The Art of Keeping Secrets (12 page)

“Hi, Mom.” Annabelle bit back tears. She wasn’t ready to tell her mother her news yet.

“Are you okay? Aren’t you supposed to be in class? What’s wrong?” She put her hand on Annabelle’s forehead.

“I don’t feel well at all. I think I’m getting sick.”
Really sick.

“Is it Knox?”

“No,” Annabelle said. “I just don’t feel well. I went to the nurse. . . .”

“Okay, baby. Go on upstairs. Get in bed. I’ll make you some soup while you sleep.”

Annabelle dropped her head onto her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, Mom.”

The fact did not escape her that soon she would be a mom also—that the name she was calling out was the name she herself would soon be called. A single mom. Alone.

Her mother smoothed the hair from her face. “You look terrible. Have you lost weight?”

“A little. I’ve been sick to my stomach.”

“Okay, get to bed. Where are your bags?”

Annabelle shrugged. “I didn’t bring any. . . . I came home straight from the medical clinic.”

The bed beckoned with sweet denial and Annabelle burrowed under the covers, into the pillow, and found solace in pretending none of this was happening. In this pale purple bedroom with the Eagles and Bon Jovi posters and the cheerleading trophies, with the bulletin board full of old notes, a dried corsage and tiara from homecoming court (she hadn’t been the queen, only in the court; Mae had been the queen), she could be fifteen years old and in love, believing in her own Southern belle status, in her own goodness and her love for Knox Murphy.

Some people dreamed of the future and what it held for them, and at one time, she had also. Now she dreamed of the past, of what she could have done
then
to change today.

Sleep finally visited Annabelle, and she drifted off into disjointed dreams of missed classes, car wrecks with trucks and being lost in a maze of familiar marshes and creeks. She awoke to her mother standing over her bed with a tray of soup and toast—a balm for all evils, according to family lore.

Annabelle sat up in bed, rested her back against the headboard. “Thank you.” Dreamscapes washed over her, and in the split moment between her mother lifting her hand and reaching to touch Annabelle’s cheek, she made a decision to speak.

“I’m pregnant.” There were better ways to have said this. She could have prepared a speech, written a letter, asked her brother to tell her parents. She could have said it any other way but this abrupt announcement that would surely shatter her mother’s heart.

But there they were: the words bold and shimmering in the room, across her mother’s stricken face. And just like the night when she’d made love with Knox, she couldn’t take it back.

“Did you have a bad dream?” her mother asked, and Annabelle knew her mother fervently wished she’d only imagined her condition.

Annabelle shook her head and waited for the tirade that would surely follow. Maybe it was why she had told her mother in the first place—she needed to be punished.

Her mother hugged her. “Oh, Annabelle.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I am so sorry,” Annabelle whispered on choked tears.

“Knox?” her mother asked.

“Of course,” Annabelle said, closed her eyes.

Her mother stroked her head. “Have you told him?”

“No, I just found out . . . and came home.”

“Try to sleep now. We have a lot to talk about and decide. I’ll tell your father when I find the right moment. For now . . . sleep.”

For the next two days, her mother offered comfort in measured doses until her father came home early and haggard from a business trip, stating that Hurricane Hugo was headed toward coastal South Carolina and they needed to evacuate immediately.

Evacuate.

Annabelle glanced around her room, at all her belongings, and wondered what to pack. She climbed from bed at her father’s prodding, grabbed her suitcase from the back of the closet.

Her room smelled of chicken noodle soup, chamomile tea and lavender—all scents from childhood. In those distressed days of her life, she didn’t want to leave her room. Something unalterable was about to occur: she felt it in every part of her body, and wanted to crawl back under the covers. Leaving this room meant a million things, including facing her pregnancy and possible damage to her home, but she felt that her emotions were distilled into one: fear.

Annabelle’s hands shook as she lifted the suitcase onto her bed, from the nausea, fear of telling her father the truth about her illness and dread of the incoming hurricane. She’d been through this before: hurricane warnings, evacuation, deciding what was really worth keeping. The last time had been two years before, and all that had come was rain and wind knocking down her childhood tree house.

