“It’s how I open my videos: ‘Hey, y’all, I’m Sadie Scott.’”
Leala grinned, and it wobbled before turning into a full-on laugh. “No you do not. It’s so, so—”
“Effective,” I supplied before she said something that would hurt my feelings. “It introduces me while also conveying my Southern theme. All in five words. It works.” I didn’t dare tell her about my “Hey, Y’all” line of merchandise for fear she’d laugh herself straight off the promenade and into the lake.
She looped an arm through mine and leaned against me. “If you say so.”
I wanted to ask her if she thought my videos had been my purpose for living, but as she hadn’t watched many, I doubted she’d have an opinion. “Maybe you should judge for yourself?”
“Mm-hmm. We’ll see.”
I sighed in frustration at her standard brush-off. It was getting old. “You talked about how Mama should be proud of all you’ve accomplished and not pick at you about your choices. Well, you’ve been doing the same to me. Even though my career isn’t traditional, it’s still meaningful. And I think you’d actually find some meaning from A Southern Hankerin’ if you watched it a little more often. I put a lot of myself into my work, even though I’m sharing other people’s stories and recipes.”
She stopped still. “I hate when you compare me to Mother.”
“Then don’t act like her.”
She huffed, then looked out at the lake and her features softened. “I’m sorry, Sadie. I promise I’ll watch.”
I tipped my head, gauging her sincerity.
“I promise,” she echoed.
“All right. Then I promise I’ll try to stop comparing you to Mama.”
“Oh, thank God.” She let out a dramatic breath, then smiled at me. “And didn’t I tell you people around here missed you? Miss Violet is just one example of many. And even though she wants you back on the road, I’m still hoping you’ll decide to stay. I’ve missed you, Sadie.”
I leaned against her shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too.”
And I had to admit that the longer I stayed in Sugarberry Cove, the easier it was becoming to imagine myself moving back home. For good.
* * *
Our footsteps echoed in the empty hospital hallway as we made our way to Mama’s room in the cardiac care unit. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeped a loud warning and murmured voices drifted lazily from patient rooms.
For a moment I let myself go back to when I had awoken in the hospital after my accident, dazed and confused as to what had happened until Mama had explained it all to me, starting with smacking my head on a pylon, the frantic search, and the rescue by Lady Laurel.
My doctor had scoffed at the Lady Laurel part and had offered up only one theory as to how I’d survived being submerged for ten minutes: the diving reflex, which slows the heart rate and reroutes blood to the organs that needed it most. It was rare, but there were proven cases in the world. A nurse offered another theory: a miracle.
Leala pressed her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. “We should’ve stopped for coffee.”
“We can stop on our way home.”
Home. The word wound its way around my heart and squeezed, like it was giving me a hug. We slowed as we reached Mama’s room, as though neither of us truly wanted to face what was on the other side of the door, which stood open. A blue curtain had been pulled, a privacy shield from those walking by.
Leala took a deep breath and tapped on the door frame. “Hello, everyone decent?”
There was a scrape of a chair; then Buzzy appeared with a finger to his lips, the universal sign for shh.
He motioned us in and whispered, “She just drifted off.”
Mama lay in the bed with wires sprouting above her gown, which I knew were attached to her chest, and an IV line was inserted in her left arm. Machines counted her heart rate, listed her blood pressure, body temperature, oxygen level. Her hands were resting on top of the thin white blanket, and there was a deep bruise on her right wrist, where the doctor had inserted the catheter for the angioplasty.
She looked peaceful while she slept, despite the darkness under her eyes and the sickly pallor of her skin. Her curly hair sprung about her face, as uncontrollable as ever, and seeing it as carefree and wild as usual lessened some of my distress from remembering why she was here.
“How’s she been?” Leala asked, keeping her voice low.
Buzzy said, “Good. Her fever broke, and the doctor says she’s still on track to go home in a couple of days. She was mighty displeased with her dinner and wasn’t shy in making that displeasure known.”
Mama had never been shy a day in her life. “Not surprising, since it probably wasn’t deep-fried.”
Buzzy smiled. “She’ll be consulting with a nutritionist before she’s discharged. I feel as though we should all say a prayer for the unfortunate professional assigned to her.”
