Dear Carolina (13 page)

THE SAME DAMNED PLACE YOU STARTED

Parsnips and salsify is the only vegetables that you ought to just leave alone. They're tough as nails, and it don't matter how cold it is. My daddy, he used to call me his little parsnip. But I'd bet dollars to doughnuts he didn't get the comparison. A momma who didn't want me, always scraping by. I could survive damn near anything. But, coming up, I didn't know we were poor. All them rich kids got packed up and sent off to private school. In a room chock-full a' free lunch cards, that dollar I took may as well have been a gold medal. If it weren't for Momma bein' so damn sorry, me and Daddy coulda lived in one of them pretty white houses with the red tin roof out in the country that I dreamed about.

Who you spend your life with, that's everything, let me tell you. My daddy and Graham's daddy grew up pretty much the same. They always had enough, but there weren't a whole lotta extras. The thing that made my grandmomma so proud was that
both her boys were smart as whips and worked harder than the plow horses.

They were gonna be somebody, Grandma always used to say. They would grow up to be landowners. Weren't nothing better to my grandma and grandpa. And that's why they scrimped and saved and got them boys through high school. Daddy, he would've been all right, just like Graham's daddy—if it weren't for Momma.

Graham's momma was sweet and lovin', the woman behind the man. She cleaned his house, raised his youngens, clipped coupons, picked vegetables, and built him up taller than the old bank building in the center of town. And that's why Graham's daddy did so good and my daddy couldn't never get ahead.

My raisin' is chockablock full of wakin' up in the middle of the night, Daddy trying to be all calm and civil when Momma come home drunk. And he'd realize right quick she'd blown his stash of savings to get that way.

“I'm trying to make a better life for Jodi!” he'd holler.

“We ain't never getting out of this shit hole,” she'd slur.

She'd pass out, and they'd make up in the mornin'. But one wonderful night, he yelled, “I've had it! Get out. Get outta here and don't you ever come back! And you stay the hell away from my girl!”

I threw my arms clean around Daddy's neck. “Please, Daddy, please, no matter how hard she begs you, promise me you won't take her back.”

He kissed my cheek and said, “I'm done with her, baby girl. I promise.”

“I'm done with her too.” I wiped my hands on my pants like getting her liquored breath off my skin.

Only, I weren't done with her. Daddy neither. They didn't even get their separation legal 'fore Daddy got the pancreatic cancer. They may as well've told me I was dying for how I felt.
Daddy worked as long as he could, and I took care of him 'til hospice come in.

That's when that drink took ahold a' me. I was out blowing off steam with Marlene and a group of cute boys I was trying to impress when I had my first sip a' whiskey. I hated the way it tasted, that nauseating flavor, the way it burned when it ran down my throat. But I got to sipping. And the sipping turned to gulping. And the minutes turned to hours. And I was free. What I didn't know yet is that when addiction runs as thick and blue in your veins as blood, that drink becomes its own kind a' jailer.

Daddy's face, 'bout near done in with the cancer, I remember it looking up at me, his mouth saying as best he could, all weak and dyin', “Please promise me you won't drink, Jodi. Please tell me that I don't need to worry about that on top of everything else.”

I promised all sideways. But we both knew good as green Listerine what I'd been swigging. After he died, I didn't have no choice but to drink. It was the only way I'd forget that I had caused my poor, sick, dying Daddy even more distress during his last days.

I didn't know Buddy any better than the clerk down at the Piggly Wiggly, so I cain't tell you why I thought it was all right to tell him all that on the ride from Kinston to Atlantic Beach. When them silences get thick and lingerin' like the smell of a pig cooking on a humid day, I get to chattering on.

“I'm real sorry, Buddy. I just gotta talk myself into not doing all that again.”

He patted my hand.

“I mean, bein' away from Carolina hurts like the mischief, but I just knew I was gonna start drinking and acting like my momma if I didn't get away. I don't never want that sweet girl to be around nobody near like my momma.” I tried right hard to ignore that voice in my head that said,
Like you
.

