The Vestige

by Caroline George

  “Enjoy the luxury of your inhabited paradise,” the narrator states in a robotic tone. “Do not stray from your home-sweet-home. Be safe in the same, like the Jones Family, and remember, credence exuberates concord. Charleston, South Carolina—the happiest place in the USA.”

  My phone vibrates with a text from Missy.

  ****

  Waterfront Park is quiet, locked in the serene shadows of dusk. For eighteen years I’ve come here to laugh, sob, and think. Not once has it changed. Fountains still bubble with illuminated opulence. Couples still weave between rows of palmettos, whispering and holding hands. Change leads to death, so by staying in my evergreen garden where time is irrelevant and replaceable, I am, in essence, saving myself. But if I’m frozen, when the past slides its fingers up my spine, how will I be able to escape?

  Jon will save me, of course. He’ll grab my face in his hands and tell the past to get lost. Goodness, I think too much. Life is normal, a paradise of beautiful sameness—the same rivers that welcomed the Swamp Fox into the harbor greet me each morning, the same churches that watched the first shots of the Civil War launch from Ft. Sumter observe my bike ride to work. Charleston is a bastion, a dig-in-your-heels-and-hang-on kind of city. It has stood, fallen, and been rebuilt after hurricanes. It has modified itself but remained largely unchanged. It is delicate and rugged and strong. It is a guardian of tradition. Same—I like same. Same is good. Same is safe.

  Missy waits at our spot: a park-bench overlooking the Cooper River. “Took you long enough.” She hands me a latte—hazelnut, my favorite—and pats the space next to her.

  “What’s wrong?” I sit down. Coffee washes across my tongue, warm and bitter, sweet as sin. It’s a scandalous, caffeinated affair in my mouth. An espresso-based boyfriend. A guiltless romance free of purity-taking, love children, and heartbreak. Perfect.

  “Nothing.” Tears roll down her cheeks. She stares ahead at the dark, churning water.

  “Something is obviously wrong. You’re never this quiet.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Am I not allowed to be quiet?”

  I drink from the paper cup and cross my legs. “Of course. Sorry.”

  She sighs. I sigh. She sighs again.

  “I’m leaving Charleston.”

  “You’re what?” Coffee spills onto my lap, waterfalls down my calves. Hold on. Back up. Why would she want to leave Charleston? This is our home, our paradise. “Leaving, like, moving away?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.” She wipes her tears and fidgets with her cell phone.

  “Why? What about college? You’re a semester away from graduation.”

  “I’m transferring to USC for classes in the fall.” She presses my hand between hers and looks at me with what seems like desperation—lips parted, brow furrowed, brown skin flushed. “It’s not like I want to leave. It’s just … my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s last month. I need to be with her. Columbia is only a few hours away. You can visit.”

  Sybil’s hospital room was in the oncology wing’s pediatric ward, fourth door on the left. Mom made me use hand sanitizer each time I’d wander down the corridor or enter my sister’s room, as if being around sick kids would inflict me as well, as if disinfectant was potent enough to prevent a testy thing like cancer. Then, Sybil died and hand sanitizer couldn’t offer hope in the power of medicine. It was useless. Leukemia, Alzheimer’s—they aren’t much different. They both steal and destroy.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your mom?” Pain trickles into my chest, fills the cavity caused by losing Sybil. I dig my fingernails into the bench and wheeze on the memories.

  She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Makes sense. I will worry because watching my sister die screwed me up real bad. Missy won’t be the same after her mom passes. It’s impossible to lose a loved one and not let a piece of yourself die with them. “When are you leaving?”

  “In two weeks. Not much of a heads up, I know.”

  Fourteen days before my best friend abandons Charleston. That’s not enough time. I can’t read the Harry Potter series in fourteen days, remodel a house, or have a new dress made for me by the elderly seamstress in Isle of Palms. No, no. I need, at least, a month with her.

  “Your mom … it isn’t bad yet, right? She still remembers everything?”