Leala set the gift bag on the table next to the bed before sitting next to me on a stark loveseat beneath the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She hadn’t looked away from Mama since we’d come in, and I could see a sheen of wetness in her eyes.
“How did you two fare, running the cottage on your own today?” Buzzy asked.
“It’s still in one piece,” I said. “Teddy, Bree, and Iona couldn’t have been more accommodating. Leala’s had the toughest day, having Tucker in tow.”
Leala finally pulled her gaze from Mama. “Whoever said many hands make light work didn’t have a toddler with often dirty, sticky fingers. Fortunately, I had help for part of the day,” she added, explaining how Bree had jumped in to keep Tuck entertained.
Buzzy’s bristly eyebrows went up. “Imagine now having two small children helping out—and no one to jump in at the spur of the moment to give a much-needed respite. Having no respite at all.”
Leala’s eyebrows snapped together, and her cheeks bloomed with color as her gaze shifted back to Mama, then finally, down at her clenched hands.
“That’s not fair,” I said softly to Buzzy.
“Maybe not,” he admitted with a dip of his head. “But it’s something to think about now that you know how it feels.”
A rare burst of sudden anger flowed, hot and furious, and it took effort to keep my voice down. “Mama had Uncle Camp and you for respite, Buzzy, which I know she took advantage of often, so enough with that. She could’ve sold the cottage, found another job, an easier job. She’s not a victim, though sometimes she enjoys playing one. It was her choice to stay and be a workaholic. It was her choice to miss our school plays, to not tuck us in at night, to always put guests first. Don’t go rewriting history because of what’s happened now. And yes, maybe she made some of those choices because she was overwhelmed, maybe even resentful of the hand life had dealt her, but it doesn’t change the fact that those choices were hers. She owns them—and how they shaped us. All of us.” Leala put her hand on my arm, and the tears welling in her eyes broke my heart.
“Let it go, Sadie,” she pleaded. “It doesn’t matter now. Mother makes her choices, and we make ours. We almost lost her. And I know I’d rather have her in my life, as imperfect as she is, than not have her at all. So I choose to let it all go. I choose to forgive, and I’ll do my best to forget.”
I let out a weary sigh and rubbed my eyes. “That’s all easier said than done, Leala Clare. In this moment, right here and now, you need to forgive. I get that—I do. My heart is breaking seeing Mama in that bed, too. But the next time she comments on your parenting or the way you wash a window, or anything the least bit critical, all the old pain is going to come rushing back. Until Mama acknowledges the pain she’s caused you, you’re never going to fully heal.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” She jumped to her feet and started for the door. “Not today. Not ever. I’m ready to go now. Visiting hours are just about up anyway. I’m leaving.”
I leaped up to follow but threw a dismayed look at Buzzy before I left. He looked away
, and I could only wonder what was going on in his head, making Leala feel guilty like that. As if we hadn’t known that Mama worked hard. We knew. We knew better than anyone. And as I glanced at Mama before leaving the room, I couldn’t help but think we’d all paid the price.
All three of us.
Chapter
20
Leala
Rain lashed the windows, and sleep was being elusive. I was wide-awake, having too much weighing on my mind, on my heart. I squinted at the bedside clock. It was a little after two in the morning. Across the room, Connor and Tuck slept in Sadie’s twin bed.
Connor had wanted to talk as soon as I’d returned from the hospital with Sadie, but I pushed it off until tomorrow, too emotionally spent to deal with whatever was going on between us. As I lay in my childhood bed, I felt raw, broken, exposed, confused. My head ached as my thoughts tumbled.
Tonight for the first time ever I saw my mother. As she lay in that hospital bed, I truly saw her. I saw the woman who had emotionally checked out after the death of the man she loved. She’d thrown herself into work and put on a cheery face for her guests. For her daughters. For anyone who glanced her way. She did it to make sure her girls had a roof over their heads, food to eat, and a stable life in a loving community. She hid her pain. She killed her dreams of traveling. On the surface, it seemed the easy way out of dealing with her inner pain. Bury it. Bury it deep. But I had the feeling she suffered now more than ever, because it was like Iona had said. Pain festered, eating you up from the inside out.
