All the Dangerous Things(15)

I thought of the prying eyes of the tourists, their fingers wrapped tightly around our torsos, playing with us. Making us dance.

I tried to imagine our ground floor, the main floor, grand piano and tufted couches replaced with rollout cots and bloodied men, their heads wrapped in gauze bandages. I had asked my mother once if any of those soldiers had died—and if so, where were they buried? She had just shrugged, told me that they probably had, and then glanced out the window and into our backyard, eyes glassy and gray. Now the ground floor houses our most important rooms: our foyer, kitchen, living room, mudroom, dining room, and Dad’s office, which is strictly off-limits. The middle floor is our floor—a long hallway of bedrooms, most of which are empty—and the third floor is Mom’s studio, a giant open room with floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors that swing out onto the patio. She keeps her easel up there; her paints smeared across an old wooden table, her brushes soaking in cloudy water lined up against the wall. It’s my favorite floor of the house because of the views.

Sometimes, after dinner, we all go up there together and curl up in blankets on the balcony floor to watch the sunset, a salty breeze making the air stick to our skin.

“Can we have French toast?”

We hit the landing and Margaret unfurls her fingers before scampering into the kitchen. Her limbs are so skinny, her skin so tan, she looks like a fawn darting from a bullet.

“I don’t know how to make French toast,” I say, following behind her. “How about an omelet?”

“I’m sick of omelets,” she says, pulling out a chair with a screech. She clambers on top of it, pulls her legs to her chest, and grabs the baby doll Dad brought home for her after his last business trip. She carries it everywhere now, those porcelain eyes, forever unblinking, trailing us around the house.

“I’ll put cheese in it,” I say, opening the fridge and stacking everything onto the countertop: a brown carton of eggs, shredded cheddar, milk, chives. I crack the eggs into a bowl and start to whisk with a fork, tossing in the other ingredients while Margaret cradles her doll, singing in the background.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

I light the stove and start to stir, the skillet hissing and the kitchen starting to fill with the scent of salt and herbs as I pour the creamy mixture onto the hot surface, batting away the steam. I almost don’t hear the soft approach of footsteps padding across the landing, the creak of the floorboards as an invisible weight shifts away from the hall and into the kitchen. The arrival of a new voice, light and sweet like frothed milk.

“My darlings.”

I turn around and take in the sight of my mother leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching us. She looks like an angel in her white robe, the gauzy material delicate and thin. I can see the outline of her legs and hips; the gentle slope of her stomach as she walks across the windows, light shining through.

“You two are getting so grown,” she says, opening the windows to let in a breeze before striding over to the table and taking a seat next to Margaret. She rests her head in her hand, her hair a mess of thick, brown curls cascading over her shoulders, and I can see dried remnants of the always-there paint peeking out from behind the sleeve of her robe: royal blue and emerald green and blood red. A rainbow of birthmarks that never really leave. “I wish you could stay my babies forever.”

She puts her hand on Margaret’s cheek, rubbing her skin with the back of her thumb, and smiles, looking at us in a dreamy kind of bewilderment. Like she almost can’t believe we’re real.

“Have you named her yet?” she asks, gesturing to Margaret’s doll, her fingers absentmindedly twisting through her hair.

“Ellie,” Margaret says, tilting her head. “Like Eloise.”

Mom is still, quiet, her fingers stuck in the strands.

“Eloise,” she repeats.

Then Margaret smiles, nods, and the silence is broken again by her lullaby—“And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring”—followed by a burst of my mother’s laughter, high-pitched and fragile, like shattering glass.





CHAPTER NINE


NOW

I hop into my car and drive downtown, gliding into a parking spot along Chippewa Square. The early March air is crisp and clean, and I decide to stroll without direction until the vigil starts, walking past the fragrant azalea gardens and a tarnished brass statue of General James Oglethorpe looking down on us all. Walking the squares always gives me a sense of peace, a sense of calm, which I know I’ll need tonight. Eventually, I find myself on Abercorn, on the outskirts of Colonial Park Cemetery, staring through the giant stone archway topped with that big bronze bird.

There are over ten thousand headstones in that cemetery, a useless piece of trivia I learned on my first day at The Grit. I look to the left—the office, my old office, is only a few blocks north, closer to the river. I used to be able to see it every day: the Savannah River, winding in the distance through those gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows as I sat at my desk, tapping out articles.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I remember looking up at Kasey, my tour guide and mentor. She was a lifestyle reporter, too, two years my senior and tasked with greeting me at the front door on my first day of work. I remember thinking everything about her was perfect that day, the surrealism of my dream come true painting everything in a warm, white glow: her blond ringlet curls and the way her talon fingernails tapped against a glass coffee mug filled with a latte dispensed from the office coffee maker. I tried to keep up with her heels clicking against the floor, a restored hardwood, as she gave me the official tour.