Page 114 of Dreams of Falling
We look down and watch as Larkin places her folded arms on the bed, then leans over in the chair and rests her head in her arms. “I’m so tired,” she says. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a moment.” We watch as her eyes flutter closed. “I love you, Mama. I think everything’s going to be okay now.”
I think I know why I didn’t die at Carrowmore that day. Because I wasn’t done. Because I was still angry. Because there were still things I needed to learn. Like how before a person can forgive others, she needs to forgive herself. That love is always messy, whether it’s between a husband and wife or a mother and child. But it’s still love, in all of its wonderful, complicated, messy ways. We do our best withit, our hearts bruised and bleeding yet still capable of love if we’re smart enough to recognize it.
But mostly, I needed to learn that you never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have. All this time I’ve been worried that I still needed to teach this to my precious Larkin. I see now that I already have.
The anger that brought me to Carrowmore with a ribbon clenched in my fist disappears as peace and understanding lift me higher toward the ceiling. My heart floods with love for my daughter, and a sadness, too, because I know I’m leaving her. But I’m comforted with the deep knowledge that I’m not leaving her alone. She’ll still have Ceecee and Bitty and all the people who have always loved her. And she will finally know that her mother has always loved her, even during all those years I pushed her away, believing there was nothing I could teach her.
The ceiling disappears, and I’m standing on Ceecee’s porch. I hear the sound of Ellis’s Mustang, and I see it coming down River Street, the top down and his gorgeous long brown hair flying behind him. Daddy hates his long hair, but I don’t, and that’s the only opinion that matters, according to Ceecee.
And then Ellis stops the car in front of the house, the engine idling, and I run down the porch steps and jump in. I smile at Ellis, and he smiles, too, as he leans over to kiss me. Then he pulls away from the curb, and we drive away, and I am happy again.
thirty-seven
Ceecee
2010
That night, Ceecee dreamed of Ivy. Not the woman slowly shrinking in a hospital bed, her bright hair dimming by degrees. She dreamed of her Ivy as a young woman in love, her hair long and parted in the middle, a corsage on her wrist. Ceecee heard the rumble and thrum of an approaching car, and the anticipation and excitement rippled through her as if the feelings were her own.
And then Ellis in that bright red Mustang pulled up in front of the house, and Ivy turned to Ceecee and smiled. “I love you, Mama,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll be all right now.” She turned and ran down the porch steps toward the car, her hair catching the light and showing off its red highlights. As Ceecee watched, Ellis leaned forward and kissed Ivy on the lips. The Mustang’s engine whined as it pulled away from the curb, taking Ellis and Ivy down the street, and Ceecee stood still, watching until the car disappeared. Her heart took turns filling and emptying, an odd mixture of happiness and grief coursing through her as she watched Ivy leave, knowing in her mother’s heart that Ivy was telling her good-bye.
Ceecee awoke to the sound of the telephone by her bed, and knewwithout picking it up that Ivy was gone. She touched her cheek and smiled, feeling Ivy’s kiss, then answered the phone.
After she hung up, she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for the thickness in her chest to go away. She was too sad for tears. They couldn’t express the grief that filled every vein, every artery, every part of her. Tears would make light of the darkness that edged toward her heart, threatening to overtake it. She forced herself to remember her dream, to know that Ivy had come to say good-bye. Mostly, she needed to remember that Ivy was happy again.
When she thought she was ready, Ceecee walked out into the hallway to tell Bitty. But Bitty’s bedroom door was already open, her bed empty. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted from outside. Gripping the banister and feeling much older than her seventy-seven years, Ceecee made her way to the back porch.
Bitty wore baby blue pajamas with colorful unicorns dotted all over them. Her feet were bare, her red hair sticking up at all angles, and her face was devoid of makeup. Ceecee stopped in surprise. Without the multihued eye shadow and outrageous eyelashes, Bitty was the same girl Ceecee had known all of her life. And had always loved like a sister. They’d weathered so many storms together, somehow emerging intact. Ceecee fervently hoped they could weather one more. Sharing the good and bad times with a lifelong friend made the business of living a lot more bearable.
Bitty looked up, her face expressionless. “Was that the hospital?”
Ceecee nodded. “It was Larkin. She went to visit Ivy last night after we went to bed. She said she’d fallen asleep at some point, and while she was sleeping...” She stopped, feeling the tight ball in her throat.
Bitty nodded. They were like an old married couple, finishing each other’s thoughts and sentences. Ceecee found a great deal of comfort in that. She was getting too old to have to explain things.
“I dreamed about her,” Bitty said. “I saw her drive away with Ellis in that Mustang of his—the one Boyd hated so much.”
Ceecee smiled softly. “I saw her, too. She came to say good-bye. To let us know that she’s okay, and with Ellis. I find it almost hard to cry, because that would be too selfish of me.”
Bitty rolled her eyes. “One of these days, Ceecee, you’ve got to stop worrying about being selfish. You’re one of the most giving people I’ve ever known.” Bitty pressed the sleeve of her pajamas into the corner of her eye. “Our sweet Ivy.”
Ceecee waited, but the word “our” didn’t sting much anymore. Ivy’s presence in their lives had been too brief, like the moon passing in front of the sun during an eclipse. Short, yet intense. They had both loved her, and her absence would be equally felt. Grief, Ceecee had learned in her long life, wasn’t something that could be measured or apportioned. A person felt as much as they could handle, and then more if it could be shared.
“Are you going to be all right?” Bitty asked.
Ceecee nodded. “As soon as I see Larkin, anyway. She’s on her way home now. I think she’ll get through this fine. She was there when Ivy passed and had the chance to say good-bye, which I know will give her peace. When she called Mack to tell him, he said that same thing.” Ceecee looked closely at her friend. “Larkin thinks it will be a good time to read the letter as soon as she gets here. I’ll let Bennett know.”
“Right.” Bitty nodded. “The letter.”
Ceecee took a deep breath. “Yes. So, I thought now might be a good time for the two of us to talk.”
“To talk?” Bitty said, busily rearranging her ashtray on the coffee table.
“About the night of the fire. I’m too old for secrets. For a lot of things, really, but especially secrets. They cost a lot of brain cells, and those are in short enough supply as it is.”
“Amen,” Bitty said, raising an imaginary glass. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Ceecee took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand with the morning air, the taste of salt settling on the back of her tongue like a reminder of who she was. “I’ll start. When the police interrogated me, I left something out.”