My momma, much as I hated a lot of things she did, the worst by far was her always telling me that I was gonna grow up to be just like her. The fear that maybe she weren't wrong was stronger than feeling so dern guilty just sending you off. I didn't want you to think I'd left you or to ruin Khaki's big moment. But I didn't have nobody else. And I still had my wits about me enough to know that you would be safe with Graham and Khaki but you might not be with me.

“I ain't trying to step on your toes,” Buddy said. “'Cause I know we don't know each other too good.” I looked out the window. Buddy, he was gonna be just like all the rest. He didn't know being an addict from a hole in the ground, but he was gonna say,
Cain't you just stop drinking?

“If I were a betting man,” he said, “I'd say you don't give yourself enough credit. I bet you was raised with your momma telling you that you were gonna grow up to be like her. You mighta fought her on it, but, all the same, you started feeling like there weren't no hope of being nothing better.”

I won't never be nothing but same as my momma.
My tongue got all dry and my palms all sweaty. I looked at Buddy, not even believin' that he could be in my head like that. That tanned skin and three-day beard, cowboy hat and soulful brown eyes, Buddy wasn't just good looking. He was wise. But the good Lord knows you cain't say that to a man, so I asked, “What makes you think that?”

He packed a dip in his lip before he answered. “My momma, she always used to tell me I was exactly like my daddy. I was no good and gonna be in and out of jail all the time just like him.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “And, I went to jail for stealing somebody's TV once. I was just sitting there in the slammer, and I got to figurin' I was better than that.” He took his eyes off the road long enough
to look me over, make me feel the weight of what he's saying. “Just because somebody tells you something 'bout yourself don't mean you have to prove them right.”

“I reckon I never thought of that.”

For the first time in weeks, I thought I might make it on through the rough waters without one red sip of booze and get to sailing smooth on the other side. We had to get some gas, but I didn't go in just in case. Sneakin' a bottle in your bra or up your pant leg ain't nothing to somebody like me. And I couldn't start drinking again. I had a baby to look after now.

Buddy got back in the truck, sighing hard. “You ain't gonna believe this. I missed my turn.”

“What? How?”

He shook his head. “I was thinking on our conversation and went right on past the Atlantic Beach bridge.”

I crossed my arms. “What kinda man are you anyhow?”

He twisted the cap off a' his Mountain Dew like he was wringing its neck. “I don't know,” he said sarcastically. “I ain't tried to kill you yet this trip so I'm a darn sight better than the last man you were with.”

I laughed. “I meant 'cause you asked for directions.”

“Oh.” Buddy's link-sausage smirk melted right into a buttery grin. “Sorry.”

Ten minutes and dern if we weren't back to the same gas station. Buddy said one of the truest things I've ever heard. “Now I know why so many gas station workers get shot.”

“Why's that?”

“Because they give you directions and you end up back in the same damned place you started.”

We dissolved in laughter, all bubbly and sparklin' like Alka Seltzer. We dug out Buddy's old paper map, and I wasn't one bit sorry it took us so long to get there.

“Hey, Buddy,” I asked. “Seeing as how you know everything, do you think that once you've let everybody down they write you off? Or do people take a chance on you again?”

Buddy spit that dip into his empty Mountain Dew bottle and said, “Well, all I can tell you is that I went to high school with Graham, and he was the only person I knew that would have enough cash to bail me outta jail. He picked me up, give me a job, and hasn't looked at me crosswise since. That was ten years ago.”

I hoped that spending all that time with Graham would rub off on you some. That you'd get to realizing what a man should act like, that you wouldn't never have to be tough like your momma, that you wouldn't never have to survive the cold. I hoped against hope that you, my sweet Carolina girl, would get to be something softer and sweeter than one a' them little parsnips.

SHE ISN'T YOUR CHILD

Even though many of the day-in, day-out aspects of being a designer are wonderful, there's nothing that makes my heart race like my twice-yearly visits to the High Point Furniture Market. New trends, ten million square feet of merchandise, and spotting the who's who of the design world make me feel as giddy and anxious as a teenager in the backseat with her first love.

