Page 59 of Dreams of Falling
I glared at him.
“No, really—I’m being serious. You were always the best dancer. Ask Mabry. Or my mother. Anyone, really.”
I remembered the backyard barbecues at the Lynches’, the Tams or the Drifters playing loudly from the stereo, and myself, Mabry, Bennett, their parents, and whoever else was there dancing the shag on the patio. Sometimes even my parents would join us, and that would be the best part of all. Until that moment in Bennett’s truck, I’d forgotten about our impromptu dance contests, the smell of a Lowcountry boil, the taste of my first beer behind the house with Mabry and Bennett. Those evenings had been some of the happiest moments of my childhood.
Slightly mollified, I let out a slow sigh. “Fine. If I’m here, I’ll go with you. Can I see the boxes now?”
He grinned, greatly pleased with himself. “Actually, how about Sunday? I know my mother is planning on asking you to supper. And then you can tell me what else you remember from our conversation the other night.”
I picked up the red shirt that had fallen to the floor and threw it at him, then turned to look out the window so he couldn’t see me smile.
twenty
Ceecee
2010
Ceecee knelt in front of the bed full of alyssum and zinnias, ruthlessly yanking out weeds and occasionally a flower stem, her vision watery from what she was telling herself was perspiration. She kept going over the scene earlier in the day at Carrowmore, of hearing what was, essentially, a death sentence. But not just for the house. A death sentence for so much more.
She heard Bitty behind her before she smelled the ever-present scent of cigarette smoke. When Bitty drew in a raspy breath to speak, Ceecee cut her off. “You really need to stop smoking. Your breathing sounds like an old mule that’s pulled a hay wagon uphill for a mile.”
“And you would know what that sounds like,” Bitty barked out.
Sitting back on her heels, Ceecee snorted. “I’ve been on more farms in my life than you have.” She tried to stand but realized that she couldn’t quite get her knees to agree with her. Glaring up at her friend, she said, “No human being should sound that way unless they’ve already got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
“You can’t get up, can you?”
Without a word, Ceecee held out her hand and allowed Bitty to pull her up, wheezing and coughing as she did.
They stood looking at each other, both breathing heavily, until Ceecee walked a few feet toward the wrought-iron bench under the branches of an elderly magnolia tree that faced the river and sat down, indicating the seat next to her for Bitty. Bitty hesitated briefly, then sat. She opened her mouth to speak but was overcome with a coughing fit.
Ceecee studied her old friend closely in the tree’s shade, really seeing her for the first time in years and noticing the sunspots and deep lines embedded in Bitty’s cheeks, the thin lips and even thinner eyebrows, and the pale spots showing through the bright red hair. It was easy to avoid one’s own reflection, or not to wear glasses when applying makeup so that the illusion of still looking youthful could be maintained. As she’d grown older, Ceecee had learned one unyielding fact: Lying to yourself was always so much easier than facing the truth. But as she stared close up into Bitty’s face in the unadulterated light, there could be no denying it. They were old.
“Please tell me you’ve been to a doctor about that cough.”
“Of course I have. I’m not an idiot. I had a nasty bout of acute bronchitis, but it’s much better now. I’m on antibiotics and he gave me an inhaler and I’m using both, if that makes you happy. You should have heard me before.”
“Did he tell you to stop smoking?”
“Is the sky blue?” Bitty countered, her gaze challenging.
Ceecee knew it would be pointless to continue the conversation, so she sat silently, staring at the river. This place here in her garden overlooking the Sampit River had always been her refuge, the place where she could hide from the world. But after this morning, she wasn’t sure there was any place left to hide.
“So, what’s going to happen with Carrowmore?”
Ceecee shrugged. “I don’t know—although it doesn’t seem we have as much of a choice as we thought.” She was silent, watching as a sailboat slowly made its way toward the harbor, a young woman in an orange bikini lowering a sail. It reminded Ceecee of the yellow two-piece bathing suit Margaret had let her wear on their trip to Myrtle Beach when they were eighteen, and how scandalous she had thought it was.
“Is that why you’re so angry?” Bitty asked. “Because you can’t just forget it’s there like you have been doing for more than thirty years?”
Ceecee continued staring at the river. “You’ve always been so good at reading my mind. I wish you’d just quit.”
Bitty started to laugh, but the laugh ended in a cough. “I wish I could. Old habit.”
They sat in silence, watching the river flow in the same direction it always had, a ribbon connecting the past with the present, and a reminder that time moved on regardless of whether you wanted it to.
“I’ve wanted to forget,” Ceecee said. “That horrible night. It’s why I never go back. I don’t want to see the ruins. In my memory, Carrowmore is still whole and freshly painted, with a swing and rocking chairs on the wide porch.”
“And Margaret is still with us,” Bitty said quietly.
