Ghost Moon (15 page)

CHAPTER 23

FOR A MOMENT IT WAS AS IF SHE HAD INADVERTENTLY stepped onto a carousel and was being spun back through time. Olivia felt light-headed, nauseated almost. The photograph in Callie’s hand blurred until she couldn’t make out the images, and then it seemed as if she were looking
out
from the picture, as if she had become the round-faced little girl and was looking out at her adult self.

She could almost smell the scent of her mother’s White Shoulders perfume.

‘‘You look just like Selena,’’ Callie said with satisfaction, her attention on the print in her hand rather than her niece. ‘‘I don’t think there’s a hair’s worth of difference between you. And Sara is going to look just like the both of you when she’s grown.’’

‘‘Amazing resemblance,’’ Keith agreed, looking up at Olivia and then back down at the picture in his hand.

Olivia did not want to take the picture. She did not want to see, to remember. Her instinct was to back away, to refuse to look, to do whatever she had to do to keep from touching the photo that Callie was holding out to her. But that was silly—worse than silly. It would be a repudiation of her mother, and of herself, and by extension of Sara.

‘‘It
is
amazing,’’ Olivia agreed in a hollow voice, and accepted the snapshot from Callie. It was a Polaroid, taken with an instant camera, and the colors were starting to fade a bit. The paper edges felt as stiff and slick as plastic between her fingers. Unable to bring herself to look directly at the mother and daughter who’d been caught laughing into the camera with no knowledge of what the future would bring, she turned the picture over.

On the back, on the white bottom border of the photograph, a line was written in black ink. The small, precise letters were heavily slanted to the right.
Livvy and
me,
it said, followed by a date: June 13, 1976.

It was her mother’s handwriting. Olivia knew it as well as she knew her own name.

There was a sudden roaring in her ears, and for a moment Olivia thought she might faint. Grasping one of the pair of spindles at the top of Callie’s rocker, she held on, grimly determined not to be such a fool.

What on earth was wrong with her? Hadn’t she always yearned for mementos of her mother? One of her greatest regrets had always been that she had taken nothing but a suitcase full of clothes with her when she had eloped with Newall. She had left everything behind, all her possessions, from the stuffed animals on her bed to her high school ring. They hadn’t seemed important at the time—being with Newall had been the important thing.

Dear God, how stupid she had been!

But there had never been mementos of her mother in any case, not even when LaAngelle Plantation had been her home. Everything, from photographs of Selena to her clothes, had disappeared almost immediately after she had died.

Put away so the healing could begin. Olivia remembered hearing that explanation from someone at the time, although she couldn’t remember who had said it, or the context. Perhaps she had asked a question. She didn’t know.

Had she, Selena’s daughter, the laughing, chubby little girl being hugged by her obviously loving mother in the picture, had she healed? Until returning to LaAngelle Plantation, Olivia would have said yes with no hesitation at all.

Now she knew that she would have been wrong. The wound had healed over, maybe, but it hadn’t healed.

Maybe she needed to look at the pictures, to talk about her mother, to feel the reality of her life and death, for the true healing to begin.

‘‘Are you okay, Olivia?’’ Keith asked, looking at her with gentle concern.

‘‘I’m fine. I just didn’t know that pictures like this still existed. I thought they’d all been thrown away, or something.’’ Olivia took a deep breath, and turned the snapshot over, forcing herself to look at it objectively. The resemblance
was
uncanny, she thought. She could almost be looking at a picture of herself with Sara as a three-year-old.

‘‘Oh, honey, do you think I would have let anybody throw things like these pictures away?’’ Callie asked reproachfully. ‘‘They’re yours. They’ve been in the attic all these years. And your things are up there, too: everything of yours, everything that was in your room the night you left us. It’s all in boxes. I packed it away myself.’’

‘‘You did?’’ Olivia looked up from the picture then to smile a little shakily at her aunt. ‘‘I can’t believe you did, after I—well, after I left the way I did. But thank you. And thank you for saving these pictures of my mother.’’ She glanced down at the snapshot in her hand, then back at Callie. ‘‘I think I—needed to see them.’’

