Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (5 page)

“South,” she said.

I looked into the sky and smiled.

When we arrived home, Dad and I walked into the kitchen like total strangers who were none too happy about sharing the same space. Though it was only 10:45 in the morning, he pulled a glass and a bottle of liquor from the cupboard and sat down at the table. “Cecelia, I want to talk with you, and I . . .”

I turned away and went upstairs to my bedroom.

After opening the window as wide as it could go, I flopped on the bed. A warm breeze washed over me, and with it came thoughts of Momma. I wondered what that brief interval between life and death was like. Did her life flash before her eyes? Did she see the face of Jesus? Was she in heaven like the preacher had said, or was Momma’s place in the afterworld a giant-size Goodwill store packed with pageant dresses, prom gowns, and thousands of dyed-to-match shoes—all of them in her size?

Did heaven have a special place reserved for people who were mentally ill, or, if you were mentally ill and died, did you automatically get well? With my hands clutched beneath my chin, I said a prayer. “Dear God, I’m so sorry my mother died. I hope it’s not my fault. I was mad at her for a long time, and when I wished she was dead awhile ago, I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t. She wasn’t very happy, and I think maybe she’s better off with you. If she’s not already there, will you help her find her way to heaven? She’s not very good at directions.”

I also prayed heaven didn’t have any beauty pageants.

I woke with a start, feeling sweaty and disoriented. When I rolled over and got a glimpse of the clock on my nightstand, it was 12:55 in the afternoon. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and scooted to the edge of the bed.

While I was buckling my shoes I heard the crunch of gravel. From my bedroom window I watched the most beautiful car I’d ever seen roll to a stop. It was a shiny plum red with a white convertible top and a big, gleaming chrome grill. The afternoon sun sent fireworks of light sparking off the hood ornament—a miniature silver angel with open wings and her arms stretched out in front of her, palms forward, as if she were ready to push aside anything that dared get in her way. The driver’s side door opened and a round little woman slid from the seat. She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, and on her head was a matching hat with a long, brown-speckled feather sprouting from its side.

The squeak of the screen door sounded as my dad stepped onto the porch. “Tallulah? I can’t believe it. You drove all the way up from Georgia?”

She came across the lawn at a brisk clip. “Yes, I surely did. And this has been an ill-fated trip from the get-go. Traffic was just awful. I spent the night in Columbus and planned on being here early this morning, but I ended up out in the country. Someplace called Or-well. But anyway, here I am. I’m sorry I missed the funeral, Carl. Was there a big turnout?”

Dad didn’t answer that question.

Moments later I heard her soft murmuring from the living room. Dad spoke in clipped consonants and hard-edged vowels that bumped into walls and faded before I could make out exactly what he’d said. I knew they were talking about Momma, but the last few days had worn me out and I didn’t want to think about her anymore. I closed the door, lay on my bed, and read
Treasure Island
.

After reading several chapters, I looked at the clock. More than an hour had passed and they were still talking. I slid off the bed and soundlessly opened the door.

“I wish I knew. Maybe she tripped,” Dad said with a groan. “Or maybe she—”

“Carl, from what you’re telling me, I think Camille suffered from psychosis.”

I retreated into my bedroom and pulled out my dictionary. My chest felt heavy when I read:

I stared at those words for a long time and whispered, “Genetic inheritance.”

Dad and the woman began raising their voices. I closed the dictionary, tiptoed into the hallway, and knelt by the railing.

“This isn’t my fault, Tallulah. And I—”

“Hush up before Cecelia hears you,” she scolded. “This is a tragedy we might never come to understand. I knew something wasn’t right years ago when Camille stopped answering my letters. She never even cashed the checks I sent for Cecelia’s birthday. Then, when Taylor passed away, I was so grief-stricken that I just wasn’t thinking straight. But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t call and tell me about all this.”

“What could you have done, Tallulah? Nothing.”

There was a long moment of silence, and the little woman’s voice softened when she said, “All right, let’s put all that aside for now and get back to Cecelia. That poor child has had twelve years ripped out of her life. There’s no telling what she’s seen and endured. It breaks my heart just to think of it. So please, give my offer some serious thought, Carl. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

“Okay, I’ll call you tonight. Where are you staying?”

“Portman Inn. I’ll be expecting your call by eight o’clock. I mean it, Carl, what’s done is done—we’ve both got to let it go or it’ll eat us alive. All that matters now is that Cecelia is taken care of properly. This is your chance to do right by your daughter. Without love and guidance there’s no telling what will become of her. I certainly hope you’re wise enough to understand
exactly
what I’m saying.”

They stepped out to the front porch, and a moment later I heard the roar of the car’s engine. I raced down the steps and arrived at the front window just in time to see her vanish around the corner.

Dad walked inside the house, his face as red as a beet. Beneath his arms circles of sweat stained his shirt. When he saw me standing by the window, he pointed toward a chair. “Cecelia, sit down. We need to talk.”

I sat and clamped my hands between my knees as he walked across the room and stood by the fireplace. “Your great-aunt Tallulah was just here. She’s your grandmother’s sister, on your mother’s side.”

“Tallulah? I’ve never even heard of her.”

“She and her sister, Lucille, came up here once when you were a baby, but you were too young to remember. Your grandmother had a falling out with both of her sisters. She stopped talking to them before I met your mother.”

“Why?”

“All I know is that your great-grandfather owned a jewelry store. When he passed away, Tallulah and Lucille wanted to keep it in the family, but your grandmother, Bernice, wanted to sell it. Things went downhill after that.”

“Cecelia, I want you to listen to me.” Dad looked out the window and took a long, slow breath. “With your mother dying and me traveling for my job, things have got to change. All your grand-parents are gone, and other than my cousin Judd, the only relatives left are Tallulah and Lucille.”

