Page 109 of Dreams of Falling
Gently, I opened each third of the letter until it lay flat. Before I could identify the signature at the bottom, Ceecee slumped back into her chair, her voice breathless. “I recognize his handwriting. It’s from Boyd.”
Bitty’s hand stretched across the table and took hold of Ceecee’s. I looked at these two women, who’d always been like mothers to me, about whom I’d thought I knew everything. But I could tell by their matching expressions of defeat that whatever it was that I’d discovered, they weren’t yet ready to share.
thirty-five
Ceecee
1954
Ceecee dreamed she was flying through fog. She was staring at an odd orange glow on the ceiling of her bedroom at Carrowmore, floating toward the door without feeling her feet touch the ground. Billowing fog covered her, choking her, and she closed her eyes, only to feel a jolt that jerked them open again.
Then she was outside, a strong wind tearing at her face and clothes, fat raindrops splattering on her skin. She saw a gray, wet sky in brief glimpses and heard a loud crackling sound that almost obliterated the distant cries of a baby. A strong smell of wood smoke followed her, as did the thud of heavy steps. She imagined the sensation of secure arms around her, and she smiled, thinking guardian angels must be real. She was so very sleepy, and she didn’t want to fly anymore. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes forever. The cry came again, and she tried to open her eyes to look for the source, but she was exhausted, her eyelids glued shut.
Gently, her body touched the ground. She lay on her side in a reclining position, as if an angel had placed her there. The sound of rain hitting leaves came from above her. The crying sounded louder now,a child—not a baby—crying as if it had just been pulled from a deep, warm dream.Ivy. Yes, she knew that sound. It was her sweet Ivy.
Ceecee reached out an arm, felt Ivy’s soft hair and small body pressed against hers, and kissed the side of the little girl’s head, smelling her delicious baby scent. A warm blanket descended over them, blocking out the wind and rain. Ivy quieted as Ceecee held her close, then shut her eyes. Now that Ivy was safe and warm in her arms, she could go back to sleep.
The sound of sirens woke her. The sky had cleared, and the wind and rain had subsided. Her left arm felt numb, and when she went to move it, she saw Ivy’s sleeping head resting on it. She started to smile but stopped when she turned her head and saw Carrowmore. Pillars of black smoke rose like angry exhalations from openings in the roof. The smell of wood smoke mixed with the acrid scent of burned carpets, walls, and upholstery.
Ceecee’s head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. She shook it, trying to clear her vision and her thoughts, to make sense of what she was seeing. Trying to remember why she was in the yard under a magnolia tree a safe distance from the house, the small form of Ivy tucked against her body, a sodden blue blanket thrown over them. She stared down at the blanket, blinking, vaguely remembering it from her bed in the blue bedroom upstairs.
As she tugged at it, trying to cover Ivy’s shoulders, her fingers brushed against what felt like paper, soft and crinkly. She pulled it out and blinked, her eyes having trouble focusing, her brain slow to identify the brown-and-white Tootsie Roll wrappers.
A fire truck pulled into the drive, and she sat up straighter, trying to get her eyes to focus, to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there. She struggled to stand, her heart pounding as she saw the black smudges of soot like angry hands around the blown-out windows of the white parlor, nearly identical marks marring the wood surrounding the upstairs front bedroom. She stared at the broken window frames, remembering something. A white nightgown. Candles. And Margaret.Margaret. In the white parlor, lighting candles while Ivy slept on thesofa. Spots danced before her eyes as she tried to remember to breathe. She needed to find Margaret. She balled up the wrappers and shoved them into her skirt pocket, then gathered Ivy into her arms and began running toward the house, screaming Margaret’s name.
She ran like a drunk person, her legs rubbery and numb, her path meandering. The lawn was strewn with storm debris—limbs, leaves, and clumps of sodden Spanish moss—making it hard to maneuver, especially with a child in her arms. When she tripped a second time, one of the firemen noticed her and came running over. Ceecee began shouting before he’d reached her. “Where’s Margaret? Did she make it out?”