Without a doubt I knew she loved us—she just didn’t show it like other moms.
Thunder crackled in the distance, and the gutters rattled with the force of the water running off the roof. Tuck snuffled in his sleep, and Connor rolled over, the bed springs squeaking under his weight.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about choices. The choice Connor had made in accepting his current role. The choice I’d made in quitting my job to stay home with Tuck. He hadn’t even been three months old before I started regretting my decision. I loved him with my whole heart, but there were days on end that I didn’t speak to another adult other than Connor, and there were some days with his long hours that I didn’t speak to him, either, except by text or email. I didn’t miss my profession so much as I missed connection to other people. And I’d let it fester instead of dealing with it. Changes needed to be made. My changes.
I practiced my breathwork for a while until my thoughts settled, but sleep still wouldn’t come. I picked up my book from the bench nightstand, thinking I’d read until I felt sleepy, then switched on the lamp. Tucker groaned and I quickly switched the light off. Reading was out.
The book, one I’d bought at the Crow’s Nest, reminded me of Miss Violet and her reaction to Sadie. Hey, y’all. I smiled in the darkness. It seemed like an underwhelming intro to me, but Miss Violet and the woman at the hardware store seemed to love it.
In my head, I could hear Sadie saying I should watch one of the videos, and I had no reason at this point to put it off. Actually, I was more than a little curious as to why everyone gushed like they did.
I leaned up on my elbows, and on Connor’s side of the bench that separated the beds, I spotted his cell phone charging. I reached over, unplugged it, and rooted in my bag for my earbuds. I pulled the covers over my head and dimmed the light on the phone as much as possible. I recalled Teddy mentioning something about AuntMama and Googled that plus “A Southern Hankerin’.” The results page popped up with a link to “AuntMama’s Buttermilk Scrambled Eggs.” I clicked it, and a video loaded featuring Sadie’s smiling face as she sat in a car parked in front of a small house. I pressed the Play button and smiled again as Sadie’s voice filled my ears.
“Hey, y’all, I’m Sadie Scott, and today I’m in a suburb of Atlanta, and I have a hankerin’ for some eggs. Come with me to meet Chenelle, who’s going to share with us AuntMama’s recipe for buttermilk scrambled eggs.” She grinned and nodded to the charming cottage, its wood siding painted a deep, rich red. “Let’s go in.”
The screen faded to black before switching to a shot inside a quaint kitchen, well used and well loved; the granite countertops gleamed, the white cabinets were slightly distressed, their knobs burnished. A plant thrived on the windowsill above the sink, and a coffeepot perked in the background. Kitchen utensils were housed in a tall red ceramic vase, and a cookbook was open on an iron book stand. A pretty woman dressed in a white blouse and jeans stood with her hip against the counter, and her name came up on the screen. Chenelle.
The camera panned, showing a counter laden with a carton of eggs, a pint of buttermilk, several spice tins, a block of pepper jack cheese, a shredder, an empty glass bowl, a wire whisk, and a butter dish.
Chenelle’s nails were short, neatly trimmed, and painted neon blue—a color my mother would love. Dark fingers cracked an egg against the side of a glass bowl as she said, “I was six years old, newly orphaned, when I came to live with AuntMama, who back then was just Aunt Cassia. My parents had died in a bad wreck out on I-75, and I had been lost and broken and in pain. The kind of pain that reaches into your soul and twists it so much that you knew you weren’t going to come out of the grief as the same person who went in.”
I swallowed hard at the gut punch of emotion from knowing a similar pain, as I’d been five when my daddy died. Immediately I was invested in this woman, her story, because my heart was involved.
Empathy flooded Sadie’s gaze. “Was Aunt Cassia your mama’s or your daddy’s sister?” she asked as she handed Chenelle another egg.
“My daddy’s older sister. She was an emergency room doctor, or, as they’re called now, an emergency medicine specialist.” She cracked another egg, then added two tablespoons of buttermilk to the bowl. “I didn’t know then that she’d put her life on hold to take me in. She had taken a leave of absence from her work at the hospital to give me the time I needed to get settled. Here,” she added, passing the bowl to Sadie. “You get this whisked together while I shred some of this pepper jack.”
