Burying the Honeysuckle Girls (4 page)

I was quiet. An unemployed divorcé. A recovering addict with a dying dad. We certainly were a pair.

“So what do you say?” he asked.

“Why are you being so nice?”

“Really? You have to ask that? Our history means nothing to you?”

Our history. Half a lifetime of catching fireflies and watching scary movies and fishing off his jon boat. Another half of mad make-out sessions and school dances. We’d probably made more promises than our childhood marriage pact; it was hard to remember through the scrim of the pills and alcohol.

“You’re a good person, Jay,” I finally said, to break the logjam in my brain.

“Depends on who you ask,” he said and motioned to the waitress. “One chocolate pie, two scoops of vanilla, and two spoons.” She nodded and left, and he turned back to me.

“But with you? Yes. Nothing but good intentions here.” He gazed at me. “What do you say?”

I looked into his eyes and, all at once, felt that familiar sensation of something pulling me. Something tugging away at me, gently at first, so as not to raise an alarm. The thing that pulled at me glimmered with a promise of weightlessness and lightness. It whispered profound-sounding things about fate and the futility of resistance. Jay or drugs. I had the feeling those two things were not so different.

I tried to remember the steps, all the pithy sayings we’d repeated in group about powerlessness and weakness and how screwed up we all were, but my mind was a complete blank.

I was in a shitload of trouble.

“Althea?”

“I can’t,” I said quickly. “But thanks.”

He stared at me for a minute longer, then nodded.

I thought of Wynn and Molly Robb back at the party, bidding their guests good-bye, and my father, upstairs, locked in his bedroom. Those words he’d shouted at me—
thirty’s a bitch
—they’d turned my blood cold.

My mother had died on her thirtieth birthday. An aneurysm; tragic, but not unheard-of. But there was something about what had happened to her, the way she’d died, that he had never explained. Earlier, Dad had made it sound like turning thirty was somehow to blame for my mother’s death. And he seemed to be insinuating, now that I was turning thirty, that the same shadowy unknown thing was somewhere just out of sight, waiting to overtake me as well.

My mother had said something like that too. Once, a long time ago, when I was a little girl. Out in the clearing that night, the night she died. She had warned me about turning thirty, given me instructions.

After his outburst this afternoon, it was obvious my father knew more than he’d ever let on. There was more. I’d always known it, always had that low hum of anxiety in my bones. And now it was coming out.

Thirty’s a goddamn bitch.

I had to see him, whether he liked it or not. I had to know more.

The waitress set the pie and ice cream between us. Jay handed me a spoon, and I watched him dig in. The image of the raven with red wings perched on the banister flashed into my head.

“I have to get something from my house,” I said to him. “Will you drop me off?”

“My pleasure.”

I set down the spoon, my appetite gone with the thought of confronting Wynn and Molly Robb again. Suddenly, I thought I noticed a faint trace of gold, like the finest dust, on its handle. When I blinked, it was gone.

Chapter Four

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Mobile, Alabama

Back at my father’s dock, Jay helped me onto the weathered boards. When his fingers brushed against mine, I moved my hands to my hair and made a show of winding it into a bun. Touching him made me nervous, and what I didn’t need at this point was another weird raven or gold-dust hallucination.

One horrific thing at a time was all I could handle.

He stepped back on his boat, and it rocked under his weight. “Can I call you?”

I gave him my number.

“Okay. See you soon. I hope,” he said and pushed off.

I could see Molly Robb through the windows, collecting plates and cups from the party. She pushed an ottoman back into place with her knee, narrowly missing the tiny dog. It skittered sideways, then slunk into the kitchen. She peered out the window, set down the stack of plates and cups, and slipped out onto the porch, pushing the door shut behind her.

“It’s not a good time. Wynn’s called his doctor.” She blinked at me with her round, pale eyes.

“Do you have something you want to say to me?” I asked.

Her eyebrows shot up, her face a study of innocence.

“You seem angry.”

“I’m not angry. I’m very proud of all the hard work you’ve done. Very proud. I support you, Althea. You know I always have.”

I folded my arms. “But the campaign . . .”

She smiled slightly.

“You have to be careful,” I said.

“You grew up in state politics. You should understand this better than anybody.” She stared at me.

She really expected me to leave. To disappear into the darkness and erase myself from my family’s life.

“I need to get a few things,” I said at last. “Since I won’t be staying here.”

She tilted her head, her expression still mild. “Sure. What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Clothes. Things.”

“I’ll get whatever you want.”

“This was my house before it was yours.”

Her face hardened.

“Just let me get my stuff, Molly Robb.”

She sighed. “Fine. But don’t go into his room.”

I stepped around her, pulled open the screen door, headed for the stairs. I could hear the creaky door slam and her heels clicking behind me, and an image flashed into my head of me turning and smashing my fist into her smooth, overly powdered face. I jammed my hands in my pockets.