The man’s red face was streaked with sweat and soot, his brown eyes kind and vaguely familiar. “There’s someone in the house?”
“Yes—a woman. Margaret Darling... Madsen! Where is she? Where is she?” Ceecee was screaming now, and Ivy was crying, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t awaken fully, nor could she completely comprehend what was happening. Or maybe she did and that was why she was screaming.
Another fireman ran toward them. “Chief!” he shouted. The lingering scent of burned rubber and smoke clung to him. He gave Ceecee a cursory nod before turning to the other fireman. “Just the one casualty, sir. On the second floor, at the top of the stairs.”
The chief gave a brief nod. Ceecee clutched at the sleeve of his jacket, recognizing him now as one of her father’s parishioners. “No, no—that can’t be! Please tell me there’s been a mistake!”
He put an arm around her and Ivy, quieting them both. “I’m sorry, Miss Purnell. I know you and Mrs. Madsen were good friends.” After a moment, he asked, “How did you and the child get out?”
Ceecee looked at Ivy, her head now resting limply on Ceecee’s shoulder, her thumb in her mouth. She shook her head, her gaze traveling from the house to the yard and the impassive face of the fire chief. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it.”
She could only shake her head, rising nausea forcing her mouth shut. She kept seeing Margaret, wearing the nightgown she’d bought for a honeymoon that never happened. Talking to Ceecee as she lit the candles.I sometimes think that if I went away, everyone would be better off.And Ceecee remembered carrying one of the candles through the dark house, up to the blue bedroom above the white parlor, and placing it on her bedside table.
“Are you all right, Miss Purnell?” the fire chief asked kindly. She knew his name, but her head was still foggy, her memory shifting back and forth as if in a dream. Her stomach roiled, from the pills, the smoke, or the sheer enormity of what had happened.
She clenched her mouth shut and held Ivy tightly, her leg pressing against something in Ceecee’s pocket.Wrappers. Two Tootsie Roll wrappers.She stared uncomprehendingly at the fire chief before shoving Ivy into his arms, then knelt on the soft, damp earth and vomited.
•••
?Under Boyd’s care, Ceecee and Ivy remained in the hospital for three days. They were both physically unscathed, having miraculously escaped any injury from the fire that had destroyed Carrowmore and killed Margaret. But not all wounds were visible on the outside.
Ceecee remembered taking the sleeping pills, although she wasn’t sure how many, and she remembered Margaret telling her that she’d given Ivy half of one, although when she’d confided this to Boyd, he thought it had probably been more. Then he’d surprised her by saying that the pills had probably saved both their lives. A deep sleep induced by narcotics lowered their breathing rate, protecting them from smoke inhalation. It’s what they’d determined had killed Margaret, thankfully before the fire found her and burned her beyond recognition. Boyd had been able to identify only the platinum wedding ring on her left hand.
He hadn’t told her this last part until Ceecee asked him enough times if he was absolutely sure it was Margaret they’d found in the burned building. She’d begun to cry, and Boyd had looked so devastated that she wanted to embrace him. But their grief was still so raw, their unspoken status still so new, they didn’t dare.
Despite question-filled visits by the police and the fire chief—who also brought a doll for Ivy—Ceecee could not recall how they had made it out to the lawn. She told them about the candles, but not whatMargaret had said, nor did she mention the sleeping pills. Margaret was dead, and knowing either one of those things wouldn’t bring her back. The final conclusion was that one of the candles had accidentally been knocked over, and although they were confident the fire had started downstairs, Ceecee had trouble accepting it.
They said she was a hero for saving Ivy. She didn’t feel like a hero. She didn’t remember carrying Ivy out of the house. Nor could she forget the memory of a guardian angel, the sensation of flying through the air, or of the sound of footsteps that weren’t her own.
While at the hospital, Ivy wouldn’t be separated from Ceecee, so they allowed her to be in a crib beside Ceecee’s bed. At night, Ivy would cry out in her sleep, as if having a nightmare. She’d settle only when Ceecee brought her into her own bed, each giving comfort to the other.