  “Mostly. She’s a tad forgetful, you know, misplacing things, not remembering names and places. She remembers what’s important, though. It will be a while before her memory suffers a major loss. Forgetting is a slow process.”

  “Yeah, very slow.”

  How can I say goodbye to her? I’m terrible at saying goodbye. It feels like being stuck in a corner with no way of escape. Goodbye is imminent—unchangeable, uncontrollable, certain. So I fear it as I fear being cornered. I always need to believe there’s an escape.

  I rub the tension from my face and lean against Missy’s shoulder. “Don’t you ever wish you could rewind time, do things differently?”

  “The past isn’t something to regret. It defines who we are. Of course, there are things I wish I could’ve done differently, but nothing I’d change. Through tempest, we find strength.”

  “I must still be fighting my way through tempest then, because I’ve yet to find strength.”

  Missy turns her eyes from the star-streaked sky to me. “What makes you say that?”

  “Strength is choosing to stand up after being knocked down. I am still on the ground.”

  “Then get up,” she whispers.

  A single blaze shoots across the horizon, then another. One-by-one, streaks of stardust paint the eternal canvas, spiral into a cosmos display and ignite the atmosphere with a brilliant white light.

  “Falling stars.” Missy gasps. She entwines her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “It’s a sign, Julie. Something incredible is going to happen, I’m sure.” Her optimism and faith in happy endings are cute, but she won’t have them for much longer.

  “Maybe.” The estuarine breeze ripples my hair, squeezes through my forced smile. Could the phenomenon be an omen of some sort? Is this God’s way of telling me to follow Missy’s advice?

  Meteors enter the stratosphere, burning in descent. They fall. They stop. They bounce across an invisible surface and remain flickering, trapped above Earth like planets caught in orbit.

  “How’d they stop falling? What’s suspending them?” If I didn’t have a heart condition before tonight, I’m sure I do now. “There are space rocks in the sky. I would say it’s impossible but … it happened so obviously, it’s not impossible.”

  People search for explanations they can understand. Whether or not the final explanation is true doesn’t matter. If it’s plausible, if it can be written in a scientific journal, if no man will contradict it, the explanation must be valid. I’d rather accept the unknown than lie to myself.

  “It’s a sign,” Missy says. “It’s definitely a sign.”

  Chapter Three

  “People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”

  Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

  The City Market, a remodeled shed stretching four blocks, was once where farmers would barter their beef and produce. Now it’s mainly a tourist attraction selling imported merchandise, local artwork, and Gullah sweet-grass baskets. Mom displays her paintings at a booth overlooking the cobblestone streets and talks with different customers. She sells a pastel picture of Rainbow Row to a couple from Georgia and an acrylic sailboat to an old man who appears to be more interested in her than the art.

  Crowds flow past, sweaty and loud. The rank aroma of body odor and sulfur burns my lungs like acid. I weave between vendors to inspect a display of pearl jewelry and flip through a stack of photography— Credence exudes concord is written in calligraphy at the top of a vintage print. Who’d want to decorate their house with an ad slogan?

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for years,” the lady nex
t to me says to her friend. “I’ve spoken with other people who have family members living far away. They haven’t been able to contact anyone either. Something is happening and it’s bad. The airport has been closed for months. Construction’s blocked off the roads heading north. I think … we’re stuck here.”

  Stuck? We’re not stuck in Charleston. Tourists come here and buy Mom’s artwork. Missy talks to her family in Columbia every day. We could leave, but why would we want to stray from home-sweet-home? What place is better than paradise?

  Magazine mistakes. Space rocks hovering in the sky. Something is happening … and it’s bad … we’re stuck here. No, everything is fine and normal and same. There isn’t a grand conspiracy hidden under our noses. Stuck here … something bad … it’s happening.

  Mom waves me over to her table. “I’m almost ready to leave, Julie. When do you have to be at the college?” She packs her paintings in a plastic bin.

