Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Aharsh, wracking cough woke me. I recognized the sound even before I opened my eyes.
My mother stood beside my bed, scowling down at me, rage and disapproval distorting her features, her fists balled at her sides.
I blinked a few times, squeezed my eyes shut then opened them again, confused more than startled by her sudden appearance at Dawes House.
How in the hell had she found me? How in the hell had she gotten into my apartment?
“Vivian?” I murmured, still groggy.
She moved in a blur and was suddenly inches from my face. Her expression twisted with disgust. “The devil has found you, girl,” she spat. “I always knew he would.”
Before I could respond, another hacking cough shook her until she gagged and gasped, and then she was gone.
I stared wide-eyed at the space where she’d been, my pulse hammering. It had been a dream. Must’ve been.
I glanced behind me to see Whit still sleeping soundly. Obviously, if my mother had suddenly appeared in my bedroom, spouting her usual brand of hatred and accusations, it would’ve awakened him as well.
Right?
I was still sitting in my bed, too stunned and confused to process what had just happened, when my cell phone rang. Whit stirred as I reached for the phone and watched me with bleary eyes as I answered.
“Is this Zellie Dupont?” a male voice asked.
I frowned. “Yes. Who is this?”
“Ms. Dupont, this is Detective Dwight Jones with the Atlanta Police Department,” the clipped voice said on the other end, all business. “Are you the daughter of Vivian Dupont?”
“Yes,” I replied, glancing at Whit. “She’s my mother.”
“Ms. Dupont, I’m sorry to inform you that your mother has died.”
My stomach clenched, the reason for Vivian’s “visit” now apparent. “How? When?”
“It appears to be natural causes,” he told me. “But it’s difficult to tell. She’s been dead for quite a while.”
Dead for quite a while?
My stomach dropped. Had her phone calls been her attempt to reach out after she’d died? It freaking figured. Even in death, Vivian had found a way to torment me.
A tentative touch on my arm startled me, and I sent a panicked glance in that direction, relieved as hell to see Whit’s concerned expression.
“Ms. Dupont?”
“I’m here,” I said. I reached out my hand to Whit, who immediately took it and gently squeezed, silently offering me comfort.
“We need you to come down and officially identify the body at your earliest convenience,” the detective informed me.
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on his words. “Uh, sure. Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I hung up and sat motionless, trying to absorb the news that Vivian was dead. My only remaining tether to my past gone forever. I wanted to cry for her, felt that I should. But there were no tears. There was no sorrow. There was only…relief.
“Zellie?” Whit eventually asked softly. “What’s happened?”
I blinked at him, having momentarily forgotten he was there. “Vivian’s dead.”
His eyes went wide. “Your mother?”
I nodded. “I need to go identify her body. Make arrangements.”
He pulled me to him, kissed my forehead. “What can I do?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him, surprised to find it was the true. “I need to go get Henry and get ready so I can go to Atlanta.”
“You take a shower,” Whit told me, throwing back the sheets. “I’ll go get dressed and then pick up Henry. He and I can hang out while you deal with everything.”
Tears of gratitude and love pricked the corners of my eyes. “Are you sure?”
He pulled me close. “Absolutely. You just tell me what you need me to do.”
I took his face in my hands and kissed him. “All I need right now is you. Would you stay a little longer?”
After taking a long shower with Whit, letting the warmth of the water and of his body envelop me, I quickly got dressed and forced down a piece of toast so that my stomach wasn’t completely empty when I made the drive to Atlanta.
After making a few preliminary phone calls to mortuaries, I went to Whit’s apartment.
When he didn’t answer the door, I headed downstairs, realizing he must’ve already gone to June and Earl’s to pick up Henry.
As I approached June’s door, I overheard Whit and June talking in what sounded like angry whispers.
They spoke a language I didn’t understand, didn’t even recognize, but I definitely caught my name more than once.
Then, as if they both sensed my presence at the same time, their words abruptly ceased.
But then June got in the last word—in English.
“You have a duty to the family,” she snapped. “Remember that.” Then she came toward me, hands held out to grasp mine. “Zellie, darlin’, I’m so sorry to hear about your mama. Are you all right? What can I do?”
