with one stone: I’d stop in and see Tiffany, who had spent Christmas at home, but was back with us because her white blood cell count had dipped, and perhaps I’d run into Teddy.

  Tiffany sat in a wheelchair in her usual spot, by the window that looked out over the grand old oak. Her back was to me and as I approached, she turned around. I couldn’t help myself. I caught my breath and then forced a smile. The child looked far gaunter than I was prepared for.

  “Maddy!” she said. Her smile was as incandescent as ever but her startling blue eyes flashed something else, something that I would later decide had been brought about by her being in the company of pain and certainty for far too long. We all know we’re going to die, but we spend most of our lives denying it. Death was with Tiffany always. It was in the mirror each time she dared look at her reflection. It was in the IV drip that sent pain meds and chemo into her failing veins. It was in every numbered breath she took.

  She reached out to me and I started to unwrap the cookies so that I could place one in her waiting palm. “No,” she said, “give me your hand.”

  And I did. She took mine in both of hers and studied it. She ran her fingers along the bony ridge of each of my knuckles. She traced my lifeline with the tip of her pinky. She moved on to my wrist, finding my pulse, and whispered, a note of wonder softening her voice, “Do you ever wonder what you will look like when you’re an old lady?”

  I gazed out the window. It was snowing. And the world was changing.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  On New Year’s Eve, after being off for two days, I again worked the morning shift. Rachel and Oliver were throwing a bash at Oliver’s apartment. Teddy, in a hurried phone conversation, told me he would meet me there because he would be working late. I was OK with that. I had caught up with him the day Tiffany studied my palm, over coffee and a shared slice of apple pie, but even then his pager had kept going off. So I was looking forward to the party with an urgency well reserved for lovesick teenagers.

  I arrived at the hospital determinedly optimistic about prospects for the new year and my life with Teddy. I stamped my feet before entering the big double doors, the crunchy sound of ice being sloughed off reminding me of a childhood Christmas we had spent in Maine when I was six. I remembered the red coat I wore and my mother’s cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the cold, cold air. For some reason the memory prompted a melancholy ache that threatened to move from my spine into my heart, but I sloughed that off too and bustled into the hospital with every intention of spreading new-year cheer wherever I could.

  First and foremost: Mac’s cookies. Yes, they were there where they always were: in my message box along with a couple of belated Christmas cards from other Pink Ladies whom I barely knew. I pocketed the cookies and made a beeline to the CCW. I wanted to greet Tiffany bright and early. I pushed away thoughts of what it must be like to greet a new year knowing you’re going to die.

  I exited the elevator and rounded the corner, expecting her to be in her favored spot in the sunroom. No one was there so I headed to her room, thinking that perhaps they hadn’t yet probed and prodded her that morning, allowing her to sleep later than usual. The canned laughter and exaggerated sound effects that were the telltale hallmarks of cartoons wafted from the rooms of other sick children. I knocked on Tiffany’s door—it was slightly ajar—and walked on in.

  But there was no Tiffany. Stripped: There were no sheets on the bed. There were no stuffed animals holding hearts or get-well-soon balloons. Gone were the photos of family and classmates. No flowers. No watercolors glowing with yellow blooms. I spun around: no chart.

  I ran out the door and down the hall. Now the tears were streaming. I followed the corridor to its very end and took a left. Teddy would know. I would make him tell me everything. I bumped into a nurse but didn’t bother with any excuse mes. Desperation had made me rude. Laughter drifted out of Teddy’s office and curled its way toward me. His laughter sounded like champagne and crushed glass. Hers sounded like diamonds spilling onto a concrete floor. I burst through the door. I knew who it was before I even laid eyes on her: the beautiful Barbie-doll blonde from the Christmas party. Her hand rested on his and she seemed flushed with something wonderful: the emergence of fresh love.

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?” I hissed.

  Teddy leaped from his chair. Her mouth puckered into a tiny, confused, bright-red bud.

  “Oh, Maddy, I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s just…Cornelia and I met and well, these things happen. And I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. I’ve wanted us to sit down and—”

  “Tiffany. I’m talking about Tiffany,” I sputtered, too shattered to acknowledge anything he’d said.