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  Mom checks the time on her cell phone. “That gives us about an hour to visit Sybil.” She must be kidding. We haven’t gone to my sister’s gravesite in years. “Go buy a few sweet-grass flowers from the boys outside.” She hands me a five-dollar bill and camouflages the sadness in her eyes with a laugh. “Stop looking at me like that. Go. I’ll close up shop and be out in a few minutes.”

  ****

  We drive in silence. Wind whips through the open windows of Mom’s Land Rover, blowing our hair in a frenzy. Charleston’s downtown district fades into the distance. Historic buildings have been replaced with depleted factories and rundown apartment complexes. Should I speak? What’s there to say? Mom rarely mentions Sybil, never her death. It’s something we don’t talk about.

  Everyone wants to deny what hurts them the most.

  Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we drive into the cemetery. Headstones protrude from the manicured grass, final evidence of the once living. Hundreds of people buried in the earth, rotting like banana peels on the roadside, important people who are important no more. And that’s what makes me sad because I want life to matter even when it’s gone, I want the survivors who lowered their husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, and siblings into the dirt to know I understand their loss.

  Mom parks the car and together, we walk to Sybil’s grave. My heart beats a rhythm that sounds like a death-march. Nine years ago, my sister died from leukemia. Nine years ago, we buried her in this cemetery. Nine years ago, everything fell into ruin.

  “Sybil Stryker was a joy to everyone she met.” The grim-faced preacher clutches his Bible and gestures to the awaiting casket. “She smiled through adversity, laughed when everyone else wanted to cry, and left a legacy of perseverance and love. Do not despair, Friends. As children of God, we will see Sybil again one day.”

  Jon grips my shoulders tight as pallbearers lift our sister’s casket from the ground. Although his expression is hard, tears pour from his eyes like waterfalls. I cling to him as if he’s a lifeline. Where are Mommy and Daddy? Did they stay at the funeral home? They’re not with the people in black. They’re not with Jon and me.

  A group of men I’ve never met before lower Sybil into the earth. The flowers fall from my hands. I slide out of Jon’s grasp and run toward the hole, screaming through a curtain of tears.

  “Get her out. She’s scared of the dark.” I beat my fists against them, hitting and clawing until my body aches with exhaustion. “She is not dead. She can’t be dead. Get her out.”

  “Jules, stop.” Jon yanks me away from the plot of dirt. He spins me around and looks at my weepy face. “Let her go. We have to.”

  “Jon…” What am I going to do with Sybil’s Barbie dolls? I can’t play with them by myself. Will Mommy still take me to the teahouse? Sybil liked the cucumber sandwiches. I can make some and bring them here so we can have tea parties. But she’s dead.

  He lifts me into his arms and escapes from the funeral mob. We collapse at the base of an old oak tree. I curl up in his embrace and allow him to stroke my hair.

  “We’re okay, Jules. You don’t have to be scared,” he says. “When you’re afraid, think of me. I’ll always be around to protect you. It’s what big brothers do.”

  I place the bouquet of sweet-grass flowers onto Sybil’s grave. Mom stands beside me, motionless. If I could, I’d pick her up and escape all this like Jon did for me. I’d stroke her hair and tell her not to be afraid, but I can’t fix the past. I can’t bring my sister back from the dead. I can’t do anything.

  “Like most moms, I never thought I’d … lose a kid,” she says after several long minutes of silence. “Sybil was the least of my worries. As a baby, she was healthy and full of energy. Your dad and I were positive Jon would be the first to get hurt or sick. He was a little daredevil and liked to put gross things in his mouth. And you were the curious child who was too smart to do anything stupid. But Sybil … when you and Jon got sick with colds, she didn’t. She was never sick.” Mom pauses and takes a deep breath. “When the doctors told us she had leukemia, I laughed. I actually laughed. And a year later, she was dead. My healthy, energetic baby was dead.”

  This is the first time Mom has talked about Sybil since the heart monitor flatlined. Her world, once she reentered it, consisted of paint, small conversation, and Kelly Ripa. Nothing personal. I started to believe she couldn’t remember the past. Block the memories. Block the hurt.