This time there was more at stake than a tree house full of tea-party paraphernalia. How was she to face possible disaster without Knox? Loneliness spread through her like warm water, left her weak with regret and loss.

“Shit,” she said, trying out a word she rarely used. She threw a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt into the suitcase. Then she looked around her room for what she would really miss, what would cause her grief if Mother Nature took it on wind and rain.

She crawled under her bed, grabbed the large box full of Knox’s letters, notes and photos. Losing this, above all other losses, would fill her with anguish, and she placed the box into the suitcase along with a few more clothes, her journal and the small oil painting on her dresser, done by Shawn in fifth grade.

Father poked his head in the room. “You ready, pumpkin?”

She nodded.

“Only one suitcase, right?”

“Only one, Dad. See?” She pointed at it. “Do you really think this . . . one will hit?” she asked, already knowing the answer from his pinched mouth and unshaven cheeks.

“Yes, I do. Let’s just pray it doesn’t hit us too hard. But it’s bearing down on South Carolina like a locomotive gaining speed.” He nodded toward the door. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, but we have to go now.”

“Where are we gonna stay?” Annabelle slammed her suitcase shut, locked the latch.

“We’ll head toward Atlanta and stay with your aunt Barbara.”

Annabelle nodded, which made her dizzy and nauseous. “Can I make one quick phone call before we leave?”

He nodded. “Hurry.” He grabbed the suitcase and left the room.

Annabelle dialed Knox’s phone number, not knowing what she would say, but needing this one touch point before she could walk from her room and face whatever came next.

Mrs. Murphy, breathless, answered the phone. “Hello.”

“Hi, Mrs. Murphy, it’s Belle.”

“Oh, hello, dear. Please tell me you know where Knox is.”

Annabelle’s stomach plummeted. “I have no idea. That’s why I was calling. I wanted to talk to him before we . . . evacuate today.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. That’s why we’re trying to find him. We’re leaving within the hour or we’ll be stuck here, and I haven’t heard from him in a couple days. He said he was going to stay with Cooper, but Cooper hasn’t seen him.”

Annabelle dropped to her bed as her knees gave way. “Okay.” What else was there to say?

“If you hear from him, will you please tell him we are crazy trying to find him and that we’ll be in Columbia staying at his grandfather’s house?”

“Yes, and if you find him, please tell him I’m looking for him also. I’ll be at my aunt Barbara’s in Atlanta.”

“Okay . . . okay.” Mrs. Murphy hung up without saying goodbye, which she had never done since Annabelle had known her. So much was changing. The world seemed to be turning into a place she didn’t recognize.

She stood at her doorway, stared at the bulletin board, the pink bedspread, the pale purple walls—all paraphernalia from her childhood. She swallowed her grief as one does a bitter pill, and she understood, as she had not before, that when she returned to this place neither her soul nor her room would retain anything of their childish airs.

The hurricane hit with an angry force, as though it had a vendetta against the South, against the history and beauty of coastal South Carolina, testing her fortitude and alliances as the Civil War had decades before. And, as always, her people rose to the challenge with determination and courage. It was the Southern way.

Entire houses were washed into the streets of Sullivan’s Island, neighborhoods destroyed on Isle of Palms. Charleston was left battered and bruised. Annabelle watched the devastation from the static-filled TV screen in Aunt Barbara’s apartment in midtown Atlanta as the wind and rain whipped through the land she loved. They all sat transfixed as they waited for at least one shot of Marsh Cove, their home or neighborhood. But even the familiar names and streets were unrecognizable in the chaotic aftermath.

They weren’t able to go back for at least a week; the authorities prevented everyone from Awendaw to Charleston from returning to their homes. Annabelle felt as though she floated, so dislocated from time and place that she couldn’t find her bearings. She’d heard of pilots who spun out of control when they lost all sense of up or down. This was how she pictured herself, spinning, spinning, unable to find the horizon to right herself.

In those gyrating days she almost forgot about the baby, about Knox, her mind never reaching for a solid thought. Until Aunt Barbara took her into the back bedroom.

“Honey, is there something you need to tell me?”