‘‘Olivia, why don’t you sit down here and go through these with Callie?’’ Keith stood up, vacating his rocking chair. When Olivia started to protest, he waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘‘Do you think I’m going to let
Martha,
fine woman though she certainly is, prepare our meal? When I am a culinary
artiste
?’’

He said it jokingly, but Olivia got the sense that he meant what he said. She remembered that he had trained as a chef, and had gotten to know David when the two men, one a waiter and one a cook, had worked together at a New Orleans restaurant some thirty years before. Waving her into his chair, Keith disappeared inside. Olivia was left to do something she was not sure she wanted to do: sink down in his abandoned rocker, and pore over a box of old photographs, with their accompanying memories of her mother.

She wasn’t ready to remember. Not when just looking at a picture of her mother and herself together made her feel physically ill.

And yet, as if compelled to do so, she was already reaching down into the box and picking out a silver-framed, five-by-seven portrait from the jumble of photos. A wedding picture: her mother in a form-fitting ivory suit, a bouquet of pink orchids and freesias in one white-gloved hand. Beside her stood James Archer, tall and fair-haired and handsome in his dark blue suit, an orchid in his lapel, beaming broadly into the camera. At their feet was plopped a baby in a ruffly pink dress, sitting on her diapered bottom with white booties on her feet and a wreath of tiny pink flowers in her dark, feathery hair.

She was that baby.

Olivia remembered with a flash of blinding clarity that this picture had once sat in pride of place on the nightstand beside her mother’s bed, and felt dizzy again.

‘‘Did you know that Selena was working at the Boatworks when James met her?’’ Callie asked conversationally.

Unable to speak, Olivia shook her head. The picture felt increasingly heavy in her hand. She laid it faceup across her lap and rested her head back against the uneven weave of the chair. She remembered—she remembered that bedroom. It was the room across the hall from her bedroom, her old bedroom, that is, the room Sara was sleeping in now. Her mother had slept across the hall with her husband, and she, Olivia, would run in there most mornings and jump into bed between them. Her mother would hug her, and her stepfather would laugh. . . .

The walls had been painted pink. Pink was her own favorite color. And Sara’s. It must have been her mother’s, too, for her to paint a room she shared with her husband in such a feminine hue.

‘‘She was. She was from Bayou Grand Caillou, you know.’’

Callie was frowning at her. Olivia’s face was turned toward her, and she could see her aunt perfectly well, but—it was almost as if she were looking at her through glass. Olivia continued to rest back in the chair, her hands, limp in her lap, just touching the edges of the picture. She felt strange, immobile, as if even the smallest movement would require too much effort, and she guessed her face must have paled.

‘‘Do you want to hear the whole story, Olivia? Or would you rather not?’’

Making a great effort, Olivia moved, glancing down at the photograph in her lap. Her mother looked so young in that picture, younger by several years than she was herself. She knew so little about her. . . .

Livvy and me
. The words written on the back of that snapshot swam through her mind. They sounded so homey, so cozy.

Life with her mother had been cozy. They had shared laughter, and warmth, and love.

Olivia’s heart ached suddenly. Although specific memories were lost to her, the emotions that went with them were coming through loud and clear.

‘‘Of course I want to hear,’’ Olivia said. To her own ears her voice sounded hoarse. But she needed to know. It was suddenly very important to her that she know everything that there was to know.

Callie nodded, her expression sympathetic. ‘‘I never knew your natural father, but Selena always said he was part Houma, and that he had worked as a shrimper until he was killed in some kind of boat accident a couple of months before you were born. Your mother was left with nothing, no money, no house, no job, no family she could turn to. She came to LaAngelle because a friend of hers worked as an upholsterer at the Boatworks. The girl asked Big John to give her friend Selena Chenier a job, and he did. My husband, Michael, had been dead for several years by that time, and it had fallen to James, as the next brother in line, to take over as general manager of the Boatworks. But Big John was still very much hands-on then, and it was he who hired Selena. In any case, James was instantly smitten. He didn’t care that she was pregnant with another man’s baby, he didn’t care that his mother—forgive me, dear! —considered her unsuitable marriage material for an Archer, he didn’t care that he was so much older. He was head over heels. After the baby—you!—were born, he kept going round to the little house on Cocodrie Street where Selena and you lived with an older woman who rented out rooms, bringing her things for the baby —you!—and trying to get her to go out with him. Finally she did, and they got married three months later.’’ Callie shook her head. ‘‘I thought his mother—Marguerite—was going to have a stroke. Well, you know how she was. So proud! I have to tell you that Marguerite and Belinda were not very nice to your mother then, or, to tell the truth, later. I’ve always thought Belinda was jealous of Selena. She was so young and pretty, you know! So—fiery. I think that’s what James loved best about her. She had an unquenchable spirit. They were very happy after they married. She doted on you, and James treated you like his own child. When she died, he was inconsolable.’’ Callie broke off and glanced at Olivia rather guiltily, as if she thought she might have said too much. After a moment she went on, in a different, almost apologetic tone. ‘‘He changed so much after she died, you know. I don’t know if you remember him like he was before, but afterward—well, he just withdrew. I always thought he wanted to die, too, so he could be with Selena again. And, a few years later, he did.’’

