by White, Karen
Jillian reached toward her daughter, skimming her hands over the small, delicate bones, relieved to see that the child was uninjured. The little girl squinted up at her mother. “You’re driving like a woman.”
Something dripped over Jillian’s eyes and she touched her forehead, feeling the wet stickiness of blood. She leaned back against her seat and gave a heavy sigh of resignation. “Thanks, Gracie. I appreciate you letting me know.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sudden silence. The baby moved inside her then, reassuring her of his presence, and she let out a mouthful of breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding.
Grace’s hand continued to stroke her mother’s cheek. “It will be all right, Jilly-bean,” she insisted. “Lauren said a policeman was right behind us.”
She jerked abruptly around to look at her daughter’s face. Grace stared back sweetly, with no concern etched on her face. Again, she thought, Why that name?
Since Grace had been able to talk, Jillian and Rick had been aware of Grace’s extraordinary perception and imagination. They’d listen to her on the baby monitor, speaking to imaginary friends as she drifted off to sleep. Her pediatrician assured them that it was normal and that she would grow out of it. But she had not, and Jillian had learned to ignore it. Until now.
Jillian’s composure fractured. “Stop it, Gracie. Do you hear me? I said to stop it. It’s not helping anything.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the flashing lights of a vehicle behind them sliced through the darkness, illuminating all with its strobe-light effect. Spot leapt over the seat back, landing with practiced precision on Grace’s lap.
Jillian heard the crunching of gravel as footsteps approached the beached car. A flashlight shone inside, blinding her, and she held up her hand to block the glare. The sounds of the crickets rushed in as the officer pulled open her door and leaned in, the scent of Old Spice mixing oddly with that of burnt rubber and salt.
“Are y’all all right in here?”
The last word came out with two syllables, like “he-yah.” She had been surrounded by so many Northern transplants in Atlanta that the sound of a genuine Southern accent caught her by surprise.
Jillian looked up at him, and he lowered his flashlight a fraction so that it no longer blinded her. “I think so. I just got a little scratch on my head from the air bag, but we’re all fine.” She twisted a little in her seat. “Right, Gracie?”
Grace answered by lifting the cat up to her nose and rubbing her face in his soft fur. “I told you there would be a policeman.” Her words were devoid of recrimination or bravado.
“I think it was a raccoon. It ran out in front of me and I tried to avoid it.”
The officer shook his head. “And if that ain’t the damnedest thing. I was on my way home, and somehow I had the urge to head up the causeway again to check on things.” He shook his head. “If this don’t just beat all.” He reached into a back pocket and brought out a neatly folded handkerchief and handed it to Jillian. “Here, now. You hold this to that cut on your forehead and I’ll go call an ambulance. And next time, don’t worry about the raccoon.” He winked, then let his gaze stray to her belly.
She shook her head, feeling numb with weariness and wanting nothing more than to reach their destination. “I know it was stupid of me—I guess my reflexes took over. But I promise you, we’re fine and there’s really no need to call an ambulance. And we’re almost to where we’re going. If you can just help me move the car off the road and drive us a mile or so, I’ll call a tow truck in the morning.”
He stood for a moment, looking down at her, his broad face creased in concentration. “Where are you staying?”
“On Ellerbee Road. Off Myrtle Avenue.”
His brow furrowed. “You must be talking about the old Parrish house. Are you the new owner?”
Frowning up at him, she said, “Yes. I am.”
Jillian grabbed her purse, then pushed at the door to open it farther. The officer stepped back, holding it for her. Gracie yanked her door open at the same time, and the three of them stumbled onto the solid pavement of the road.
Jillian reached for her daughter’s hand, and felt her own fingers tremble. The accident had shaken her more than she cared to admit. Gracie gave her hand a tight squeeze and snuggled up to her side.
The policeman hitched his pants to cover a large paunch and looked at her with a frown. “I’ll need to write up an incident report for your insurance company. Why don’t you two come and sit in my backseat while I do that, and you can think about letting me take you to the hospital. I think you should see somebody about that cut on your head, and check out that baby.”