“What do you mean?” Annabelle sat on the edge of the guest bed, fingered the fringe on the quilt.

“You’re different, dear. And I know why. I’ve been there, remember?”

“You mean when Uncle Mark left you?”

“No, when I was pregnant.”

Annabelle closed her eyes. There was no way she was showing—no way Aunt Barbara could know unless her mother had told her.

“I hate her,” Annabelle mumbled under her breath, and then opened her eyes. “I hate her for telling you.”

“No one told me anything.” Aunt Barbara took her hand, held it. “There are some things women know. Fortunately your dad wouldn’t notice if you came out wearing my old maternity clothes.” She smiled, touched Annabelle’s cheek.

“For a few minutes, I forgot about it.” Annabelle shrugged. “For just a few minutes.”

“Tell me everything.”

“There’s not much to tell. I’m pregnant with Knox’s baby, and he hasn’t called or talked to me in six weeks. And I can’t find him and neither can his parents.”

Aunt Barbara pulled Annabelle to her. “He doesn’t know?”

“No. Only Mother and the pinched-mouth nurse at the medical clinic. I truly don’t know what to do. Mother hasn’t mentioned it since I told her, and I figure she’s ignoring it or she didn’t hear me. All she’s done is cook for me and let me sleep.”

“Sometimes that’s all a mother can do, Belle.”

“But so many . . . decisions.”

“Well, dear, go ahead and list them.”

“The first, above all else, is tell Knox or not tell Knox. Like option A or B in a multiple choice test, and I want to pick C.”

Aunt Barbara stroked Annabelle’s hair. “I won’t ever tell you what to do.”

“But I want your opinion.”

“Of course you must tell him. You’ve dated for how long?”

“Six years.”

“You find him, and you tell him.”

“I can’t find him until they let us go home. I have to . . . wait. And what if he’s . . .”

“
Shh
. . . don’t say that. Sometimes waiting is good.”

“And Dad.” Annabelle dropped her face into her hands.

“Do you want me to tell him? I am his sister. . . .”

“Not yet.” Annabelle’s head snapped up. “No one else can know until Knox does. There’s something wrong about that.”

“Yes, I agree.”

Annabelle’s mother opened the bedroom door, stared at them. “What are you girls up to?”

“Nothing,” Annabelle said, wiped a tear from her face.

“Oh, oh . . .” Her mother entered the room, shut the door. “Please, Barbara, don’t tell Garner yet. He has enough on his mind with the hurricane and whether the house has survived. . . .”

Barbara nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Mother sat on the bed next to Annabelle. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, Mother.” Annabelle held up her hands. “Just fine.”

“Well, they’ve just announced on TV that our section of Marsh Cove is open to residents. So, Dad is out there packing the car.”

“What if we return and the house isn’t . . . there or something?” Anxiety clamped Annabelle’s lungs down as she took short breaths.

“We’ll figure that out when we get there.” Her mother hugged her. “Like we always do and always will.”

“Okay.” Annabelle rose, and fortified by sleep and family, she felt ready to face what waited in Marsh Cove.

NINE

ANNABELLE MURPHY

The roof of Annabelle’s childhood home was gone, as though the house was a movie set with only the walls and interior. Hundred-year-old trees lay across the streets like meager broken twigs. Whole landing piers had floated from the river onto land; half of an unmoored dock lay in front of Annabelle’s house as though it had been placed there as a walkway.

Her father parked the car in the cracked driveway and examined the front yard. Annabelle’s mother climbed out of the car and went to his side; he placed an arm over her shoulders, and together they stood and stared at the battered house. Annabelle stayed in the car gazing in wonder at the changed landscape, then in awe of her parents standing together, steadfast and still.

They turned to her, motioned for her to join them. She went to them. “It’s not as bad as some. The Carpenters lost everything,” her dad said.

Annabelle ran for the front door; her dad yelled at her to stop. “You don’t know if it’s safe yet, darling. Let me go in first.” He stepped carefully through the front door.

The blazing sun mocked what had come before. How could a place of such balmy, beautiful, cloud-free days have such destruction wrought upon it?