Callie paused, biting her lip. Her gaze met Olivia’s. ‘‘Olivia—I always felt bad that I didn’t do more for you after Selena died. But Marguerite was alive then—your grandmother!—and I just couldn’t stand up to her. Well, you know how she was! She wanted to raise you up as her idea of a lady, and she talked James into going along with whatever she wanted. James was her son, you know, and after Selena died he never again strayed across the boundaries she set for him. They were too strict with you, and . . . and not very loving, I guess. After Selena—well, you were the sun and the moon and the stars to your mother. It must have been very hard for you to adjust. Thinking back on it now, well, I feel bad that I didn’t try harder to help you, that’s all.’’

‘‘Please don’t feel bad.’’ Olivia reached for her aunt’s hand. Callie’s skin felt dry and thin, almost like crepe paper. ‘‘You were always so kind to me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I know you did the best you could.’’

‘‘I should have done more. I wish now I had.’’ Callie smiled wryly, her hand gripping Olivia’s. ‘‘That’s one of the things about having cancer, you know. It makes you think back over your life, think about what you did, and what you didn’t do. The things you didn’t do hurt the worst, I think. I should have married again, I should have had more children. And I should have done better by you.’’

‘‘Aunt Callie . . .’’ At the regret in the older woman’s voice, Olivia’s hand tightened around hers. ‘‘Sometimes I think things work out the way they’re supposed to no matter what we do. If I hadn’t been so rebellious, I wouldn’t have run off with Newall. And if I hadn’t run off with Newall, I wouldn’t have Sara. And Sara is the best thing that ever happened to me in my life. I don’t regret her, or anything that brought her to me, not for one instant.’’

‘‘I’m glad to hear you say that, dear. It makes me feel better.’’ Callie smiled a little tremulously. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

A white Mazda Miata, its convertible top up, burst past the shrouding trees and hedges at the base of the lawn, and sped up the driveway with a swoosh of tires. As it passed them to disappear behind the house, Callie blinked, sniffed, released Olivia’s hand, and stood up, suddenly brisk. ‘‘Well, there’s certainly nothing to be gained by making ourselves maudlin, is there? Here’s Mallory, with Chloe. I think I’ll just go in and see how the shopping expedition went. You come on in when you’re ready.’’

‘‘I will.’’ Olivia stayed in her rocker, watching as Callie went inside. She had wondered, since finding out about Callie’s illness, how much of her cheerful let’sget-on-with-it attitude was assumed. Now that she had been given a glimpse into the well of fear and pain and regret concealed beneath Callie’s prosaic manner, she could only respect her aunt more. Callie was coping with cancer the way she had coped with every other blow she had suffered in life, by simply keeping on keeping on. In Olivia’s opinion, that was courage.

The rain had stopped, although thunderheads still loomed like great purple mountains in the sky. The sound of water dripping from the eaves was soothing. Insects hummed, birds called. Silvery puddles lay amidst puffs of steam on the lawn. The peacocks emerged from the shrubbery near the bluff to pick their way across the grass, no doubt greedy for the worms the rain always forced from the ground in droves. Olivia watched the birds idly, her fingers once again resting on the glass-fronted picture in her lap. The gentle creak of the rocking chair as she moved back and forth brought with it a feeling of peace.