Every nerve in my body snapped to attention. “So what does this have to do with me?”

He never even looked at me when he said. “Tallulah asked if you’d like to go down to Savannah, Georgia.”

“For how long? You mean for summer vacation?”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck and began to pace. “No, I mean . . . I mean to live with her. Permanently.”

My stomach dropped. Time stalled. A rush of blood thundered in my ears.
He’s sending me away? Momma’s gone and now he wants me gone too?

I looked up at him. “Live with her?”

“Tallulah’s a fine woman. I think it’ll do you good to get out of this town and have a fresh start. This is the best solution for everybody. And—”

I shook my head. “No. I’ll go live with Mrs. Odell.”

Dad pushed his hands into his pockets. “I know she’s important to you, but think how hard it would be on her if you moved into her house. Mrs. Odell is over eighty years old. Besides, in Savannah, you’d have a new school and new friends.”

What an idiot. How can I have new friends when I don’t have any old ones?
I glared at him, wishing he’d vaporize into a puff of smoke.

The muscles in his jaw tightened. “C’mon, CeeCee, don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to do the right thing here. And I—”

I rose from the chair and walked to the front window, my ankles weak and my throat so full with hurt that I couldn’t swallow.

Across the street two girls from my class at school were walking down the sidewalk. They stopped and looked at our house, and I could tell by the way they leaned their heads together and talked that they’d heard about Momma’s death—red shoes, tiara, Happy Cow Ice Cream truck, and all. Most likely the whole town was talking about it. Eventually stories of my mother’s final day would be distorted by the countless mouths that repeated them, of that I was certain.

I leaned my forehead against the windowpane and closed my eyes.

Dad’s voice sounded like it was a million miles away when he said, “One day you’ll thank me for this. Believe me, you will.”

He reached out and touched my shoulder, but I shrugged him away.

The heaviness of his footsteps shook the floorboards as he walked away. I heard him grab a beer from the refrigerator, and a moment later, the screen door slapped closed behind him.

I stood at the window in a foggy stupor of confusion and disbelief. I’d never even spent the night away from home before, and now here I was, about to move far away and live with someone I didn’t even know. And I had not one word of say-so in the matter. Momma had been gone for only three days, and already I was facing the single biggest lesson of my life: death changes everything.

Later that afternoon, Dad came banging up the stairs with an old brown suitcase. “It’s all set,” he said, walking into my bedroom and avoiding my eyes. “Tallulah will come get you tomorrow morning,” he muttered, hoisting the suitcase onto the bed.

“But what about my books?” I said, pointing to the stacks of books lined up on the floor across from my bed. It had been a while since I counted them, but there had to be at least two hundred.

Dad hadn’t set foot inside my room for years, and he stared at the books with a blank expression on his face. “Where’d you get all those books?

“Every year the library has a sale. Ten books for a dollar. Mrs. Odell buys me books too.”

“You’ve read those books?”

“Yes. I’ve read some of them two or three times.”

“Now, wait a minute,” he said, rubbing the crease in his forehead. “You’re telling me you’ve read
all
those damn books?”

I nodded but didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.
How dare he call them “damn books”?
A raw hurt burned in my belly, and I wanted to tell him that he obviously didn’t know a
damn
thing about me.

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Well, we can’t ask Tallulah to haul all those books to Savannah. So pick out a few of your favorites. The rest I’ll have to give away.”

“No. You can’t do that.” I pulled my report card from the drawer in my nightstand and shoved it toward him. “Those books helped me do
this
.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and scanned down the column of grades. “You got As—in
everything
?”

I didn’t know why he was so shocked. He’d never once bothered to look at any of my report cards, so what was he expecting?

“Well,” he said, placing my report card on the bed, “you’re a smart girl. You should be proud of yourself. I never got As. Anyway, I’ll get a box from the basement and you can pack it up with a few of your favorite books, but only one box.”

My hands began to shake, and the words “I hate you” tumbled out of my mouth.

We stood and looked at each other until the room grew so quiet I could hear the air move through the window screen.

Dad gave me a tired look and nodded. “I don’t blame you.” When he walked out the door, I heard him mutter, “If I were you, I’d hate me too.”

The truth fell on me like a piano. Though I had no idea what lay ahead, there was one thing I knew for sure: wherever I was going, it had to be better than where I was.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through all my books. Every time I set one aside in the pile to be left behind, I felt numb with anger. Finally I selected my favorites and packed them into the box:
The Chronicles of Narnia
,
Gulliver’s Travels
, and every Nancy Drew book I had.

Later that night, Dad left the house, saying he’d be back in an hour or so. After he pulled out of the driveway, I walked down the hall and stood outside my mother’s bedroom door. The house was so still and hushed, I could hear the ticking of the clock by her bed. Slowly I reached out, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. I stood for a moment and peered into the shadowy darkness, then I stepped inside and turned on a light.

Her bedroom was a perfume-scented battlefield. Above all else, it was a testimony to her illness. The mirror above the vanity table was cracked in half. Hair rollers and tubes of lipstick were scattered across the floor like spent bullet casings—all of them sad reminders of Momma’s long-fought interior war. Deep within the grooves of the dull wood floor, I could still see remnants of the talcum powder she’d hurled across the room, and the vision of it exploding in the air made a lump rise in my throat.

From the cedar chest I removed her scrapbook and slowly leafed through the pages, touching my mother’s most precious memories—memories that were smeared by fingerprints and dulled by the passage of time.

The bed was covered with mounds of her favorite dresses—a sorrowful pastel landscape of rumpled chiffon and taffeta. I gathered a handful of hangers, and one by one I hung each dress in the closet, smoothing out the wrinkles as best as I could. When I finished, I stepped back.