CHAPTER ELEVEN
“A Time to Heal.”
Guilt persisted. It struck with vicious precision,
scattering what peace I’d managed to scrounge amid desolation. My
head reminded me of Dr. Jordess’ counsel, that I’d had Krissie’s
best interests in mind when I sent her to her death. Logically, I
knew that was true.
My heart said something else entirely.
“Neecy,” Kirk held out the phone to me several
weeks after the accident, “this is Mr. Greene, the conductor on the
train. He wants to talk to – ”
“No – ” I backed away, shaking my head. I wanted no
details.
“Please, Neecy,” Kirk’s eyes pleaded with me, “he
wants to say – ”
“I’m sorry – I can’t.” I spun around and fled the
room.
The unknown terrified me. I had nightmares that
Krissie had been mutilated from the waist down. So I avoided any
mention of specifics except with Kirk.
“She only had one injury,” he kept insisting,
“here.” He’d point to that spot behind his left ear.
But what if no one had told him? Cynicism
persisted. That my fears had no true basis didn’t stop them. In the
earliest nightmares, I was Krissie, frozen before the roaring train
whose whistle shrilled as its mammoth spotlight swirled, swirled
toward me.... I would awake suddenly, jackknifed in bed, heart
pounding and breath shallow, feeling her terror and pain in
death’s jaws.
In those dark pre-dawn hours, the maternal-me
screamed out against the monstrous visions. Those trusting blue
eyes.... My arms ached to hold my little girl, to soothe and
comfort her.
But I’d failed her.
I prayed.
God heard.
Seemed every time reality became too much,
something would happen to balance out flesh and spirit. On an
upstate visit to Dad and Anne’s, we stayed up late, talking and
simply loving one another. The next morning, Kirk arose early and
went with Dad on one of their male-bonding drives. Still tired,
I decided to lie back down while Anne went to the grocery store. I
soon drifted off to sleep.
I began to dream. Yet – I knew right away this was
no ordinary dream. I saw Krissie moving toward me...not actually
walking, more like gliding. She was smiling. The vision was so
crystal clear, the blue in her eyes glimmered and her teeth
sparkled like sunshine spattered snow.
“Please, God,” I breathed a prayer, “let me hold
her, feel her.”
Then she was in my arms and I embraced her in a
warm snug hug, closing my eyes and thanking God for the
privilege.
Presently, she moved back, just enough that I
looked directly into her eyes and pure gratification shot straight
to my heart, then filled me to overflowing. Suddenly, her features
were aglow and this luminous glow extended beyond her face, forming
a halo effect, encircling her entire upper body.
Ahh, the sweet smile.
Krissie began to talk, chatter-box fast, as though
trying to cram as much into our time as possible...”I didn’t
have trouble – you know, with breathing. It wasn’t like that at
all, Mama!”
Thank God. “But Krissie,” I moaned, “if I’d
only kept you home that day – ”
“Mama, you can’t go on feeling this way. It was
my time, don’t you see?”
“No,” I groaned, “you’d still be alive if – ”
“Please, Mama, don’t.” The smile softened
and the eyes turned so compassionate it made my breath hitch. “I
love you so and I don’t want you to feel bad. I made the choices
that day, not you. Promise me you’ll stop blaming yourself.”
How mature she talked.
I began to weep. “Promise?” Her head tilted
slightly and the smile charmed.
“Yes, honey. I promise.”
“Good. Now we’ll both have peace.” The
emphatic words and unwavering smile began to reassure me. She
continued to talk of comforting, happy things while the brilliance
of her features grew ever brighter until she disappeared behind
it.
I struggled to see her, the desire so great I
nearly wept aloud and once more, she emerged through the glow. I
drank in the sight of the joyful face, radiant with love.
The soft glow grew and shimmered again, until the
sight of her quickly diminished from view. Power, like a pleasant
electrical jolt, surged through my body.
Jubilation opened my mouth to thank God for the
vision. The words that poured from me were in that now familiar,
yet unknown rhetoric, a flowing, beautiful language. And as I
hovered there in the trance zone, between sleep and wakefulness, a
deep male voice, like many waters, thundered, “Let this be a
sign unto you. This is from God.”
In the next breath, I was fully awake, sitting
upright, flooded with a curious warmth and supreme comfort.
Beyond any doubt the future would offer, beyond all
cynicism hovering behind darkness, I knew I had two visitors: My
child, who, in her own words, revealed she had not suffered in her
final moments and absolved me of guilt, and the comforter:
the Holy Spirit.
“Callie, stay and eat supper with us,” I coaxed as
she gathered her purse from under her desk and when she hesitated,
I threw in, “I’m frying chicken.”
‘Aw, oka-ay,” she laughed and slung her purse strap
over her padded shoulder. “You know I can’t resist your chicken,
Neece.”
“Yup.” And I couldn’t resist having her around to
talk to. I’d gone from not wanting to talk to a desperation to
vent. And few could hang in there with me. Only Anne and Callie.
Not even Kirk. He could for short treks but not for the long haul.
It was Anne who took me to talk with the rescuers who’d found
Krissie’s lifeless form on the riverbank, whom I’d asked, “was
there any pulse? Did anyone try to resuscitate her?” Anne who held
me and wept with me when the answer was ‘no, we didn’t feel it was
safe to move her.’ It was Callie who called Mr. Jones, the funeral
home director and handed me the phone to ask, “Did Krissie sustain
any injuries other than the head wound?” And when he answered, “no,
Mrs. Crenshaw, Krissie never knew what hit her. Her death was
instantaneous,” Callie held me and silently celebrated with me that
it had been so.
Kirk fought his own battles. His strategy was to
snub and ignore the fact of. Mine was to probe, dissect and analyze
until
it neutralized to bearable. Neither tactic superceded the
other. Ours became an unspoken respect for the other’s
method.