At the top of the stairs, I headed down the hall toward my room, the last one on the left. I threw open the door, stepped in, and scanned it. The room hadn’t changed a bit since I was little. That’s what happens when you grow up without a mother. You keep the same brass canopy bed, the old baby rocker with the patchwork pad, and the too-small, chipped dresser all your life. Forever a five-year-old’s room.

I flung open the closet door and pulled the light cord. The shelves were crammed with old board games, afghans, and stacks of T-shirts and sweaters, but I knew instantly someone had been in there. Panic shot through me. I turned, my entire body burning with anger, and grabbed Molly Robb by the arms. She grew even whiter than I’d thought possible, and I felt a surge of satisfaction.

“Where is it?” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“The cigar box. Where is it?”

I pushed her away, headed for the door, then, turning back, pointed my finger and jabbed it emphatically in her direction. “I’m going into my father’s room. Back up.” She held her hands up in a helpless gesture. I stalked past her.

Down the hall, I pushed my father’s door open. The room was dim; only one small lamp burned beside the bed. My father lay propped up by a mound of pillows. His eyes were closed, and somebody had changed him into pajamas. Wynn sat in a nearby reading chair. I really looked at my brother for the first time in a long time. His hair was thick, thicker than I remembered, and shiny with gel. He looked completely relaxed sitting there in the chair, fit and tanned, everybody’s image of the ideal governor.

I flashed to him as a boy. Easy, toothy smile, freckles; always, infuriatingly, a head taller than me. The two of us used to take the Sunfish out on the river, him shirtless and skinny, ragged jeans falling below the band of his Fruit of the Looms. He always handled the hard part—pushing the boat out on the water, getting us pointed in the right direction—so by the time we really caught the wind, he’d be flushed and sweaty. It never seemed to bother him. He’d hand me the ropes and sit back as I tacked and shouted, “Comin’ over!”

“It’s ‘coming about,’ you ding-dong,” he’d laugh. As we glided along the shore, he’d point out the gators sunning themselves among the thick reeds, even on our property. They especially liked to eat small sailboats, he warned me, manned by curly-headed little ding-dongs.

Now, my brother, a man I barely recognized, stood before me with no sign of a smile. While I’d spent the last decade charging headfirst down a path of self-destruction, he’d done all the right things. Gone to college and law school, been elected to the state legislature. He’d married Molly Robb—a woman from a wealthy family in Birmingham. They’d both been patient with me these last few years, supportive, I’d thought. But maybe I’d been fooling myself. Maybe they’d just been watching and waiting—allowing me to do their dirty work for them by destroying myself.

“It’s good to see you, kiddo,” Wynn said and opened his arms to me. Against my better judgment, I went in for the hug. His chest was warm, and he smelled like cigar smoke and whiskey and shampoo, but the embrace felt misaligned and awkward. I tried to get a better glimpse of Dad, but Wynn motioned me out of the room.

We walked downstairs to the foyer, where Molly Robb waited for us. Along with another man, one I would’ve been happy never to see again in my life. Dr. Duncan, the psychiatrist who’d advised Dad and Wynn to send me to treatment. After our first and only session, Wynn had driven me down to the coast and checked me in to the center. I hadn’t laid eyes on the doctor since.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked Wynn.

“Nice to see you again, Althea,” Dr. Duncan said, his watery eyes huge behind reading glasses. He lowered a dog-eared piece of paper and I recognized it immediately; it was from my cigar box. My heart thumped once, hard, against my ribs. I kept my eyes on my brother.

“Why does he have that? Where’s my cigar box?”

“Dr. Duncan’s actually here for Dad,” my brother said. “He’s been consulting with Molly Robb and me about the kind of environment we should be creating here for him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“See, I told you. She’s paranoid,” Molly Robb said.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked again.

“He’s here for Dad,” Wynn repeated.

“Bullshit.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Molly Robb piped up. “We really can’t have her traipsing in here, talking that way around Elder. It’s upsetting to him.”

“I can promise you my father’s not upset by the word
bullshit
,” Wynn said. Our eyes met, and I could’ve sworn I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Maybe my brother was still my brother. Maybe he could be reasoned with, after all.

“It doesn’t matter why he’s here. I just want you to give me back my box. And that.” I nodded at the paper. “And I’ll go.”

“Althea,” Dr. Duncan said. “Why do you want the cigar box so badly?”

“Because it’s mine.”

“Is there something in the box that holds some sort of significance to you?”

I felt tears burning behind my eyes.
Breathe. Be polite. Speak slowly. Act normal.
“My mother gave it to me when I was young. It means a lot to me.”

He looked at the paper again. I itched to grab it, to jam it into my pocket and run, but I stood still.

“Would you like to talk about what’s in the box?” Dr. Duncan asked.

I shook my head.

“How about what’s on this paper?”

Veni, Creator Spiritus, mentes tuorum visita.
I could remember the sound of my mother chanting the words. When I was five, she’d given me the paper and all the other things in the cigar box. They were mine. All I had of her.

“It’s just a prayer,” I said.

“A prayer that means a great deal to you. ‘Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blessed, and in our hearts take up Thy rest.’ Did I get that right, Althea?”