  Cornelia excused herself, saying, “Well, I see you two have a lot to discuss.” She stood, and her beauty and her Chanel suit made me wilt. “I’ll see you later.” She wagged her fingers at Teddy and then, as she walked past, placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.

  I flinched but didn’t take my eyes off Teddy, who, it appeared, didn’t handle confrontation very well.

  Teddy stared at the floor. He sighed. And then, “She died last night.”

  “What time?”

  He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Around eight thirty. Her body just couldn’t take any more. We couldn’t get her WBC up and…” He trailed off.

  “Why…didn’t…you…call…me?”

  And then I knew. He hadn’t been working at all. He had lied to me. It was as fresh as her scent on his lips. He had been out with her.

  I was about to lose control. I was about to cry in that loud, gulping, totally ungracious manner that prompts people to laugh at you. Or flee. And I didn’t want to pummel Teddy with his lie. I was above that.

  So I ran out of his office and fled to the closest safe space: the closet around the corner and four doors down. I slumped to the floor and wept bitter tears. I was racked with grief, heartbroken, embarrassed, pathetic.

  Why had I let myself fall for the likes of Teddy Patterson? My first instincts had been right and wrong. Like Mac, he didn’t want a girl who spent her Saturday mornings creating lesson plans. No sirree, Bob! Not Teddy! He wanted one who had breakfast with her banker.

  I reached for a towel in a stack to my left and buried my face in it. As I wept, I heard the door open. Please, God, no, no, no! I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t fit under the bookcase because it was flush with the floor. There weren’t enough towels to hide behind. I didn’t have enough time to scurry behind the trash bin or that pile of fresh sheets. The dust mop offered no help at all. I was screwed. I’d just been caught crying like a schoolgirl over spilled milk. I decided my best bet was to keep my face covered with the crying rag. Whoever it was would never be able to identify me. Plausible deniability: That was the ticket. Whoever it was would decide they’d stumbled across a crazy person and simply go away.

  But that, of course, is not what happened. The stranger knelt beside me, pushed my hair out of my face, and whispered, “Hey.
Come on. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled by the towel.

  “You could find somebody so much better to cry over, you know.”

  “Who?” I whispered.

  He took the towel away from my face and gazed at me, his glasses still lopsided.

  “Me. I know I can’t help you about losing Tiffany,” Mac McCauley said, dabbing my face, wiping away my tears, “but that other guy? Why, he ain’t nothing more than a twenty-four-hour flu.”

  And that’s how it all began, on the floor of the broom closet. Where once I had seen Teddy everywhere—his fingerprints dappled all over my future—I began slowly, day by day, moment by moment, to see Mac.

  And even though eventually the deep ache in my empty womb would grow fierce, it would never mitigate my love for Mac. We were right together. No doubt about it.

  Teddy and I were simply a bad fit, like hair spray and fire. As for platinum-plated Cornelia Colleton, I figured Teddy deserved every ounce of heartache she would ultimately mete out. Teddy and Melinda, however, they had been right together. She eased him, filled up the unnamable longing that stalked him. And then, she was gone and there was Baby. God knew that man needed to grow up way more than he needed a trophy wife more than twenty years his junior.

  At the thought of Baby, memories of my soft beginning with Mac tumbled away, washed by the sound of the surf unfurling on Tiger Island’s white sand. And in that bright sunlight my eyes watered. Or were they tears born of bittersweet remembrance?

  I climbed the porch stairs and, in my imagination, I saw not only my footprints on the sand-covered wooden planks, but my husband’s. They were right there beside mine, step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat.

  Chapter

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  3

  The house was as fabulous inside as it was outside. The living room was big and breezy with a comfortable mix of white wicker and natural rattan furniture, all covered in vintage tropical-print bark cloth—yellow with big red hibiscus flowers and opulent green leaves. Drapes in the same fabric were pushed wide open, revealing the bank of nearly floor-to-ceiling Atlantic-facing windows. The house was easy—wide-plank pine floors, railroad-board walls painted bright white, at least three fireplaces (I definitely would have to go exploring), black-and-white family photos, and wedding photos of Baby and Teddy (she wore a skintight lace minidress and a veil that touched her bare shoulders). Gullah sweetgrass baskets were tossed here and there and everywhere, and seashells and sea glass sparkled on pine sills.