Today, I needed Cal. And so she dined with us and
afterward, when Kirk and Heather departed to the convalescent home
with the Tree of Life Youth Group for their monthly service, she
stayed to visit for a while longer.
“How’s my boy?” Callie asked a listless Toby,
plopping beside him on the sofa and giving him a warm hug. “Mom
said you came home early from school today. What’s wrong?”
“My tummy hurt,” Toby murmured, watching the
television with dull eyes.
“His teacher said he complained of not feeling well
and appeared tired and inattentive,” I explained. “She called us to
come pick him up.”
“Heather okay?” Callie kicked off her heels and
curled long bronze legs under her.
“She cries a lot. Oh, not in front of us, but I see
her red eyes. And during the night, she crawls in bed beside me and
sleeps there until morning. Other times, she’ll disappear for hours
and I find her in Krissie’s room, dressing Krissie’s Barbie dolls
or looking at her pictures.”
Then there were the times I’d find her sitting
quietly near her sister’s grave, under the shade of the graceful
oak. I understood her need for solitude and granted it.
“Mama,” Toby arose and motioned me to follow him to
his room, where he stretched out on his bed, then curled over on
his side into fetal position.
“I dream about Krissie, Mama,” he said softly,
staring morosely at nothing. “She always came over to speak to me
at recess. I miss her.” A tear slid down across his freckled
nose.
This had been Krissie’s last year of elementary
school. She’d bubbled with anticipation when speaking of junior
high next fall.
“Mama – I feel kinda...you know – funny.”
“About what?” I suspected his feelings related to
last night’s dream of Krissie.
“Well...I wish I could go to Heaven and be with
her.”
Bingo.
“But – God isn’t ready for you to go now, Toby,” I
explained gently. “Only those picked carefully by God, like Krissie
and Zach, are privileged to go to Heaven so early in life. We
don’t always understand why He calls some so soon but – your time
will come later. God still has things for you to do here.”
He solemnly nodded his head. How he missed his
little mother-hen sister. But he still believed God knew best. My
faith had been tossed about like a rag doll in a pit bull’s jaws,
at times barely coming out intact. Yet – Toby’s held firm. I
tenderly laced my fingers with his.
A little child shall lead them.
I sat there beside him, holding his limp hand,
until his lids drooped in slumber.
“Let’s have another baby, Janeece.” Kirk moved to
stand behind me at the sink and slid his strong arms around me as I
drained the water out and wiped the surface dry.
This wasn’t a new topic. Had been batted around for
days, in fact. Initially, I’d not thought Kirk would persevere,
that his urge to procreate, as other phases of grief, would pass.
But when Heather and Toby joined him in his persuasion efforts, I
began to slowly relent. First, I had to neutralize the obstacle
between conception and me: apprehension.
Complications during and following Toby’s birth
still haunted me. A possible recurrence of allergic drug reactions,
muscle problems and resultant post-partum depression spooked me.
But I’d been thinking more and more about Lamaze, the new natural
childbirth procedure I’d used eruditely during my three previous
labors. The process would eliminate scary threats.
I turned into Kirk’s arms and gazed up at him,
allowing the image of procreation to stir anticipation within me.
“If you’ll locate a Lamaze clinic within traveling distance, I’ll
do it.”
Kirk’s gratitude glimmered from green depths for a
long moment before he reverently took my face in his hands and
kissed me “Thank you, honey.”
Two days later, Sunday, Tillie Dawson ambushed to
me as I entered the church sanctuary. “I’ve found a Lamaze clinic,
Neecy,” she bubbled, gripping my hands so tightly my fingers
tingled. “Doctor Jennings does Lamaze at Summerville Medical
Center.” I didn’t mind that Kirk had incorporated others to
search out a solution. Was, in fact, glad. Because now, I felt a
surge of something closer to joy than I’d felt in weeks.
Another sentiment regenerated: anticipation.
Sometime in the wee hours, I’d lain awake thinking about Krissie’s
maternal leanings, so obvious in her love of babies and her ability
to calm unruly children with softly spoken words and a smile. Few
little ones could resist her charm.
“You’re a natural born mother, Krissie.” How
many times I’d told her that and seen her beaming response. How I’d
looked forward to sharing her joy of motherhood. So much left
undone....
“Mama, I don’t know if I want to be a missionary
anymore. I want lots and lots of kids and kids might not like
growing up in Africa.”
In those twilight hours, a higher wisdom came to
me: a new life would fill our family’s need to love and be
loved. And while Krissie could not be replaced, the small
life brought forth could, in a sense, replace the child she was not
privileged to bear.
This would not only be our child: It would also be
Krissie’s baby.
Insemination posed no problem. Within six weeks, I
bore symptoms of pregnancy. On one level, I exulted in bearing this
new life, my focus trance-like in purpose, moving through the
initial nausea that racked me round the clock, never complaining,
glorying in it because the chemical change would, eventually,
deliver a babe into my arms to hold and croon to. The craving to
love and be loved leaped into being and was as instinctive as my
next breath. It burned in my bosom.
On another level entirely, I remained as gaunt and
numb as the day Krissie left us. The zombie-me neutralized all
anxieties in tandem with childbearing. A strange coupling it was,
the Zombie and the Zealot, one at which, in retrospect, I’ve
marveled. This mystical coalition, in the end, carted me to
fruition.
While the Zombie remained the in control
part of my psyche, the Zealot posed a whole new set of
quandaries. During fecundation, my hormones soared and raged
and demanded touch and feel. My skin screamed for Kirk’s
slightest brush of flesh, a desire that, previously, would have
delighted him. Only now, breeding complete, his libido took a
nosedive.
“It’s not you, Neecy. I desire you more than ever,”
he whispered to me time after time, tears glimmering in the silver
glow of night. “Grief has affected me, too. Only thing is – I can’t
perform and you can.” He would hold me then, not realizing that
just the touch of his skin sent me into spirals of clawing
want.
When I’d groan and pull myself from his grasp, his
tortured, “I’m so sorry, honey,” cut straight into my
heart.
