Before We Were Yours(119)

I watch her as we walk. With each step, she brightens. Her gaze darts about, landing on the climbing roses and azaleas, the bench by the river, the old picket fence, a trellis of wisteria, a trumpet vine, a bronze birdbath featuring statues of two little girls playing in the water.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, I do love this place. Has it been a while?”

“I think so,” I answer.

“I’ve missed it,” she whispers. “I’ve missed it so.”

My mother and father hesitate at the top of the porch steps, blink at my grandmother and at me, agog. Honeybee is in a situation she can’t control, and because of that, she hates it already, no matter what it is. “Avery Judith, you had better start explaining all of this.”

“Mama!” I snap, and Honeybee draws back. I’ve never spoken to my mother that way. Not in thirty years. “Just let Grandma Judy see what she remembers.”

Laying a hand on my grandmother’s shoulder, I guide her across the threshold into the cottage. She stands for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the change of light.

I watch as she takes in the room, the photographs, the painting over the old stone fireplace.

It’s a moment before she notices that the space is occupied. “Oh, oh…May!” she says as naturally as if they had just seen one another yesterday.

“Judy.” May tries to get off the sofa, but it’s saggy, and she can’t push to her feet, so she stretches out her arms instead. Trent, who was about to help her up, backs away.

My grandmother crosses the room. I let her make the journey alone. May’s eyes fill, and she lifts her arms, her fingers opening and closing, beckoning her sister to her. Grandma Judy, who is so often unsure of people now, shows no hesitation. As if it is the most natural thing in the world, she leans over the sofa and into May’s arms. They share the shaky embrace of old age, May’s eyes closing as she nestles her chin on her sister’s shoulder. They cling to one another until, finally, my grandmother sinks exhausted into the armchair beside the sofa. She and her sister hold hands across the end table. They gaze at one another as if there’s no one else in the room.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” May admits.

My grandmother’s buoyant smile seems innocent of all the obstacles that have kept them apart. “You know I’ll always come. On Thursdays. Sisters’ Day.” She motions to the rocker by the window. “Where is Fern this afternoon?”

May lifts their joined hands, shakes them a bit. “Fern is gone, sweetheart. She passed in her sleep.”

“Fern?” My grandmother’s shoulders slump, and her eyes grow watery. A tear squeezes out and trickles alongside her nose. “Oh…Fern.”

“It’s just the two of us now.”

“We have Lark.”

“Lark died five years ago. The cancer, remember?”

Grandma Judy sags a little more, wipes another tear. “Goodness, I’d forgotten. I only have a little of my mind left.”

“It doesn’t matter.” May stretches to cover their joined hands with her other one. “Remember when we spent that first week on Edisto?” She nods toward the painting over the fireplace. “Wasn’t that a fine time? All four of us together? Fern loved it there.”

“Yes, it was,” Grandma Judy agrees. I can’t tell if she really remembers or is just trying to be polite, but she smiles at the painting, and suddenly there’s a look of clarity. “You gave us the dragonfly bracelets. Three dragonflies to remember the three we never saw again. Camellia, Gabion, and my twin brother. We were celebrating Camellia’s birthday the afternoon you gave them to us, weren’t we? Camellia was the dragonfly with the onyx.” The light of memory shines in my grandmother’s eyes. The love of sisters warms her smile. “My, but we were lookers back then, weren’t we?”

“Yes, we were. All of us with Mama’s lovely hair, but you were always the only one who had her sweet face. If I didn’t know that was you in the painting, I’d think it was our mama standing there with us.”

Behind me, my mother whispers through her teeth, “What is going on here?” I feel the heat radiating off her body. She’s sweating, and Honeybee never sweats.

“Maybe we should step outside.” I try to gather my parents and move them back to the porch. My father seems almost reluctant to leave the room. He’s busy staring at the photos, trying to make some sense of all this. Is there a part of him that remembers his mother’s unexplained absences? Does he recall being in the background of that photograph taken on Edisto? Has he always suspected that his mother is more than just the woman he knew?

Trent nods across the room at me just before I close the door between the porch and the cottage. His encouragement makes me feel strong, capable, confident. He’s a believer in letting the truth be what it is. He and Hootsie have that in common.

“You’d better sit down for this,” I say to my parents.

Honeybee reluctantly balances on the edge of a rocker. My father takes the two-seat glider and assumes a posture that lets me know he’s expecting something grave and unpleasant. He leans forward with his feet firmly planted, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled together. Whatever the situation is, he’s ready to analyze it and do damage control.

“Just let me tell you all of it,” I plead. “Don’t ask me anything until I’m finished, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I gather a deep breath and begin the story.