Page 8 of Dreams of Falling
“I know.” I’d already begun to turn the car, knowing this road, this break in the trees. The crunch of car tires over sand and loose rocks brought back memories I hadn’t known I had. I felt both of the older women watching me, and said, “I’ve been here before. Not in recent memory, but I’ve been here.”
Without being told, I curved left at a Y in the road, noticing how the trees and undergrowth huddled closer, like children whispering.
I want to show you a secret.It was my mother’s voice. I could see her in the driver’s seat, and me as a little girl, sitting next to her, the shoulder strap of the seat belt digging into my neck as I strained to see over the dashboard.
“I’ve been here before,” I said with conviction now, unable to determine whether the recalled scents of an overgrown garden were remembered or real.
Two brick posts stood sentry on either side of the narrowed road, appearing to hold back the vegetation. Large black iron hinges clung to them, ghosts of a once-imposing entrance. Missing mortar and broken bricks told of a losing battle with the elements.
The sun dipped behind a cloud, casting us in shadow. My cell phone rang. I glanced at it in the cup holder. “It’s Daddy. Please answer it, Ceecee. Tell him where we are just in case we lose our signal.”
As she did, I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator, hearing the rocks spit out behind us. Mama was here. I knew it. I felt it. I was back in my dream again and falling, waiting to hit bottom.
“He’s on his way,” Ceecee said. “He’s bringing Bennett.”
I almost slammed on the brakes. “Why?”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Because we might need help.”
I pressed harder on the accelerator, the car lurching forward. The overgrowth moved away from the road, now two strips of sand with a grassy line between them, and then the pines and Chinaberry trees gave way to a long line of elderly oaks, their arthritic backs hunched over the road while their geriatric shawls of moss hung listless in the humidity.
I wanted to ask why Bennett would be with my father, or why both had been trying to reach me. But I was distracted by what seemed to be hundreds of gourds hanging from poles and tree branches, their man-made holes appearing to stare at me with rounded eyes and mouths of surprise. I remembered them. I remembered being afraid and my mother telling me about the purple martins and how they relied on humans for their homes, because after hundreds of years ofhuman intervention, the little birds had forgotten how to build their own nests.
And I remembered my small hand tucked into my mother’s as we headed toward the oldest tree, down by the river, its trunk wider than our car. I hadn’t forgotten, and the sight of the gourds brought it all back.
She’d let go of my hand, then taken a rolled-up ribbon from her pocket and held it against her heart.
“What’s that?” I’d asked.
“A dream. I wrote it on the ribbon.”
“Can you tell me what it says?”
Mama knelt down in front of me, and I recalled that part because it was the first time I’d noticed how her eyes focused on me without really seeing, the way a person might pretend not to have seen a ghost. “It might not come true then,” she said. “It’s like making a wish before you blow out your birthday candles—you’re not supposed to tell anybody what you wished for.”
She’d stood and shoved the ribbon inside a skinny opening in the tree’s trunk. The sky had darkened for a moment as a flock of martins flew overhead, coming home, their calls and chirps echoing in the sky.
“It’s time to go, Ivy.” Mama walked away quickly without reaching for my hand like she was in a hurry and couldn’t wait to leave.
Without hesitating, I stuck my hand inside the trunk and pulled out the ribbon, holding on to its edge until it had completely unfurled. There were words written on it, words I hadn’t yet learned to read.
I’d looked up at Mama’s retreating back and curled my hands into little fists. Ceecee would have told me what it said. Ceecee didn’t believe in keeping anything from me because, she said, I was mature for my age. Mama only ever told me to stop pushing so hard and to just enjoy being a little girl. But I couldn’t. Because I wanted to be like her.
I’d shoved the ribbon into the elastic waistband of my pants and run after Mama, climbing into the backseat and buckling my seat belt without being told.
“What’s wrong?” Bitty’s hand brushed my shoulder, and I realized I’d slammed on the brake.
“It’s...” I turned to Ceecee, the one person who knew my mother better than I did. “She’s here. I feel it.”
We had reached the end of the oak-lined lane and found ourselves facing the ruins of Carrowmore. The old Greek Revival mansion loomed like a prophet in front of the bent trees, its partially missing roof and gaping window openings doing nothing to detract from the impression of a grande dame greeting her guests. Brick chimneys protruded from the second floor like raised fists. The Corinthian columns looked out at the ruined trees with calm acceptance, despite their crumbling bases and missing plaster.
“Go around to the back,” Ceecee instructed, leaning forward in her seat as if to move us faster. “She wouldn’t have gone inside the house.”
I wondered why she sounded so sure, so convinced that Ivy would have thought first before acting. As if she’d ever done that in her fifty-eight years. Then I realized that Ceecee was reassuring herself, the way a child does when hearing a noise in a darkened room, unable to bear any other possibility.
I grimaced as the car ran over uneven terrain, the sound of a branch scraping the undercarriage abrupt in the silence, and stopped near a ruined wooden gate that had once protected a garden. I peered through the windshield, covered now with the carcasses of insects, and looked toward the river. The infamous oak tree stood where it had been for more than two centuries, as regal and impassive as the house, as aloof. And alone.
“I don’t want to get stuck,” I said, turning off the ignition. “You two wait here while I go check things out.”