I understood. But perception did not assuage the
piercing, gnawing sexual hunger inside me for the next nine months,
and there were times, in the wee hours, when war raged over
which was the more responsible for my silent tears: sorrow
or desire.
Our friends Callie and Moose joined the church
choir and I was delighted to discover that Cal was a marvelous
contralto soprano. Her strong voice supported the soprano section
so well the females fairly preened over their new sound. And while
Moose’s baritone wasn’t as forceful as Callie’s, it helped drown
out Nick Clemmon’s off-key caterwauling.
Nick – my inheritance – was of the family clan who
believed fully in blood being thicker’n water. Asking him to leave
was tantamount to treason. I wasn’t about to challenge them on
it.
So before my choir did special selections, I asked
God to sorta adjust the electronic and human sound systems so only
harmony was heard. A tall request, even for the Almighty. But I
persisted, clutching the hem of his garment, at times certain I was
dragged along behind Him wailing and pleading while He moved ahead
to see to more critical issues. He took pity on me and, apparently,
blocked out some of the dissonance because invitations to
perform at numerous civic and church functions continued to pour
in.
Then, before Sunday afternoon Homecoming
festivities at nearby Pleasant Brook Baptist Church, God answered
my SOS in another way. “What is it, Nick?” I asked, concerned about
his pale, distressful face.
“I’m sorry – but I can’t help you today. His golden
eyes were as mournful as a cocker spaniel’s. “I got laryngitis,” he
announced in a squeaky croak. “I can’t sing a lick!”
“I’m sorry, too, Nick,” I said, surprised that I
meant it. “Tell you what,” I leaned close and whispered, “Come on
with us and just move your lips while we sing.”
His face brightened. “Think we’ll fool ‘em?”
“I’m sure we will.”
We did.
Sarah Beauregard planted herself before me in the
vestibule as parishioners swept past to speak to the robed pastor
outside on the white sun-washed portico. I had not been swift or
smart enough to dodge the encounter and so, resigned myself with
lips stretched into my pastor’s wife smile.
Sarah’s rheumatic, scarlet-tipped talons seized my
wrist as she inclined herself forward until her nose almost met
mine and my torso instinctively curved away. Beady eyes glittered,
belying her softly spoken words, “You know, Miz Crenshaw, this baby
you’re carrying won’t take the place of Krissie.”
My smile instantly dissolved and my gaze narrowed.
“I never entertained the thought that Krissie could be
replaced.”
Her black gaze slanted, as in skeptical and as in
disparage. “And it might not be a girl – I know you’re hoping for
one. I’d just hate to see you disappointed.”
Anger, pure and blazing white, shot through me.
Why, she’d be delighted to see me disappointed, over
anything. I wrenched my wrist free, stepped back and spoke
so fervently the words came out on a hiss. “Of all people,
I know my Krissie could never be replaced.” I took a deep
breath, opened my mouth to say “How dare you!” then clamped
it shut. No use causing a scene, especially when several folk,
seeing my stricken features, had slowed to eavesdrop.
I considered my Christian position and the
scriptural woe unto those who caused a little one to
stumble. I’d long ago suspected that most converts freeze into that
little one phase for an interminable length of time. Few
advanced to maturity until donkey-kicked by the devil so many times
they figured – duh! – it’s wise to climb on up. I stepped
back, composed my features into a sickly mime of patience and
managed a passable exit line. “Thank you for your – concern.
Please, excuse me,” I said,
then abruptly turned and hightailed a distance between myself and
the bearer of angst.
I was halfway across the church lawn, aimed for the
parsonage, when Kaye Tessner caught my sleeve. “Neecy – wait up,”
she huffed breathlessly from her sprint.
I stopped and turned to face her, barely
controlling my tears of indignation and hurt.
“I heard everything,” Kaye said and took me in her
arms. “That ol’ biddy,” she growled. “I just knew she was up
to something, waylaying you like that.”
I clamped my teeth together to stem threatening
tears. I would not allow that woman to reduce me to
blubbering. “I’m okay,” I gave her a wobbly smile, “But thanks,
Kaye.”
“Hey,” she narrowed her silvery-gray eyes, “if she
says anything else like that to you, just let me know. I’ll
straighten her out.” All the while, her slender nurse’s fingers
gently rubbed my arms and her porcelain features, framed by loose
mahogany curls, looked absolutely angelic to me in that
moment.
“Hey, Neecy!” Callie swaggered comically up to us.
“How about our choir special, huh! Did we pin that number or
what?” She first gave me a big five, then Kaye.
“You nailed it, Callie,” Kaye captured her
hand and held onto it knowing by now that Cal slipped away as
gustily as she came on. “You should make a tape. You’re
good, girl.”
“Aww, go on.” Callie pulled her hand loose,
shuffled her feet and looked away.
“I can’t believe you’re blushing.” I laughed and
hugged her. “You should, you know.”
“What?” Callie’s gaze kicked back to mine,
chocolate eyes wide.
“Cut a tape.”
“Stop it, you two!” She turned on her heel
and retreated, shaking her loosely waved ebony mane, muttering,
“quit that.” I had to grin at Cal, the ol’ hooligan’s newfound
modesty.
“Chicken!” I yelled after her, drawing some
curious looks from stragglers but for once, didn’t care. I was
having fun and it felt good.
“What?” she shot me a slit-eyed appraisal over her
shoulder.
“Fried,” I called nonchalantly, hugged Kaye ‘bye’
and turned for home.
I heard Cal’s footsteps fall in with mine. “Thanks
for the invitation.”
I linked my arm to hers, sliding into our yoke of
familiarity. To heck with Sarah’s sorry-placed banality.
“You’re welcome.”