“How much cheese will you be using?”
“About a quarter cup or so, but you can use more or less depending on your mood. AuntMama always said some days call for more cheese than others.”
Sadie cradled the bowl in the crook of her arm as she whisked. “Truer words have never been spoken. Cheese therapy has helped me many times.”
I smiled thinking of all the times we’d made oozy grilled cheese sandwiches. I usually burned mine, scraping the black bits into the sink with a butter knife, but Sadie’s came out perfect every time.
“Same, and I think AuntMama knew it would help me back then, too. Whenever I first came here, she’d make me these eggs, a piece of toast cut into two triangles dripping with butter, and two slices of bacon. And every day, I’d push the plate away. I had no appetite, you see. And every day she’d take the plate away, pat my shoulder, kiss the top of my head, and tell me, ‘Everything will be okay—I promise you.’ Her calmness, her sureness, made me believe her. I gradually did start eating again. Then AuntMama had to go back to work and the time came for me to learn how to make these eggs myself. ‘Chellie,’ she’d say—that was her pet name for me—‘these here spices are a little like life. You put in too much, and it’ll be overwhelming. Too little, and it’ll be bland and boring. To get it just right takes some trial and error. Be patient with yourself. Above all, give yourself grace.’”
Sadie set the bowl on the counter, and Chenelle sprinkled cayenne pepper, black pepper, and salt into the bowl. “Wise,” Sadie said. “We’d all be a little bit better off if we gave ourselves a little grace.”
“She was the smartest person I ever knew.” Chenelle carried the bowl to the stove, where a cast iron pan sat on a burner. With a flick of her hand on the knob, a blue flame appeared.
“How old were you when she became AuntMama and not just Aunt Cassia?”
“I was still six. First grade. My school was having a Mother’s Day p
rogram, one where the moms were supposed to get dressed up, and there was going to be watered-down lemonade and cookies and singing, and I was beside myself, because there I was without a mama to invite. To this day, Mother’s Day is one of the hardest holidays for me. Can you pass over that butter?”
Sadie slid the butter dish across the counter. “I think everyone can understand why.”
I took a deep breath and hit the Pause button, thinking about how many times Mother had missed one of mine or Sadie’s events—the concerts, the awards ceremonies, even the Mother’s Day teas—always using work as an excuse. Yet, in that kitchen with Chenelle, Sadie hadn’t mentioned the connection to this woman she barely knew. And I suddenly realized it was because Sadie understood this wasn’t her story. It was Chenelle’s. Her own pain had no place. Yet, I wondered how many other people watching this video could relate. How many had felt that pain? How many shared this young woman’s grief and in turn were now connected to her in a way some would never understand?
I hit the Play button and Chenelle said, “Aunt Cassia saw my distress and said to me, ‘I know I’m not your mama, but maybe for one day, one afternoon, I can fill in as your AuntMama.’ To tell you the truth, I was just relieved to have someone there so the kids wouldn’t talk. Tease. And sure enough, AuntMama showed up in her scrubs, smiled the whole way through the afternoon, looking proud as can be. The name stuck after that. And through the years, she truly lived up to the mama part, giving me everything I ever needed in life, especially love.”
Sadie blinked away tears. “Can’t really ask for more, can you?”
“No, and I know how lucky I am to have had her.” Butter bubbled in the pan and Chenelle poured in the eggs. “Two years ago, I was a senior in college when I got a call at school that AuntMama was in the hospital with breathing troubles. I rushed home and near about cried myself to death when I found out how ill she truly was. Cancer. Less than a month to live. I took a leave of absence from college and moved back home to take care of her. Whenever I first came back, every day I made her these scrambled eggs with a piece of toast cut into two triangles dripping with butter, and two slices of bacon. And at first, she ate them just fine, but the time soon came when she’d push the plate away. She had no appetite. I’d take the plate and pat her shoulder and kiss the top of her head and promise her that everything was going to be okay.”
The Lights of Sugarberry Cove Page 21