Her hand went to her belly and felt the roil of her baby under the tightly pulled skin. She shook her head wearily. “We’re fine—really. We just need to get some sleep. It will be good to wake up in a familiar place in the morning instead of some hospital.”
He looked at her closely, his eyes widening in recognition. “You’re the Parrish girl, aren’t you? Julie, Jill—no, wait—it’s Jillian, isn’t it? It’s different enough that I’d remember it. I thought you looked familiar. I think I caught you on lovers’ lane a couple of times, huh?” He smiled at her, as if waiting for her to say something. She felt the heat rush to her face and wondered if this interminable nightmare of a night would ever end. When she said nothing, he continued.
“You probably don’t remember me, ’cause it’s been a while, but I’m Chief of Police Joe Weber. I was involved in the nasty business of the Mills case when their daughter disappeared.”
The blood seemed to freeze in her veins, stealing her breath. Grace appeared to feel it and squeezed her mother’s hand tighter.
Chief Weber didn’t seem to notice, and continued. “Of course, you probably don’t recognize me—I’ve changed a bit since then.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I’ve got a little less hair and a lot more stomach.” Scratching his chin, he said, “You’d think I’d remember that girl’s name, too. . . .”
“Lauren,” she forced out. “Her name was Lauren.”
He looked at her sharply. “Yeah—that’s it.” He shook his head somberly. “I remember now—you two were good friends, weren’t you? We never did find her, poor child. And those two houses have stood empty all these years, boarded up and a real eyesore. Until that architect from Charleston bought ’em both dirt cheap and decided to fix ’em up. Just started the Mills house, but he’s only gotten as far as repairing the roof. Nobody here can believe you bought your house so cheap. Most of those old ones are going for three times more.”
She tried to keep her movements calm, her voice steady. Guiding her daughter, she walked toward the police car, a white Jeep SUV with the word POLICE emblazoned on the side. She paused, remembering the gentle people who had once lived in the Mills house, and the family they had become to her in the short time they had spent together. She faced the chief. “It was certainly lucky finding that my grandmother’s old house was available.” She didn’t mention the feeling of destiny fulfilled that had possessed her when her low-ball offer had been accepted, nor the feeling of unease that the owner had dropped the price considerably to an affordable amount. But the healing call of the swaying sea oats had beckoned her, and the tall house behind the dunes had been the one sanctuary of her childhood, and the only part of it that she would ever care to revisit.
Grace slid into the backseat of the chief’s vehicle, Spot cradled in her arms, and Jillian followed. After handing Chief Weber her driver’s license and registration, she settled back and listened to the static of the radio, the disjointed voices mixing with the insect song of the night. She closed her eyes, hoping the policeman would notice and stop digging up old memories that were best left buried alongside adolescent humiliations and deep loss.
A pen scratched across paper and Jillian felt herself drifting off to sleep. His words jerked her awake.
“Will your husband be joining you?”
&nb
sp; Gracie’s head sagged limply against her mother’s arm, and Jillian felt some relief that the child wouldn’t have to hear this conversation yet again. “I’m divorced.” She spared the officer the sordid details of how easily her husband’s head had been turned by a twenty-one-year-old woman whose greatest asset appeared to be her bra size. She was sure that the whole ordeal would have been a lot easier on her ego if the woman had only been a rocket scientist or a neurosurgeon.
The pen stopped as Chief Weber half turned his head, his profile covered in shadow. “I’m real sorry to hear that.” His face seemed to shift downward in an expression of sorrow and it made her want to cry. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed.
“Seems like you’ll be having your hands full, then, with two little ones.”
She nodded, afraid to trust her voice.