I’d known pregnancy’s hormonal terrain would
stretch my equanimity, but knowledge did not prepare me for the
abruptness with which it came. Within weeks, surging chemical highs
and lows jerked me around like MawMaw’s first agitator washing
machine, churning my mood from serenity to ballistic in a moment’s
span. And yet, the tiny ember nestling inside my womb fed my will
to get on with the future. Not every second and not on every level,
but the conscious-me finally grabbed a fragile lifeline.
Overall, everybody was pleased that Kirk and I
expected another addition to our family. Outside Sarah’s
insensitive remark, only my father appeared apprehensive. It
surfaced during a visit.
“I can’t believe you actually shut down that
shop of yours,” I shrieked and flung myself into his arms when he
showed up with Anne on my doorsteps one Friday night. “Law, what’s
gon’ happen?”
“They’ll wait on me. Least, most of ‘em will,” he
kissed the top of my head as I squeezed his lanky ribcage and
blissfully shut my eyes. “Anyway, they know all about what you’ve
gone through and I’d been telling them I was planning on sneaking
off one weekend.”
“C’mon in, I’m cooking supper – hope you can eat
spaghetti, Daddy.” It wasn’t his favorite entree by a long shot. He
was a bona-fide meat and potatoes man, my Dad, actually light on
the meat and long on veggies. Mainly because it lay easier on his
sensitive stomach, a trait passed on to at least half his
kids.
“Long as it don’t have too much hot stuff in it,
else it’ll bother my stomach.”
“No hot stuff a’tall. Only a speck of
Worcestershire sauce.” A couple tablespoons. “I don’t tolerate
chili powder too much
myself, you know.” Lordy, talk about two peas in a pod. I was a
mite uneasy with all the similarities surfacing. “Especially
now.”
He drew himself up to his slender six-foot-one and
peered down at me. “You all right?”
His concern sorta ruffled my insulation.
Ordinarily, it would’ve been comforting, but now, it bordered on
prying. And censor.
“Daddy, you don’t seem too happy about the baby,” I
mumbled, turning away to stir the sauce, fighting the danged angst
that hovered like a vulture over a still warm carcass.
“I’m just worried about you, Neecy, is all.
You’re not real strong right now and – ” he shrugged and gave a
lop-sided Daddy rendition of a pained grin, “you know me. I worry
because you’ve always been a bit frail.” He put his arm around my
shoulder as I stood at my stove, adding a bit more salt and garlic
powder, wanting to bristle at his claim but knowing any illusion of
a pink-cheeked, robust self-image had been blown to smithereens by
a host of allergies from hay fever to hives.
Still... “I’m not that fragile, Daddy. I’ve
already had three kids, you know.” My words were gentle, yet
firm.
“I know. I know. In some ways, Neecy, you’re one of
the strongest people I know. The bravest. But – you’ll always be my
little girl, honey. And I want you to know that I’m tickled as can
be about the new baby.” He gazed solemnly at me. “You know that,
don’t you?” he asked gently.
I nodded, emotions swirling like snowflakes in a
blizzard... the little girl inside me trying to override the woman
planted at the helm.
He patted my shoulder and gave me a Walter Matthau
no-nonsense appraisal. “Just take care o’ yourself, y’hear?”
I could handle that. “Yep.” I hugged him hugely
until Lynette tackled me around my thickening waist for her portion
of hugs. My baby sis’ russet tendrils and periwinkle eyes were so
Anne it took my breath. “Law, chile, you’re growing up. What
a heartbreaker you’re gon’ be.”
“Can I play with Krissie’s Barbies?” she asked,
knowing that should she ask, she could get my last nickel.
“Sure, Sweetheart.” I took off down the hall to
pull the toys from Krissie’s top closet shelf. I couldn’t bear to
part with
them. Just the week before, Kaye Tessner had offered to help me
pack up Krissie’s things.
“I can’t, Kaye.” I’d fought the urge to explain
myself, but the misery must have shone through.
“Hey, honey, I’m sorry.” Kaye hugged me. “I
understand. I just thought you might – well, some folks say it’s
easier if you get rid of the reminders. What do they know?”
“There is no easier, Kaye. Trust
me.”
Kaye nodded, pushed a limp hair strand from my
cheek and smiled. She was so sweet. So understanding. And she’d
been there for me every waking hour. That day, she took me to eat
at Pete’s Drive-In, where we scarfed down our favorite grilled
chicken livers – with sweet coleslaw and golden crisp fries – a
friendship ritual that barred any mention of a cholesterol payday
up ahead.
“Sure you’re not trying to make me fat?” I
teased.
Kay didn’t smile. “You still got a way to go to
filling out those hollow cheeks, Neece.”
I sighed and ate another fry. I did look gaunt,
even to myself. Despite my expanding waistline.
Tonight, Daddy’s presence secured me as nothing
else recent had. Cole lounged with Heather in her room, quietly
sharing peer experiences, while Toby and Lynette dubbed voices for
dolls vacationing in Barbie’s two-story Dream Country Home. Dale,
quieter than usual, hung out with us ‘old’ folks, usually within my
elbow distance. I knew he missed Krissie dreadfully and while I was
not her, I was his closest connection to her. We all hugged and
touched spontaneously, healing one another with affection.
On Saturday, we piled into cars and drove into
Charleston to dine at Bessinger’s Buffet. whose specialty is a
wonderful barbecue hash. There, we ran into Moose, Roxie and
Callie. Singing in the choir together had forged a tentative bond
between the two females, while their statuesque-ness fashioned yet
another. There, all similarity ended. A good thing, too, because
too much would have caused a nuclear clash. As it was, they
tolerated each other. So, understandably, I was delighted to see
them together and insisted long tables be joined to seat them with
our party, which, with the addition, now numbered an even
dozen.
When I went for seconds of the sinfully rich sweet
potato soufflé – Bessingers’ has the silkiest I’ve ever spooned
into my mouth – Callie shadowed me and whispered, “Have you heard
Sarah’s latest gossip?”
I turned to gaze at her, my heart doing a spiral
dive. “No. What?” Curiosity only slightly overrode dread.
