Page 18 of The Lost Hours
Helen pressed her thumb down harder, feeling a chip in the paint. “Or maybe our memories make us see things with such a bright clarity that we have to shield our eyes.”
Earlene lifted the latch on the gate. “Maybe.” The hinges squealed as she pushed open the gate, then led Helen inside.
There had been a fitful sprinkle of rain earlier that morning, just enough to torment the parched summer grass, and Helen could smell the moist earth and wet leaves that had piled up against the bottom of the fence. She’d have to remind Tucker that he needed to clean it out although she was pretty sure he’d have somebody else do it. Even as a child he hadn’t liked to come here and had once told her that it reminded him of a monster’s mouth, the white stones like sharp teeth waiting to catch him. She supposed that he had even more reason to believe it to be true now that he was grown.
Helen leaned against the closed gate. “So what exactly do you hope to find here?”
“I’m just . . . I was hoping . . .” Earlene fell silent.
Ah.“Maybe if you can tell me the last name your client is interested in researching, I might be able to help. My family has lived in the Savannah area since before the Revolution. It’s in my blood to know every connection of every family going back at least two hundred years.”
Again, Earlene paused.
“Or maybe you can tell me what you’re really looking for.”
Twigs and leaves crunched as Earlene shifted her feet. She sounded almost relieved when she finally spoke. “I’m actually doing this as a personal favor. For a friend.” She paused again. “Her name’s Lola. She’s writing a history about Asphodel Meadows and the Harringtons. She tried to reach your grandmother but your grandmother made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in talking to anyone.”
“And since you’re a genealogist who knows how to research, it made sense for you to come here and see what you could learn.” Using the fence as her guide, Helen began walking around the periphery of the cemetery. “I’m not surprised that Malily wouldn’t help your friend. She never talks about the past—even to us. She’s not the cold woman she likes to portray to the world, you know. You’d never guess there’s a lot more underneath that powdered veneer. Did you know that she used to be a well-known equestrian? Years ago, of course, but still. She told me once that she wanted to be a jockey when she was a little girl, and live in the stable with her horse.” Helen paused to make sure that Earlene was following her. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Earlene said slowly, “it is. I never would have guessed.”
“I think it’s a good example of how we’re never really who we say we are.” Helen turned her head to face the direction she knew Earlene was standing. “We’re made of so many different layers, and each one tells a story.” She stopped, remembering something her grandmother had said. “My mother hasn’t been back to Asphodel for almost five years now. When she left that last time my grandmother said almost the exact same thing, something about how so many of our stories stay hidden under other layers. But how a daughter should know her mother’s stories to pass on to her daughters.”
“But she’s been reluctant to share her story with you.”
Helen shrugged. “I always thought that she was making me wait my turn, that my mother should go first. But I don’t think Mama’s planning on coming home any day now and Malily isn’t getting any younger.”
Earlene’s voice sounded small, the words barely having enough room to escape. “You should talk to your grandmother now, before it’s too late. Ask her to tell you her stories.”
Helen forced her voice to sound light. “Asking Malily to do anything is like moving a mountain. But maybe someday soon.”
Earlene shifted, twigs and leaves crunching under her feet. “So what happened next?”
Helen shrugged. “My mother left. She told Malily that she already knew all she wanted to know.”
“And she hasn’t been back since?” Earlene’s footsteps walked toward the center of the cemetery toward the large pyramid monument.
“No. But that’s not unusual. Our parents are missionaries. We stayed here while they were out there, saving the world.”
“I’m sorry.” Earlene’s footsteps returned. “That must have been hard for you.” She took a deep breath. “My own parents died in a car accident when I was six. I don’t remember them very well, but I still miss them. I was angry for a long time that they’d left me behind.”
Helen touched Earlene’s arm again, feeling the scar. “Is that where this came from?”
Earlene rapidly sucked in her breath. “No.”
Helen dropped her hand, realizing she’d touched that fragileness, reminding her of a china plate wobbling on the edge of a table. She wanted to explain that in her world without light or colors, the boundaries between herself and others had become blurred. Tucker had once told her that instead of seeing people’s faces, she could see directly inside their hearts.
Helen held out her hand again. “Well, if you want to learn about Lillian Harrington-Ross, this would be the right place to start. Her great-great-grandparents and everyone since are here, as is her husband, Charles Ross. The monument in the center is his.”
Earlene’s fingers were cool again as she took Helen’s hand and placed it on her arm before leading her toward the tall, narrow pyramid. With her free hand Helen touched the marble monument, running her fingers over the engraved letters. “He designed the monument himself, but my grandmother added the words.”
“But it’s only his name, and his birth and death dates.”
Helen brushed the letters again with her fingers. “I know. My sister-in-law, Susan, pointed that out to me. We both thought it odd that there weren’t any sentiments. My grandparents were married for over fifty-five years, after all, and had two children. You would think she had more to say other than he was born and died.”
“Two children? So your mother wasn’t an only child?”
“She had a brother, but he was killed in Vietnam. He’s buried near his father.”