“Lots of friendly neighbors here, Miz Parrish, that will be glad to help—including my wife. We’ve had eight of our own, and my Martha just loves babies. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Thank you,” she managed, before dropping her head and letting the tears fall onto the soft hair of her daughter. Grace stirred in her sleep, then nuzzled into Jillian’s side with a contented sigh. She thought of Grandma Parrish telling her that babies in heaven choose their parents, using a wisdom that seemed to elude them once they are born. She grinned at her watery reflection in the window, wondering how such a choice could have gone so awry in two generations of the same family.
Chief Weber put the luggage they would need into his Jeep before moving and locking up the Volvo. “Hope you don’t mind if I keep the key—don’t expect you’ll be needing it tonight, though.” He gave her a small grin. “I’ll call for a tow in the morning and have Richie Kobylt look at it in his shop and fix the air bags. If everything’s fine, I’ll have him bring it to your house.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for all your help.”
He started his engine, then waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad I was here.” The car moved off with the crunch and pop of loose gravel, as Spot moved from Grace’s side and settled by Jillian’s. He didn’t settle down to sleep, but remained on his haunches, an alert sentinel as they moved under the canopy of streetlights and toward the lure of salt-drenched waves.
Even in the pitch darkness, Jillian recognized the two houses nestled behind the dunes in a tangle of sea oats, cedars and myrtles. Handmade arches and columns adorned the wide porches that surrounded the lower floors, while their elevated, strong-timbered foundations clung fiercely to the ground upon which they were built. The shadows of the houses sat together with identical eaves and roof pitches, matching dormers and a single turret on opposing sides, like two sisters frozen in time in a perpetual shoulder shrug.
They were each more than one hundred fifty years old, built by two brothers for their families to escape the summer yellow fever epidemics inland. Each brick and length of timber had been floated by boat down the Waccamaw River, then lovingly assembled on the island. Despite more than a century’s worth of hurricanes and beach erosion, the houses stood intact, facing the wind with sheer defiance. Perhaps it was their jutting profiles, indicating a confident bravado she had never felt, that pulled her close to this place. The arched pillars of the front porch had always reminded her of her grandmother’s arms, and standing beneath them she could almost remember being loved and cherished.
Her weariness didn’t allow Jillian any time to study her new yet familiar surroundings. She opened the front door with the key the Realtor had sent and allowed Chief Weber to carry their bags into two upstairs rooms. She called up after him, “Do you mind switching on all the lights? I don’t like a dark house.”
He answered by flicking on the upstairs hall light, and then the rest of the rooms followed like a dance sequence, slowly making the house grow brighter and brighter.
The house had been completely furnished by the architect who had restored it, and as she glanced around, she was struck with the uncanny feeling that the furniture had been placed in the same locations as she remembered. She walked from room to room, switching on lights, smelling the newness of everything, but recognizing the furniture and layout as if nothing had changed in the past decade and a half.
She was relieved to see fresh linens covering the beds, and a huge welcome basket of kitchen items with a card from Lessie Beaumont, the real estate agent, monopolized the kitchen island. Lessie had insisted on preparing the bedrooms with linens, a welcome treat Jillian hadn’t argued with, but this was a much-appreciated bonus. She’d call Lessie in the morning to thank her. Assuming she didn’t sleep through the next day and a half. Exhaustion pulled at her, making her struggle to stay on her feet and keep her eyes open.
Officer Weber joined her in the kitchen. “I guess my Lessie’s got you all set up here.”
Jillian’s eyes widened in understanding. “That’s right—she used to be a Weber. Lessie mentioned that in our first phone conversation when I called her real estate office. I was surprised she remembered me, since I was only here during the summers and she’s at least four years younger than me.”
“Yeah, well, Lessie’s sort of Pawleys honorary historian—she knows everything about everybody who spent more than five minutes on the island—things people might not even know about themselves.” He winked, gave Jillian his numbers at work and at home, then left with a warm and sympathetic smile and a promise to have Martha stop by in the morning. She made herself busy getting Grace ready for bed, ignoring the throbbing of a headache that had been brewing since after the accident.