“Says Tillie’s husband Rick is running
around.”
“Oh, no. Please don’t say that.” My pulse shot into
syncopation. I dolloped a spoonful of yams onto my plate. “But –
you can’t believe everything Sarah says.” It came out weak because
while I could attest to Sarah’s being a cocklebur in the seat of
one’s pants, her truthfulness bordered on brutal.
“She told me it came straight from the horse’s
mouth.” Callie slanted me a dubious look. “Whoever the horse
is, I can’t say.”
“You didn’t ask?” Now why did I say that?
Cal’s black eyes sparkled.
“Nah.” She brushed past me to get some rice and
hash gravy. “I didn’t give her the satisfaction.”
Oh Lord. What were we dealing with here? Tillie was
such a – precious, kind person. A bit zany, true. But –
Stop it, Janice Crenshaw. Do-not-believe-gossip. A husband
as good as Rick Dawson would never do such a thing. I loaded up on
just a tiny second portion of zesty smoked barbecue pork and
resolutely put the thing behind me.
Sunday morning at the Crenshaws was an old Marx
Brother’s movie, while bathroom use was musical chairs and hot
water obsolete by the time my nausea subsided enough for me
to stagger into the shower. Cool water tingled over my ever-hot
skin, bringing me around and finally, refreshing me. Strangely, all
that went on inside and around me during those days sorta bypassed
my brain. I couldn’t then and still do not, years later, understand
the invisible bubble that enclosed me or the segmentation that
rewired me so I became someone entirely different.
One part of conscious-me stood aside while the
physicalme hung my head over the toilet bowl to vomit up my
insides. For once, my delicate, oh-so-sensitive mind overrode my
body.
At times, I look back and yearn for that plane of existence. But
it doesn’t come by a snap of the finger nor upon meditating and the
price for it was too, too great.
At that time, however, it saved my sanity and
gained me a new start. A new dawn.
That, I decided, was to be my baby’s name.
Dawn.
“Heavenly Father...hear us as we pray...here at
thine altar, on our wedding day....”
The song, a prayer, floated effortlessly from
Callie’s mouth. Her rich contralto soothed and convinced me that
Moose’s marbles just might still be intact. Roxie, a virginal dream
in white – if one’s gaze didn’t stray below her mini-skirt hem –
actually looked at him as she vowed to “love and to cherish you
from this day forward.” I wanted so much to believe she spoke the
truth.
My solo“If” was done between the prayer and ring
vows.
Poor Moose cried through the whole thing,
obviously daft over his ‘pretty thang.’ I still couldn’t get a
clear read from the new Mrs. McElrath but decided since she was now
Moose’s other half, I’d just have to get past any misgivings. She
had, after all, attended church regularly for months and should, in
her new status, be considered family. Anything less would be an
affront to Moose, something Kirk and I would avoid at all
costs.
The following weeks propelled me swiftly toward the
college choral Spring Concert. Ensemble rehearsals, coupled with
Solomon Methodist Church’s upcoming Easter Cantata, kept me too
busy to dwell for long intervals on our family’s loss. Both musical
presentations required one hundred percent, snapping into
play the perfectionism seed burrowed deep inside me – one that
needed only purpose to explode into a living, panting being – one
whose force astounded me at times. It kept me busy. It kept me from
thinking too much.
Kirk seemed as driven as I. At night, we both slid
from Zealot to Zombie, collapsing into bed to drown in exhaustion.
“I never dream,” my husband told me one morning as we lay
in each other’s arms after I relayed the Technicolor scenes I’d
moved through during sleep.
He sighed sadly. “I wish I could see Krissie
in dreams. I envy you....”
“Don’t. The searching part leaves me – gutted.” In
that instant, I envied his cocoon that kept unpleasantness at
bay.
Seemed denial – or numbing-out – was second nature
to Kirk. A perpetually accessible thing that needed no summons. How
could two people, who shared a bed and children, be so
different?
Old-fashioned Sunday brought out hitched-wagons, a
rainbow of long gingham costumes, top hats, string-ties and enough
kids’ overalls to blast Oshkosh stock to Mars.
“Oh my – ” I snatched little Raquel from her mama
and snuggled her beneath the hood of her bonnet, kissing her fat
little jowls. “You look just like your Mommy,” I cooed. And she
did.
“Hey – don’t let Rick hear that,” Tillie gave her
jerky, donkey-bray laugh. “He says he did have a small hand
in getting her here.”
“Course he did.” I glanced around and saw Rick’s
handsome blonde head towering above kinfolk scattered over the
church lawn. He looked grand in his long black coat and Abe Lincoln
hat. Thank God, I silently prayed for the umpteenth time,
Sarah’s gossip held no water.
Tillie’s Hershey eyes sparkled as she leaned to cup
her hand and whisper loudly in my ear, scattering goosebumps over
me, “I tell Rick her little butt is exactly like his. You
oughta see that big ol’ grin spread over his face!” She reared back
to gauge my reaction, gurgling all the time. “Oh!” her fringed eyes
rounded, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Hey, Mama! C’mere!” Tillie called to Zelda
Diggers, who was the antithesis of her sprightly daughter. Tall and
lumbering of gait, Zelda’s dull clay-colored eyes and flat
expression gave no hint that she’d parented Tillie Dawson. As she
plodded toward us, her long brown skirt and sunbonnet reminded me
of a boxy-pup tent. I blinked away the uncomplimentary image,
feeling guilty and instantly froze my features into my preacher’s
wife smile because, for some reason, I did not feel comfortable
around Zelda Diggers. Despite Tillie’s abounding adoration of the
woman and her unfailing efforts to get her mom to accommodate the
preacher’s family, Zelda remained distant.
Tillie hugged her hugely then gushed. “Did you do
one of your carrot cakes that Neecy likes so much, Mama?”
I cringed at the blatant expectancy but quickly
covered by giving Raquel a loving shift of hip-position.