I realized that morning when we touched down at LaGuardia that landing there still makes me feel a little like I'm walking into the double doors of High Point's Interhall. Don't get me wrong; I love nothing more than a glass of pink lemonade and a slow, Southern summer night. But the rush of packing up my designer labels, hearing my heels click on the sidewalk, my eyes shaded by enormous frames that I would never wear on the farm . . . The energy pulsing through Manhattan is like a jumper cable to my creativity and my zest for life. I feel like I'm a part of something, a vertebra on the backbone of the city that, in large part, made America what it is today.

I didn't think the city could ever get better for me, but I feel even more chic pushing the stroller where you're all dolled up, holding Alex's hand, his cool, city-guy sunglasses on backward (on purpose) and half-untucked shirttail (not on purpose) ready for taking on the city that never sleeps. I am instantly one of those glamorous, “I can have it all” women.

Only, that day I landed at LaGuardia, I wasn't pushing you in the stroller. I was holding Alex's hand, prancing through the airport in my new Louboutin booties—gray with black trim—and a black, fur-trimmed cape that makes me feel a little like a runway model, swishing as I step. Graham was meeting us in the car, as we discovered that taking a three-week-old baby's eardrums on an airplane is a no-no.

Kristin, Alex's nanny when he was a baby, met us in the airport because she can't wait one second longer than necessary to see your brother. Alex's grip broke free from mine the minute he caught her eye, and he sprinted to her like Usain Bolt to a finish line. I had the most vivid flashback of him as a freshly baked baby, swaddled in her arms, and it took my breath away how quickly the time passes. I felt that familiar tug around my middle, that yearning for another baby to love.

Kristin gasped. “You look just like Kate Middleton.”

She was referring to my new, dark brown hair, a far departure from the pale blond it had been since I was a toddler. I slapped her arm and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I do not, but you're getting a raise.”

She held Alex's hand on one side, squeezed mine on the other, and whispered, “So, any news?”

I made a disappointed face, and she said, “Well, all I know is that I had a dream last night that you were pregnant.”

I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and hailed a taxi.
As we all slid in, Alex bouncing up and down on the seat, Kristin turned to him and said, “I need you to buckle up, please.”

I said, “No offense, Kristin, but I have a dream I'm pregnant like every night.”

She shook her head emphatically. “I have had three dreams in my whole life that someone was pregnant, and the other two people were.” She crossed her legs and sang, “Your turn!”

“Well, you know Graham and I would be thrilled,” I said. “But it's not looking good.”

She turned to Alex, pulled a plastic car out of her purse, and said, “Look what I found for my favorite boy!”

Turning back to me, she whispered, “Have you talked to your doctor about fertility treatments? Maybe you could go to someone in the city since you're here so much.”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure I want to go that route, you know?” I scrunched my nose. “Not yet anyway.” I smiled, thinking about Pauline. “Pauline says all I need is a little bacon grease, and I'll be fertile in no time.” I paused to reapply my lip gloss. I considered mentioning my trip to Esther the healer, but decided I'd rather not get into it despite the fact that her crazy potions had me feeling amazing.

Kristin ruffled Alex's shaggy hair and said, “I don't know much about bacon, but, worst case, there are always plenty of kids out there that need a good home.”

You crossed my mind. But you already had a mother, I reminded myself.

I was dying to get to my pristine apartment, but we had a photo shoot for the new book first. Alex and Kristin played cars while I got my hair and makeup done, and, toward the end of the shoot, Graham surprised me, showing up with you in his arms. He looked exhausted. I ran to kiss him and said, “So, how was it?”

He sighed and handed you to me. I covered your little face in kisses, and I know they say three-week-old babies can't smile, but you did. I'm telling you, you did. “Well,” Graham started, “traveling alone with a tiny baby is a little like clearing brush for a deer stand.”

I made a face. Clearing brush was rough. “How could it be bad with this beautiful girl?” I cooed to you. Jaunts to New York might have ignited me, but they certainly dimmed Graham's flame. Give him a Budweiser and an open field any day. He'd leave the wine and concrete to the investment bankers.

The director of the shoot called to me, “Hey, Frances, why don't we get a family shot?”

