The first few show nothing more than red crayon scribbles. But as the dates progress over the next two years, my talent emerges and the compositions transition to finger paints, pastels, and watercolors. As I flip through the pages, I realize the illustrations tell a story. I’m alone in the upstairs hall calling for Trudy. My mother, with angry face and halo of golden hair, is wagging a finger at me. In another one, I’m peeking from behind a door. In another, I’m staring down from a rain-soaked window as Layla, in a red rain slicker and matching boots, skips off hand in hand with another little girl. The child’s name comes to me out of the blue. Sally.
Warmth spreads throughout my body as I study the pastel drawing of me curled up in a ball in the cavity of Dad’s desk. This I remember. Before and after my mother’s death, I spent a great deal of time at my father’s feet, reading books and coloring, protected from my sister.
The last in the file is a watercolor in shades of reds and pinks. The faint scent of gardenias causes an explosion of red to go off inside my head, and I scramble under the desk. Voices surround me. Layla’s. Trudy’s. My daddy’s. One I don’t recognize—it must be mama’s. Some are shouting. Some speak to me in threatening tones. But their words are too jumbled for me to understand. I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes tight. There’s something or someone else there, beyond the red. I dig deep in my brain, but I can’t remember who or what it is. The red dissipates and I open my eyes wide.
My mother died from an accident that happened inside this house. I’ve always assumed she fell down the stairs. Did someone push her? Maybe I pushed her. That would explain why my subconscious blocked it out and why my dad refused to talk about it.
I fall asleep under the desk, and in my dreams, my sketches come alive, playing over and over in my mind. When I wake to the first rays of pink sunlight streaming through the window, my sister’s venomous tone from my dreams is still echoing in my mind. “You’d better not tell.”
Better not tell what, Layla?
Crawling out from beneath the desk, I gather the sketches and stuff the file into the drawer, making sure to lock it. I fold Dad’s letter into my pocket and go to the kitchen where I find Trudy making inventory of the funeral casseroles in our freezer.
“Tell me the truth, Trudy. How did my mother die?”
“Oh, Lord.” She slammed the freezer door shut. “Your father warned me you’d be asking some hard questions. Sit down. Let me fix you some breakfast.”
When she palms my cheek, I brush her hand away. “I don’t want breakfast. I want answers.”
“Don’t get sassy with me, young lady. Sit.” She jabs her finger at the table, and I sit.
“Coffee only, please.”
“Coffee it is.” She fills a mug from the carafe, adds a splash of cream, and places it on the table in front of me. She sits down in the chair on the other side of the table. “Talk to me.”
I explain about Dad leaving me the key to his desk. I tell her about the drawings and show her the letter. “Why did I need to see a shrink after my mother died? And why is her death an off-limits subject in this household?”
A pained expression crosses her face. “Losing your mama was traumatic for all of us, but mostly for you. You became withdrawn, and you had horrible nightmares. We know you were in the house when your mama died, and we know something bad happened to you that day. But we don’t know what. Only that it was something so terrible your mind blocked it out.”
No wonder my soul is tortured. “It would help if I knew how she died. Did I push my mother down the stairs?”
Trudy’s neck snaps as she jerks her head back. “What? Where’d you get that cockamamie idea?”
“I’m not sure.” I rub my chin until my skin is raw. There’s a memory floating off in the distance, but I can’t reach it. “All my life, I’ve had this feeling, this burden of guilt, that whatever happened to my mother was somehow my fault.”
“You were a dear, sweet child. You weren’t capable of violence.”
I give her a hard stare. “Then how did she die?”
Trudy looks away from me. “I can’t tell you. Dr. Hudson says it’s better if you remember on your own.”
“Were you in the house when it happened?”
Trudy’s chin trembles and her eyes fill with tears. “I was at a teacher’s conference at my daughter’s school. By the time I got here, it was too late.”
“What else can you . . . will you tell me?”
She shakes her head. “I promised your daddy I wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“Why now, Trudy? Why is it so important that I remember now?”
“Your daddy always hoped you’d remember in your own time.” Trudy wipes her tears with a napkin. “But he got desperate when he found out he was dying. He worried that, with him out of the picture, you and Layla would be lost to each other forever. Like he says in his letter, he was convinced you would never make your peace with your sister until you remember the events of your mama’s death. He wanted so much for the two of you to mend your relationship.”
“That’s nothing new. He was always trying to get Layla and me to make nice.” He made me feel guilty for not calling my sister or visiting her in Atlanta. On Layla’s rare trips home, he planned corny family outings that always ended up with one of us mad at the other.
“Being broke complicates the situation,” I add. “I’m sure he realized we’d fight over selling the house.” I get up from the table and pour myself another cup of coffee. “Did you know about his money problems?”
“He never mentioned a word. I’m not surprised, though. Your daddy was a proud man. Be just like him to carry a secret like that to his grave.”
“Look where that pride got us,” I mumble and leave the room knowing little more than I did thirty minutes ago.
Returning to Dad’s study, I carefully examine each of his many Hemingway novels. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Another note from my father? A hidden meaning in the words themselves? A treasure map pointing me to more clues. When I learn nothing from Hemingway, I tear through Dad’s office like a maniac. There are hundreds of books by other authors lining the shelves. I give each a quick once-over before tossing it onto the growing pile on the floor.
By the time I finish my search, my blouse is soaked through with perspiration and my frustration has morphed into annoyance. “What the heck, Dad? It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just told me what you want me to know.”
It dawns on me that while Trudy won’t give anything away, there’s someone who might.
I text Marcus. I need to see you. Can you spare a few minutes?
He responds immediately. I’ll meet you at the fountain in Waterfront Park in 15. Should I grab some coffees?
None for me. I’ve had too much caffeine already.
I leave the house without a jacket, but it’s warm out. Warmer than it should be in early October. I racewalk up East Bay Street and cut over on Tradd Street to the waterfront. When I reach the fountain, I crouch down and dip my fingers into the cool water. The fountain bears the pineapple motif—the symbol of hospitality found all over the city. It was erected in the spring of 1990, six months after Hurricane Hugo devastated much of the Lowcountry. I vaguely remember the destruction from the hurricane. The debris in the streets and having to stand in long lines for supplies. Oddly, I recall it being a happy time. We had strangers living in our house. My mother was always in a good mood. And I felt close to another woman. Was that woman Alice?