The Vigil (21 page)

When I turned into her driveway and stopped the car at her doorstep, she turned to me. “I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. Go home and enjoy some time with that pooch of yours. And, Cheryl, you can wear anything in that trunk but the white dress.” She placed her soft wrinkled hand on mine. “You can go through the other trunk alone. I don't think it's a good idea for me to be there.”

“Sure.” I swallowed and felt like I'd eaten a handful of sand.

Her eyes, usually full of life, stared at me with veiled sorrow.

“Mawmaw, I don't have to wear anything. It's just a dumb
fais do do
. It's not that important.”

“No.” She squeezed my hand. “It is important and I'm honored dat you think I'm someone you admire enough to want to dress like. But, honey, don't put me on a pedestal. I don't belong dere.” Her Cajun accent seemed more pronounced tonight.

After helping her get settled for the evening, I drove home. Images jostled through my mind. Mawmaw's pain. The dress. How could a dress bring about such sorrow?

Unless…a flash of words from a Lady S letter seared through my brain. She'd been excited about looking at wedding dress patterns. Had I held the very dress that Lady S had planned to wear to marry Carlton?

Bile rose, burning my throat.

Was Mawmaw Lady S? Millions of other questions scrambled through my brain. One gripped the hardest and the longest—if so, what happened?

 

****

 

Monday there had been no change in Carlton's condition. When I walked in on Tuesday, Darcy gave me a quick hug. “He's a bit of a firecracker today. Feelin' a little better. Oh, and Cheryl, can you prepare his meds for the week? He got a little restless about three this morning, so I didn't get a chance to do them.”

“Sure, I will. Think his friskiness will last a while?”

She shrugged. “Doubtful.”

I knew what she thought. I'd seen it many times in terminal patients. A last rally before death consumed them. I hoped that was not the case with Carlton today.

“Missed you,” he said when I entered his bedroom. His eyes twinkled.

“What do you mean, missed me? I've been right here.” I walked to the dresser and retrieved the last two letters from Lady S. I figured he'd want me to read them since he hadn't wanted to yesterday.

“Yep, but not the same. Sum...tin' happen?”

I tidied the area around his nightstand, refilled his glass with water, and then turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“You upset. All day yester...day.”

How had he become so in tune with my feelings? I shivered as though someone had blown cool air across the back of my neck. No one had ever been able to read me like Carlton had begun to. I wasn't sure I liked it, but at the same time, I did because I'd grown very fond of him. When I thought that his time drew near, a twisted knot tightened my gut.

Should I respond? I couldn't ignore his question, but could I talk about what had happened this weekend? Maybe he would understand about Mawmaw's reaction. After all, his walk down memory lane had left him feeling pretty sad more than a few times. And maybe…maybe he could confirm my suspicions.

I pulled up a chair and began to recount the events of the weekend starting with finding Mawmaw tangled in the garden netting.

He chuckled. “She sounds funny.”

“She is. You would like her. She's a feisty old lady with a pretty good sense of humor. She means the world to me.”

He nodded and smiled. “Glad you...had her...in your life.”

“Yes, Clarice Clement has brought a lot of joy in my life.”

His eyes widened.

I continued with the rest of the story, and I told him about the dress and Mawmaw's reaction.

His eyes glazed over, and he became very still.

My pulse raced. “Carlton?”

He stared right through me as though I was not there. After what seemed an eternity, he finally shook his head. He exhaled long and slow, and then inhaled deeply. “Would you read…my letters from Lady S?”

“Sure.” I reached for the letters. A twinge of disappointment gnawed at me. I expected more from him. Confirmation? Acknowledgement? I wanted him to tell me so badly what I wanted to hear. Had he loved my grandmother?

Cheryl, you're getting too close
.

As I settled into the bedside chair, Carlton reached out with his hand palm up, and flexed his fingers for me to come closer. I leaned forward and placed my hand in his.