“Oh, no,” your daddy protested, but I insisted. To me, he was never sexier than in jeans and cowboy boots with a two-day beard.

Kristin said, “I'll hold Carolina.”

I shook my head. I wasn't letting you go.

“Khaki . . .” Graham said warningly, sensing the tiny change in the air around us, the slightest drop in barometric pressure.

I looked at him and said, “He said family, and Carolina is our family.” Graham squinted at me, and I said, my voice getting higher, “She's going to be in this picture, so let's not make a scene.”

“Look at the beautiful dress your aunt Khaki got you,” I cooed, freeing you from your swaddle and fluffing the pink dress with tiny bunnies smocked around the collar I had given your mom at her baby shower.

As we all posed together, Graham's arm around me, me holding you in one arm and Alex's hand in the other, I mused that with my new hair, you looked more like my baby than Alex did. His hair was whiter than the fleece of the baby lambs on the farm, just like mine had been when I was his age.

“Beautiful family,” the photographer said as he snapped. A few minutes later he called, “That's a wrap,” and everyone clapped.

“Frances, you have to come look at these,” the shoot director called a minute later.

The family pictures were amazing, and I loved the look of it: me all dolled up, Graham looking like he was straight off the farm, and you and Alex tying us together somehow. It was one of those perfect moments like finishing a Lego pirate ship. You realize that even though you never think you'll get all the pieces together, somewhere along the way you created something whole.

“I love it!” I proclaimed. “I think that's the one.”

Out of the side of his mouth, Graham said, “You realize that everyone is going to think Carolina is our daughter.”

“I don't care what people think,” I snapped, feeling immediately guilty, squeezing his hand.

I kissed the crew and thanked them profusely for a wonderful shoot, requesting copies of those fabulous photos. Kristin took you and Alex and said, “I thought maybe I'd take the big guy for his favorite burger while you and hubby have a date?”

I winked at Kristin. She knew I was up to something. “That sounds divine.” I kissed you both, took Graham's hand, and said, “Shall we?”

I wanted to get straight to dinner—and champagne—but your daddy insisted that we go to the apartment and let him get cleaned up first. We made small talk about the drive and how nice it was to be in New York—I was telling the truth; Graham was lying. But as soon as the door to the apartment was closed behind us, Graham let me know that he knew what I was up to good as Pauline used to.

“Khaki, you can't just take someone's baby,” he said, gently.

I crossed my arms. “I'm not just taking someone's baby.” I smiled. “
We're
taking someone's baby.”

Graham sighed and shook his head. “Jodi is her mother, babydoll. You are not Carolina's mother, and if this is going to be too hard for you, I'll take her on back home.”

I pursed my lips, something your daddy has informed me I always do when I'm about to argue with him, and said, “Jodi is a child. We can help her as much as we can, but she might agree that us adopting Carolina is the best thing for everyone.”

Your daddy almost never argues with me. He's the cool, calm snow cone to my jalapeño hot chocolate. I simply assumed that he would hear my reasoning and be on my side. Instead, he stood up, put his hands on my shoulders, looked down into my eyes, and said, “Baby, I know you love Carolina, but she isn't your child.”

I opened my mouth, and he put his finger on my lips. “She isn't your child,” he repeated again very slowly.

I lowered my head and turned toward our bedroom. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes, but I couldn't understand what had me so worked up. I thought of how, even at such a young age, you and Alex had taken to each other like crabs to sand. When your daddy came into our bedroom, where I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my closet, I said, “I just can't stand the thought of Alex and Carolina not being together. The way he cuddles her up and she coos at him.”

Your daddy sat down beside me, and I leaned on his shoulder. He kissed my head and said, “I know you're coming from a good place, babydoll. But just because something is in your heart doesn't mean it's necessarily the right thing.”

I closed my eyes, wondering how I could have one such unfathomably wonderful child but still feel like I needed something—and someone—more. Alex's daddy passed through my mind, and I reasoned that I needed lots of love around me to fill the void of losing my first husband.

But now I know that isn't it. It's just that, even before time itself, written in the stars was the truth that you were born to be my baby. And I was born to be your momma.