“Naw,” Zelda’s bonnet flopped in the breeze,
revealing stubbornly straight apricot-tinted bangs above her plain,
unfeeling features, “I done a Mississippi mud cake.” I saw Tillie’s
face fall. I averted my gaze. Without another word, Zelda pried
Raquel from my arms and retreated to her husband, who huddled with
relatives across the lawn.
I mentally shook my head, wondering again how this
quiet, rather handsome man was ever attracted to such an uncomely,
surly woman. Alton Driggers’ genetic legacy to Tillie was all that
stood between her and stark homeliness. There, his bequest ended.
I’ve yet to determine the source of Tillie’s warmth and charisma
and unflappable spirit.
Zelda was – as Tillie and I both knew – well aware
of my allergy to her walnut-loaded treat, had been since I’d broken
out in hives after ingesting two slices following a homecoming
feast.
But, hey! I’d long ago accepted that the world did
not revolve around Janeece Whitman Crenshaw. Had not, in fact, ever
expected it to. I just hated to see my little peacenik friend’s
efforts so callously elbowed aside.
Tillie’s thick lashes blinked a couple of times
before she screwed up her mouth and looked at me, clearly
apologetic. “I made an egg custard for you, Neecy?” She steepled
her clasped hands to her flat bosom in supplication.
I burst out laughing. “Thank you, Tillie.”
“You’re probably the only one brave enough to
sample – ”
“Don’t forget Toby,” I reminded her.
Her irrepressible giggles spilled over the day like
warm Pepsi fizz. “Toby rarely turns down any desserts,
regardless of their source, Neecy!” She playfully poked a
finger in my rib.
“That’s beside the point, my star second-soprano.”
I looped arms with her and headed for the choir room, mildly
surprised – no, pleased that I’d finally begun to develop a
thicker hide.
In late April, Possum Creek Methodist Church called
Kirk to assist in Ma McKonna’s funeral. We made the long sad
pilgrimage to Oconee County, the four of us, and wept with those to
whom we would forever remain bonded by experiences both euphoric
and devastating. Years later, I still marvel at love’s adhesive
force between flock and clergy family.
The following week, out of the blue, I got a call
from Chuck. My brother spoke as though we’d not been estranged over
the year – though he had shown up at Krissie’s funeral. I hadn’t
heard from him since. Strange, what with all that was happening to
me, it didn’t matter. I’d ceased needing Chuck. He knew I was
pregnant, via Anne during a recent phone call, when he’d divulged
that he and Teresa had separated. More and more, Anne was
Mama to us all. I reassured him my pregnancy was progressing
normally and then he dropped a bombshell.
“I got diabetes, Sis,” he said as though relating
the weather.
“Oh no, Chuck...dear Lord. How bad?”
“I’m on insulin shots. But, hey! That’s okay. I’ve
learned how to give ‘em myself. Nothing to it.” Above all things,
like his sister, Chuck hated pity.
Strobe images flashed through my head of the
disease’s destructive path – Mama’s early death, Uncle Gabe’s
health struggles.... But at that precise moment, my brother needed
encouragement and support.
“You’re tough, Chuck. You’ll be okay.” Please
God.
“Got that right, Sis.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Nah. No use in setting everybody off. Hey – I’ll
be off these shots in no time.”
“Sure you will. Thanks for being here when Krissie
died. It was comforting.”
“You okay?” Fatherhood had focused Chuck in
miraculous ways.
“I have my moments.” I sighed. “Quite a few of
them, in fact. But staying busy helps.”
“Yeah. That helps. Listen – ” Another moment of
silence. “If you need me, just call. I might not be able to travel
because of my job, but I’m as near as your phone. Okay?”
“I might just take you up on that. Love you,
Chuck.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
We hung up and I reflected on Chuck’s recent legal
separation from Teresa, whom I’d never really gotten to know. I’d
always wondered if she really loved Chuck. Her aloofness – somewhat
like Roxie’s – troubled me. Whatever had happened, my tight-mouthed
brother wasn’t about to reveal. He had visiting rights with Poogie,
as he called his adolescent daughter Patrice, who now lived in
upstate Greenville with her mother. Which was why, according to
Chuck, he’d moved there as well.
“Changing jobs was nothing. I’d‘a moved heaven and
earth to be near Poogie. Not much left for me without my little
girl,” he’d revealed during one of his rare somber moments. Now, to
be hit with diabetes. I shook my head and dove into straightening
up the den, sorting out papers and notes and stacking textbooks,
trying to come to grips with yet another loved one’s unkind
fate.
How much I understood his grief for his
child. My sorrow merged with his and I found myself outside,
cresting the back lawn’s hill, heart racing to my sacred spot of
solace. There, I hugged the tall pole whose banner still swayed
under a balmy breeze. Toby’s labors, though slowed, still kept the
pond rippling with six to eight inches of water.
Tears streaked my cheeks and dripped from my
chin.
Oh, God – please help my brother.
“I’m nervous,” Tillie squeezed my arm with icy
fingers and did a little bouncing jig as the choir filed into the
loft, making her robe vibrate comically. I put my arms around her,
listening for Kirk’s cue to begin the Easter Cantata.
“Tillie – your solo is the most beautiful song on
the program and – ”
“That doesn’t help at all, Neecy,” she
whispered, brown eyes round as donuts and nearly as big.
“Okay, just open your mouth and let ‘er fly when
your time comes. Just be Tillie.” I dramatically pressed my hand to
her
forehead, squeezed my eyes shut, threw back my head and said,
“O-o-oh, Lord – give Tillie courage! Ye-es and
hallelujah! She needs it! Amen.”
A gusty giggle trailed her as she filed into the
front row.
Kirk’s voice, beyond the heavy crimson velvet
curtain, ceased and I took my place on the choir loft’s low
platform, checked the score on my music stand and picked up my
small baton, a newly acquired thing. In the past, I’d done quite
well without one. I’d learned in Music Theory 102 to imagine that
water dripped from my fingertips as my hand, an extension of a
fluid wrist, beat out time. But I’d gone along with Kirk’s advice
to use it and had only recently learned of Sarah Beauregard’s
suggestion to Kirk that I would appear more proficient with a
wand.