He squeezed. “We all...have a past...that haunts us...” He took several deep breaths. “...better to leave...sleeping dogs...” His gaze locked with mine with as much intensity as his dying eyes could muster. He nodded very slightly knowing he didn't need to finish the sentence. “K?”

I squeezed his hand and nodded. “OK.”

“I like you.” He released my hand and leaned back onto the pillow. “Don't want...you hurt.”

“What do you mean?” Was he telling me what I wanted?

He closed his eyes. “Secrets...from yesterday...hurt...today.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “Let's read.”

So close. I swallowed my frustration and conceded. He was right. I'd seen it with my patients and their families. So many times buried secrets from the past had a way of bringing in a new wave of pain to the next generations. What could be so bad for me to be hurt by the truth?

I settled back in the chair with the last two letters on my lap and paused. Pressing him would gain nothing. His eyes were closed and his head rested on the propped pillow. When I remained silent, he opened his eyes and turned to me. “Well.”

“Well, what?”

“Gonna read?”

“You're not gonna tell me, are you?”

He closed his eyes again. “No need. Please read.”

I sighed and fought the tenacious urge to press for answers. Feeling deflated, I began reading.

 

My Dearest Carlton,

 

I'm so excited!!!!! I can't wait to see you! Your leave could not have come at a better time. I am counting the days until March first. It will be the best two weeks of the whole last year. Of course, the day at the watering hole is still my special day. I've kept the dress I wore that day, it's tucked away in the hope chest you gave me. It's where my wedding dress will go when it's done. Mrs. Mouton is making it from the pattern I bought at Woolworth's. She keeps asking me who the lucky guy is, but I won't say a word.

I'll be at the train depot when you arrive. Then the whole town will know that you and I are together, including Mama and Papa.

Write me with your exact date and I'll be there! Carlton, I'm still praying for your safety and peace.

 

All my love,

 

Lady S

 

My fingers lingered over the last words. Silence settled the room. Her joy spread from the words and permeated through me. When I braved a glance toward Carlton, his gentle smile told me he had traveled back to when she had sent him this letter. He lowered his eyelids.

I envisioned Mawmaw's dress as the one Mrs. Mouton sewed. What about the dress she'd worn to the water hole? Was it in the other trunk? I blew a long breath. I had no proof that Mawmaw was Lady S. But the fact that she referred to Mrs. Mouton told me that Sylvia Mouton was not Lady S.

I lifted the last letter. Its significance weighed more than the mere ounces of folded paper. Did it contain the words that explained why this man lay here alone as death encroached? Why he had never married? And been unable to forgive? And would he give up this struggle once these last words were read? I draped the afghan from the foot of his bed around my shuddering shoulders.

His labored breathing took on a steady rhythm I recognized. He'd fallen asleep. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. A reprieve of sorts, I wouldn't be burdened with the answers to my haunting questions. I laid the letters on the nightstand and tiptoed out the room and into the kitchen.

As I poured juice into my glass, Carlton's past with all its unanswered questions, whirled through my mind. He seemed like a likeable guy. Why had he not married? The snippet of “Jolie Blonde”
sounded from my cellphone. Mama.

“Hello.”

“Cheryl we need to talk.”

My chest tightened. Her voice was controlled but the underlying nervous tone sent shivers through me.

“Now?”

“No, can you come over...tonight after work?” Her voice quivered.

I sat at the table, juice in hand. “Sure. Mama, are you OK?”

“For now, but I need to talk to you in person. There's something I want you to see.”

“What is it?”

“Something I found in Mawmaw's trunk.”

My heart sank. “What?”

“I'll show you when you get here.”

What was Mama doing snooping in Mawmaw's trunk? “Mama, is Mawmaw with you?”

“No, Melanie is. I called her and she came over about an hour ago. She suggested I call you.”

This must be serious. “OK, I'll be over as soon as I can. I'm usually here until five, but sometimes Darcy comes in early so I may be able to head out early. I'll call you when I leave.”

After Mama's call, a lead mass settled in my stomach. What could she have discovered that upset her so? While I poured the vegetable soup Darcy cooked for Carlton's lunch, dread filled me. Carlton's words from this morning drifted in the quiet kitchen. Secrets from yesterday hurt today.