And then, in answer to his question, the tears came. One, two, right down either cheek. What was the point in answering him? I was like an open wound to all of them; talking would only make it worse. I turned to my brother.

“Please. Just give it back.”

My voice sounded so desperate. I was starting to slip, I could feel it. I would fragment, separate, and fly apart in all directions. The panic would set in next—the palpitations, the dry mouth, the dizziness. I’d start seeing gold and ravens and God knew what other kind of shit. Only I couldn’t, not now, not in front of these people.

I am not my mother.

“Look,” I said, wiping the tears and forcing a smile. “We’re all pretty wound up here. Why don’t you let me go up and talk to Dad for a minute? Maybe if he sees me again, and I can talk to him, he’ll be okay.”

“Althea,” Dr. Duncan said. “We understand you may be feeling wound up, as you say, about coming back home. Living and working sober can be very daunting, after the time you’ve spent
out there
.” He nodded toward the door, like I’d done all my illicit deeds out in our front yard. “With your father so sick, it’s perfectly understandable that you’re feeling overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed, I just wanted to talk to my father. If I can’t do that, I want to collect a few things that belong to me, and go.”

“I understand you see it that way. But we—Wynn, Molly Robb, and I—see things differently and would like to offer you an alternative. To jumping right back into things, as it were. We would like to propose a facility for you, someplace more long-term, where you can get your bearings.”

“I did that already.”

“The halfway house was a good step, but you need more.”

“No. No facility.”

He didn’t even blink. “Althea, we think you might need some more intensive therapy. For the childhood issues.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice sounded painfully high.

“When you were away,” Molly Robb said, “Dad told us some things we never knew. About your mother.”

“What?”

“Would you like to sit down?” Dr. Duncan said.

“No. I’d like you to tell me what you’re talking about.”

“There’s a lot we didn’t realize about Trix,” he said. “Your mother had a great many secrets.”

“She didn’t die the way we thought,” Wynn said.

“What do you mean?” I could feel my breath getting shallow. I looked at him.

He didn’t answer, just turned and walked to the breakfront and pulled out the cigar box from one of the lower cabinets. Relief flooded through me when I saw it—tattered and brown-stained, a red raven on the front. He walked back, slowly, and held it out. I took hold of it, but he held it fast, so we both were standing there, each holding a corner. I gave a little tug, and he let go, watched me as I held my other hand out to Dr. Duncan. He handed over the paper. I returned the paper to the box and held it to my chest.

I am not my mother.

There is no such thing as the honeysuckle girl . . .

“Mom was mentally ill, Althea,” Wynn said gently. “She had schizophrenia. It hit her when she turned thirty.”

“She had an aneurysm,” I said.

Dr. Duncan spoke. “We think it was because she was taking Haldol in great quantities to prevent the schizophrenia and that’s what actually contributed to her death.”

I knew there had been something not quite normal about my mother and the way she’d died. But my father had never talked about it, and I didn’t want to let myself think about things like that. I couldn’t. And anyway, there were some not-quite-normal things about me too. A streak of gold dust on a doorknob I’d touched or a hairbrush I’d just used.

I told myself they were just games, leftover from childhood. Mirages. The way heat shimmered and made you think it was water. I didn’t see visions of the Virgin Mary in a bowl of buttered grits. The things I saw didn’t mean anything. They were just aftershocks. Ghost images imprinted on my brain from a moment of trauma in my childhood.

I had made it worse, I would admit that. I used to tell myself they were signs, sent by my mother from heaven to let me know she was near. The gold from her favorite dress, the red raven rising off the cigar box, swooping around me. They meant she was protecting me.

But I’d gotten older and started with the drinking and the pills, and that’s when the whispers took a turn. They started to come unbidden, when I was anxious, tired, or upset. When I was especially messed up. I didn’t tell any of my doctors. Maybe I didn’t want to let them go, I don’t know. But when I went to rehab, I told myself it was time. I had to stop. I began using the affirmations. They might’ve sounded hokey, but they worked.

Most of the time.

“You knew about the Haldol, correct?” Dr. Duncan asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, I knew she was taking the pills, but I didn’t know why.”

Molly Robb let out a soft snort.

You knew. Deep down, you knew why she took them.

“She hadn’t been prescribed them,” Dr. Duncan said. “We actually believe an overdose killed her, not an aneurysm.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.

“Several months ago, your father expressed a concern the same thing might happen to you. A psychotic, schizoid break.”

“It’s hereditary,” Wynn said. “Collie had it too, our grandmother.”

“That’s why you took your mother’s Haldol when you were a little girl, isn’t that right?” Dr. Duncan asked.

I turned cold.

“Althea?” Duncan said. “You wanted to prevent the same thing from happening to you?”

I wanted to say that I had taken the pills because they were there, in my mother’s cigar box, the box she’d given to me, and I wanted to be like her. I wanted to say they made me feel good. Light and otherworldly and brave. I hadn’t understood what they were for, not really. Not completely. But that wasn’t the truth.