Anything to please, I always said, trying this time
not to begrudge compromise.
Tonight, I rapped on the stand to bring my
choristers to attention. The curtains behind me silently parted to
reveal the white and purple robed chorale standing at
adrenaline-charged alertness, eyeing me like hawks ready to swoop
in on prey. I silently prayed a quick imploration that Nick’s
exuberance not exceed the team’s volume and that Tillie would blink
and expel that hypnotized glassy-stare.
Aw, heck, I raised my baton and both arms,
it’s all yours, God.
Down came the baton and Heather’s fingers flew over
the piano keys in a classical introduction to Crown Him with
Many Crowns. Dixie’s thundering organ accompaniment added
majesty and pageantry to the old hymn as the choir sang the first
two verses with somber dignity, then, to everybody’s delight,
launched into the third with syncopated contemporary swing. The
mood lightened and by song’s end, had toes tapping and heads
bobbing in time. The program continued with Charlie Tessner’s solo
Were You There When they Crucified my Lord? I winked at
Donna, whose pride in her brother bypassed deadpan features to
shine through her eyes. Next came a medley of Blessed
Redeemer, Near the Cross and Glory to His Name.
By now, we were warmed up and going strong. Anointed, Aunt Mary
would declare.
Tillie moved to stand beside Callie and Moose for
the trio selection Because He Lives. I saw her hand tremble
as she took
the microphone and when our gazes met, I gave her a big smile. She
straightened and began singing in a clear smooth voice, “God sent
his so-o-n, they called him Je-e-sus....” On the chorus, Callie’s
alto and Moose’s tenor mellowed out the melody and drew tears. On
the last verse, the entire choir joined in and…
What was that sound? I angled my right ear and –
oh no!
Nick.
Nick’s rust-gray head was tossed back in euphoric
abandon and his caterwauling grew louder and louder... “And then
as death, gives way to vi-ic-tory...I’ll see the lights of glo-o-ry
and I know He li-ives!”
Tillie’s startled chocolate orbs implored me,
“Do something!”
I gazed up to Heaven. Lord,
please.....
Nick gazed up to Heaven, too, and burst into tears,
falling gloriously silent as tears rivuleted his lined cheeks. The
last chorus swelled in praise to our celebrated Lord and my weak
knees flexed and set themselves for the big finale, which recapped
the beginning – a majestic, rousing rendition of Crown Him with
Many Crowns. By now, Nick boo-hooed as unrestrained as he sang
and my baton did battle for preeminence, its tip a fanning, dancing
lariat whose circumference grew and grew until, stunned, I watched
it fly through the air and hit Moose smack in the face. I only
missed two beats before my fingertips flung imaginary water all
over the rostrum, while Tillie burst into giggles and the entire
choir sang with grins as wide as possum road-kill.
The baton mysteriously disappeared the very next
day.
Friday of the following week marked the college
choral group’s Spring Concert. I was surprised when, on the evening
of our performance, I was nearly as excited as my singing
peers.
Toby’s interest in another baby was becoming –
well, a bit strained. Oh, he’d not resisted the idea at first, had
sorta flowed with Heather’s enthusiasm. But as time passed, his
excitement waned. I sensed he did not like to discuss this little
stranger who would, in a few months time, usurp his cozy family
baby rank.
Heather, on the other hand, was beside herself with
joy, pampering me shamelessly, massaging my back, legs and feet
with lotion. Dawn’s first movements were celebrated with tears of
elation while my teenage daughter’s fingertips gently pressed and
probed. And as my abdomen rounded and swelled until I no longer saw
my toes, Heather gave me pedicures, painting my toenails bright,
sassy colors.
In July, Toby’s sole comment was, “You’re getting
kinda fat, aren’t you, Mom?”
I hugged him every chance I got and spent time with
him, hoping to dispel any hovering insecurities. In late July, we
vacationed in the mountains of North Carolina. At six a.m. on the
second day, I awoke and surveyed from my hotel window a golden sun
slowly climb up over the purple Smoky Mountain range. I’d thought
this change of scenery would make me forget.
It didn’t. Tears puddled, then coursed down my
cheeks. Ahh, Krissie...I miss you so.
I felt Kirk’s arms slide around me from behind. His
cheek pressed against mine and our tears mingled. We shared silent
moments of memory before Toby bounded from the other bedroom, ready
for some adventure.
“We gon’ go to Ghost Town?” he asked, plundering an
Oreo Cookie bag.
I wiped my cheeks and turned. “After lunch. The
park doesn’t open till threeish.”
Toby gazed at me dubiously. “You not throwin’ up,
are you, Mama?”
“No.” My smile reassured him his fun was not
thwarted.
Heather and Dixie, her buddy, roused from their
comatose slumber only after Kirk lured them with promises of the
grandest breakfast of a lifetime at nearby Ma’s Restaurant. A meal
of sausage gravy and buttermilk biscuits launched us on a tour of
Maggie Valley gift shops. In one, I bought an oversized T-shirt
emblazoned with mountain flowers for Callie. Kirk selected Moose a
book of Redneck Jokes, then suggested I pick out something for
Roxie. I finally settled on a little cedar jewelry box. I wanted to
buy something for Kaye Tessner, but Kirk frowned.
“You can’t do for one church member what you can’t
for all, honey.” We’d already established that our lifelong pals
did not fit neatly into the ‘church-folk’ slot.
“I know.” I sighed, wishing life were different but
knowing it simply could not be.
“Hey,” Kirk slapped another five dollar bill into
Heather’s extended palm, “that’s it. I can’t fork out for
everybody and his cousin, Heather. You’re gonna have to limit the
gifts to a couple of friends. Okay?” We’d also decided to cut the
kids some slack along the way, since their childhood was tied up
almost exclusively with ‘church folk’.