Carlton's mood infected the house. The firecracker Darcy had described this morning had disappeared.

He slept most of the day, and when he awakened shortly after lunchtime, he declined lunch. I didn't argue with him. He would eat when he was ready. He fell back into a deep sleep.

I tidied things around the house and prepared his medications for the coming week. As I dropped pills into the daily slots, I noticed Carlton took the same anti-psychotic that Mama did. Browsing through his chart, I flipped through pages of medication logs to get to his past medical history.

There it was—just as I suspected, schizophrenia. How had I forgotten that? His cancer had captured my attention. Could that be why he and Lady S never married? I thought of how the same diagnosis had affected Mama's life and caused so many problems before she had a proper diagnosis. The same thing could have easily happened to Carlton, especially in his time of growing up. Medicine back then had a long way to go in that area.

“Cheryl.” His scratchy voice filtered into the kitchen.

“Coming.” I padded down the hallway to his room. “What do you need?”

“Sit wit'...me.” He patted the side of his bed.

I glanced toward the nightstand where the last letter sat. Maybe he wanted me to read it. I perched on the edge of the bed and gently placed his hand in mine. The coolness of his skin penetrated through mine. “Carlton, are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “Naw.”

My heart sat like a blob in my chest. “What is it?”

His gaze met mine and I glimpsed his hopelessness. It reached into the depths of my heart and soul and twisted like barbed wire. I leaned toward him.

“Forgive...ness.”

“What about forgiveness?”

“Al...most there.”

I squeezed his hand tenderly, willing my warmth to seep into his fingers. I took a deep breath. I wasn't very good at this, for heaven's sake. I wasn't the model Christian. Not even close. For so many years, I wasn't even a Christian. Who was I to think that I could do this?
Lord, help me.

I inhaled. My deepening love for this man overwhelmed and guided me to take a chance. To ask the burning question I'd wanted to ask for the past few days.

Strength surged me forward. “Carlton, God's forgiven you. I know He has. He sees your remorse. Do you believe that?”

His Adam's apple slid up and down. His eyes, filled with tears, never left mine. He pursed his lips. “I do...now.”

“Forgive yourself. Let it go. It's time.”

He simply stared at me. I detected a twinge of doubt in his eyes.

“Carlton, did you do something to Lady S?”

His glare never wavered. He nodded. Tears dropped from the corners of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

I brought his fingers to my lips and pressed against them. “I'm sure she has forgiven you.”

“I don't...know.”

A fit of coughing overtook him. I waited. Helpless.

The episode left him exhausted. I returned to the kitchen to retrieve his glass. After he took a sip, he yielded to the fatigue. His head lolled to the left, and he fell asleep. For the next hour, I sat on the chair next to his bed and watched him sleep. Every now and then I'd glance toward the letter. It drew me. This letter could answer my most burning questions. What had happened? Who was she?

But I resisted. The story was his to tell.

After a while, I walked on legs of gelatin into the kitchen, sat at the table, lowered my head onto my folded arms and sobbed.

 

 

 

 

Vingt-Trois

 

With Mr. Bojangles at my feet, I walked into Mama's house.

Mama and Aunt Mel sat at the counter.

Mama met my questioning gaze with red puffy eyes. Her look matched how I felt. Worn.

She stood and reached for my hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

I glanced at my aunt. “Go. I'll entertain my favorite canine friend.” She reached for Mr. Bojangles' leash.

Mama led me back to the guest bedroom. Several letters were unfolded on top the flowered bedspread.

I lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. The letters were from C. Perlouix and addressed to Lady S. My legs quivered, and I plopped onto the bed.

Proof. What I'd wanted to know for so long. What I'd strongly suspected—Mawmaw was Lady S.

One burning question answered.

“Look at these letters. She had a whole life she never said anything about. What do you make of this?” Mama's arched eyebrow and piercing eyes begged for answers. Ones I couldn't give.