Grace stood groggily in the middle of her room, her stuffed bunny, Bun-Bun, held suspended by an ear, and Spot pacing restlessly at her ankles. Jillian led her to the bathroom, and while Grace sat on the toilet her mother pulled off her dress and slipped her nightgown over her head.
Jillian let her skip brushing her teeth, helped her to the white iron bed covered with a frilly white lace coverlet, then pulled back the covers to allow Grace to crawl in. Spot dutifully plopped down on the pillow next to her as she snuggled Bun-Bun in the crook of her arm. Jillian eyed the feline with grudging acceptance. “Spot still thinks he’s a dog. I think we should change his name to Tinkles or something more catlike.”
Gracie smiled a groggy smile and snuggled deeper into her covers.
The distant thrum of the ocean crept through the open windows, spilling the salt air onto the pillows and into the corners of the room. She breathed deeply the smell of her youth, and let her hand fall gently on her daughter’s forehead. She was still awake, looking at her mother intently, as if awaiting the questions she knew she had to ask.
“Who is Lauren, Gracie?” Her voice came out as a whisper, barely louder than the breeze blowing the ruffled curtains.
Spot lifted his head and narrowed his eyes.
“She’s my new friend. She wants to help us.”
Jillian swallowed. “I see.” She measured her words carefully. “I want you to understand something. These people in your head are only in your imagination, all right? They aren’t real, and anything that happens is just a coincidence and would have happened, anyway—like the policeman showing up tonight. And when you pretend it’s otherwise, you scare me.”
Grace’s lower lip quivered. “I don’t want to scare you, Jilly-bean. But they’re real.”
Jillian stood, her sciatic nerve throbbing from the weight of her pregnancy. She rubbed her hands over her tired face. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe her daughter needed help. She remembered her grandmother’s final year as she descended further and further into senility, and how she would call the police every night, insisting she could see naked people having sex on the beach. Jillian stared in trepidation at her little girl.
“You’re not seeing naked people or anything, right?”
The girl stared up at her mother in blank confusion.
Feeling foolish, Jillian smiled. “Good. Now, I think we’re both overtired. We’ll both feel a
lot better in the morning after we get a good night’s sleep.”
Gracie didn’t move. “Lauren told me you wouldn’t believe me.”
With frustration borne of weariness and grief, Jillian leaned her hands on the bed and looked into Grace’s light brown eyes, their only similarity. “We’re starting over here, Gracie. Please don’t start with your imaginary friends again. Let that be over so we can begin to put our lives back together. I don’t want to hear any more about Lauren. Do I make myself clear? It’s not helping anything.”
The little girl’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. Then, slowly, she nodded. “All right, Jilly-bean.”
Jillian kissed Grace’s forehead. As she turned off the light and left the room, she was aware of two sets of eyes watching her intently. She hesitated, then left the door open a crack, letting the light from the hallway filter into the darkened bedroom.
She limped from the room, rubbing her back. Her suitcase lay unopened on the four-poster bed in the largest bedroom, and she collapsed next to it. As if on their own, her fingers unlatched the lock and spread open the case. Heedlessly tossing aside support hose, maternity underwear and a couple of blouses, she reached into the back corner and pulled out a small wooden box about the size of her open hand.
It had been carved from a solid piece of pine and polished until it shone. She pulled the lid off and stared inside. A tiny wooden star, its edges uneven and unpracticed, nestled in a corner along with a withered note, its seams torn from years of folding and unfolding. She didn’t know why she had clung to this relic of a time in her life she never wanted to revisit. Maybe it was because it represented a door in her past that had never been closed. Or maybe because it was all she had left of the two people she had once loved with all the fervor of a young girl’s heart, and then lost forever.
She cradled the box in her hands for a long time, not touching the note. She had not returned to the island to revisit her past, but to recover from her present and perhaps find a future. Still, she could almost see the strong hand of the boy who had carved the beautiful box and written the note, the pencil clutched tightly in his long-fingered grip. She let her fingers trace the two carved initials on the top—two Ls intertwined with each other in wood, as solidly as the two names they represented remained in her memory.