Heather nodded as she turned away. She
half-heartedly rolled her eyes but trudged on ahead with Dixie to
the next shop, fully aware of her father’s generosity.
Kirk draped his arm around me as we trailed the
girls and Toby, who loped along people-gaping.
“I saw Brad Chisholm last week.” Kirk said
off-handedly. Brad was a local attorney with whom we’d discussed a
lawsuit against Coastal Railway. I’d felt strongly that had there
been a stop-gate at the trestle entrance, Krissie’s tragedy would
not have happened. Still did.
“I still resent Homer Beauregard’s interference,” I
said, feeling my hackles begin to rise.
Kirk’s hand tightened on my shoulder as we walked.
“I know. But – many of these folks do have family who work for
Coastal.”
“Heaven help us,” I hissed sarcastically. “I
know. The clan has spoken.” I resented that Homer
Beauregard didn’t hesitate for a moment to appeal to the pastor to
not sue because of longtime family ties with the railroad. I hated
then and still do the fact that folk will put pastors under bondage
they wouldn’t dare impose on themselves or anyone else. A sort of
spiritual blackmail. A prove yourself thing. It wasn’t
Homer’s child who’d been lured onto a seemingly innocuous
ramp, then slaughtered.
I closed my eyes for a moment, then breathed
deeply. “If Krissie had seen anything that said STOP-Danger,
especially with a gate forcing her to crawl under, she’d
never have gotten on that ramp. Why – she wouldn’t even
completely shut the bathroom door for fear it would stick and
entrap her. You know that, Kirk.”
“I know. It’s not fair,” Kirk said quietly. “But I
do have an obligation to the flock. And – money won’t bring
Krissie back.”
“No,” I said, “but insisting that Coastal put up
those gates would ensure no one else’s child would get trapped like
Krissie and Zach did.”
“Well, it’s too late to rehash it. We settled with
the railroad.”
“For a pittance. What’s ten thousand dollars in the
face of our Krissie’s death? Nothing. Not counting potential
tragedies as a result of the railroad’s neglect to install those
gates.”
“I agree. But it’s out of our hands now, honey. As
Brad said, we didn’t have the resources to fight Coastal. They have
the finances and the lawyers to fight spending what it takes to
install those gates everywhere. It boils down to money. According
to Brad, if we’d sued, the case would be tied up in litigation till
Jesus comes and nothing would be accomplished anyway. We never had
a chance.”
It was true. Besides, I didn’t want Coastal
Railway’s money.
What I wanted couldn’t be had.
I wanted Krissie.
I took the next semester off. Kirk and I began
Lamaze classes at Summerville Medical Center in October. Up until
then, I’d mostly seen my midwife Marjorie Wellon, a young married
woman, whose intuitive care and knowledge amazed and calmed me.
Now, Dr. Jennings added a touch of paternal care by seeing me every
other visit.
With extra time on my hands during Heather and
Toby’s school hours, I busied myself with projects. Since Krissie’s
death, the importance of family photos shot right up there beside
oxygen. I purchased endless bound albums and filled them from boxes
stacked on closet shelves. One featured Krissie, another, Heather
and another, Toby. I meticulously labeled and filed them. Once
done, I immediately searched for something else to consume my
time.
And my mind.
My body thickened and slowed, limiting my
busy-ness. Then agony set in. My abdominal muscles gave way and
pressure from the baby caused excruciating cramps and pain in my
back and legs. I was bedridden most of the time. Other times, I
only managed to get to the bathroom by crawling. Kirk begged me to
let him carry me. I explained that it wouldn’t help. I had
to let the baby’s weight – lodged against my sciatic nerve – drop
forward to relieve teeth gnashing when I moved. This could only be
accomplished by crawling on all fours.
When I went in for check-ups, Marjorie met me at
the car with a wheelchair.
My hormones were still crazy and my moodiness
settled down to ‘low’ melancholy and ‘high’ melancholy. Only
difference being that I could function a bit more with the high.
Weepiness plunged me from high to low in a wink. Yet – it was an
automatic process, a chemical entity not connected to my
thinking.
Pregnancy was but another reminder of Krissie. I
grew desperate to reach a place of refuge, one that “time will
help” had promised. Where the terrible longing would abate to
bearable. Seemed the only thing time did was to separate me from my
child’s being and torment me with her non-being. A
deep, deep part of me wailed at the inhumane deprivation.
Another part of me thanked God for what I had
left.
For at least a month after our warm bedtime talk,
Toby daily carried water to Krissie’s pond, as soft sand rather
quickly soaked it up. Of course, I knew this could not continue
indefinitely. As his ‘do something’ grief phase ebbed, Krissie’s
little pond eventually dried up. Toby moved on to yet other healing
and acceptance stages.
For months, I allowed the banner and the rough-hewn
bridge to remain on our yard’s secluded back corner. I couldn’t
bring myself to part with it. Rain faded the letters and the wood
began to crumble, but the message remained alive. Time passed, and
it continued to comfort me.
Late one warm October afternoon, during a short
respite from the horrible muscle spasms, I stood on the ramp in the
silence. And then birdsong penetrated my haze, sweetly transporting
me to a plane of peace. I knew in that moment that though Toby’s
grief was not always as visible, his tribute to Krissie surpassed
all others. I knew also that his gift extended to me.
If Toby could turn loose, so could I. A soft breeze
ruffled my hair and drew my damp face upward. I looked beyond the
tall pines into frothy white clouds and infinite blue.
I realized this visit to the pond would be my
last.
Because I knew what Toby, with a child’s
simplicity, already knew: in the Lord, we never truly lose someone
we love. Their essence remains forever in our hearts.
I placed a hand over the growing mound inside me.
This is your baby, my sweet daughter.
I blew a kiss and whispered. “I love you, Krissie.”
I turned and walked away.