  “You and Jon never gave up on me. Every day you brought me food and water. Once, I think you even tried to force me into the shower.” She snickers with bitterness. “I’m surprised you don’t hate your father and me for abandoning you the way we did. I regret it … every day of my life.”

  “None of that matters anymore. We’re okay.”

  “It does matter,” she says. “You’re my kid. I love you and Jon more than anything. It hurts to remember what I put you through, what I went through. After all these years, I’ve tried to be a better…”

  “You have,” I say. “You’ve been a great mom. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

  She embraces me. A single tear slips down her cheek and drips off her chin. We stay huddled next to Sybil’s grave, finally able to breathe without pain.

  Together, we remove our faces from the pavement. And after a while, we stand up.

  ****

  The remainder of my morning is routine. I attend classes at the college, spend an hour lying in the green space between Randolph Hall and Porter’s Lodge, and commute to The Grindery for an afternoon shift. Missy helps me tie on my apron with a perturbed look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re out of milk.”

  Easy problem to fix. “Okay … I’ll go to the store and buy more.”

  “Don’t bother,” she huffs. “I was just there. Every grocer in the county is out of stock.”

  “What? Why? We can’t make most of our drinks without…”

  “Yeah, I know.” She pours black coffee into a ceramic mug and hands it to a customer. “Dax and Philip are out looking for milk now.”

  Weird. How can the city be out of milk? Who screwed-up the shipments and distribution? From where does our milk usually come?

  I plate a slice of quiche. “Should we close the café until they get back?”

  “No, let’s serve what we can.” She pours ice into the blender. “You’re not mad at me for what I said last night, are you?”

  “Of course not.” I rinse the coffee grounds out of the portafilter and flush the machine’s group head.

  “Good.” Missy drapes an arm over my shoulders and grins. “Oh, and that guy from yesterday is here. He bought you a cup of coffee and is waiting by the window.”

  Please let her be thinking about another guy customer. Nope, it’s Jack. What possessed him to come back? He can’t bribe me with coffee. Well, yeah, he probably can, but I don’t want him to want to bribe me. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe because all this is too incredible to be real. Maybe because I’ve watched too many girls be h
urt by gorgeous, endearing men. But I need to know why he’s here. I need to know if there’s even the smallest chance this could be real.

  “You could’ve led with that, Missy.” I turn my head, meeting Jack’s observant gaze. He waves at me from across the room and motions to an awaiting mug of coffee. Nausea dissolves my stomach. Never mind. I don’t want to talk with him. Talking leads to liking. And liking leads to heartbreak. Hot guy flirting with an average girl—the equation doesn’t add up.

  What if I’m just bad at math?

  The march across the coffeehouse is turbulent and physically impossible, like swimming against a riptide during a thunderstorm. Heart pounds. Knees buckle. Jon’s voice in the back of my head tells me to be gutsy, have gumption, swallow my fear and swim against the current with Olympic speed. Jack smiles before closing his zombie-novel. His cobalt eyes pierce through me like daggers. Swim, Julie, swim.

  “What’s your problem?” If I appear angry and confrontational, it’s possible he won’t be able to break me. “Do you flirt with every girl you meet or only the ones who bring you coffee?”

  “I don’t understand.” He tilts his head, furrows his thick brow. “I’m not flirting with you.”

  No man should be that handsome. It’s unfair and offensive to all the other guys on Earth. If we were made in God’s image, then he was made to look like someone else. His face is perfectly chiseled—I want to touch it. I want to run my fingers through his soft, styled hair without anyone batting an eye. Goodness, he can break me.

  “Then, what do you want? Is this all a big joke, a game?”

  “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t have a motive. I’m not an evil supervillain.” He scoots his chair closer to me and looks up into my illusionary bastion. “Listen, Julie. I’m not around people often, due to my job. So when I do find someone I like, I try to build a relationship. And as surprising as it is, I actually like you.” He said my name. Why did it sound different from his mouth, like poetry, like it belonged to someone more charming and elegant than me?