I glanced at Whit before offering June a grateful smile. “Thank you, Ms. June. But I’m okay. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Where’s Henry?”
“He’s just finishing up breakfast,” she said. “Come on in.”
Whit turned to follow her, but I grasped his arm. “What was that all about?”
“June’s concerned that I’ll leave before everything is finished,” he said, turning once more toward the door.
“What language were you speaking?” I asked.
He paused and then turned back to me. “An old one. June isn’t originally from here. Her accent is all but gone at this point, but she sometimes slips into her native language when she’s angry.”
“And you speak the same language?” I asked, trying to understand.
“I learned as a child,” he told me. “I speak several languages.” He smiled, but it seemed forced. “Private tutors, remember?”
Henry was excited to spend the day with Whit.
I didn’t bother telling him where I was going.
What was the point? He’d heard about Vivian in that he knew that I had a mother like everyone else, but he’d never met her.
To Henry, Vivian was just a nebulous concept, not really something a five-year-old would bother thinking about.
I made the drive to Atlanta, courtesy of the driver service Whit ordered.
I’d protested, insisting I could drive myself, but as I sat in the backseat of the black sedan, staring out the window at the cityscape, inching along through the traffic of the clogged downtown arteries, I was grateful I didn’t have to be navigating.
My guilt gnawed at me, making my conscience squirm. I should’ve felt something. Vivian had been my mother.
But the only sorrow I experienced was that she’d never known Henry, had never gotten to see what an amazing kid he was or hear his laughter or experience one of his uninhibited, fully loving hugs that always made the day better.
And it was sad that she’d died alone, that no one had even noticed she was gone for who knew how long.
In the end, the woman who had gone out of her way to make me feel like I was useless, worthless, something to be abhorred, had mattered to no one.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the morgue attendant said as he ushered me into the room where a body lay on a cold steel table, a sheet draped over her face.
He lifted the sheet without ceremony, revealing a bloated, discolored version of Vivian. I nodded to him. “Yes, that’s my mother. Vivian Dupont.”
“Would you like a few minutes?” he asked gently.
Momentarily confused, I met his gaze—kind, compassionate. “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m fine.”
When I arrived home that evening, I opened my apartment door to find several bouquets of flowers set out on the tables, credenza, shelves. A soft clatter in the kitchen startled a brief cry from me, and a face peeked out around the doorframe.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” Pearlie said, hurrying toward me, hands outstretched. “I was trying to finish up before you got home.”
“Finish up?” I repeated, confused.
“Whit told us about your mother,” she explained.
“June and I have made you plenty of food and put it in the fridge. You might want to move some to the freezer, as usual, so it’ll last you.
And Merilee cut you some flowers from the garden.
Lots of lavender to help you relax. Iris will be by later to drop off her cobbler.
The woman’s cobbler is the best is Savannah, but bless her heart, she needs to expand her repertoire. ”
“Oh, Ms. Pearlie,” I said, my voice small, the weight of their kindness overwhelming. “This is too much. You didn’t have to do all this!”
“Hush now,” she replied, waving away my words. “You don’t need to be worrying about anything right now. Junior and Earl did some cleaning for you, so you just focus on taking care of your mama’s arrangements.”
“Thank you, Ms. Pearlie,” I told her. “I truly appreciate it. But Vivian and I weren’t close. She wasn’t really much of a mother to me. I’m honestly okay.”
She put her arm around me and led me to the couch, then sat down beside me.
“I’m not one to tell a person how to feel or how to grieve,” she began, “but she was still your mama. And at some point, all that you’ve lost with her passing—whether that’s something real or something wished for—will hit you.
Sometimes grieving for what could’ve been is harder than grieving for what was. ”
Pearlie’s words struck me more than the actual news of Vivian’s death.
And the tears came before I even realized it.
Once the floodgates had opened, I couldn’t close them again.
Pearlie pulled me close, smoothing my hair, rocking me as I sobbed for all that never was and the missed opportunity to ever change it.
“There now,” she murmured. “I’ve got you, baby. You just let it all out.”
I don’t know how long I cried. Probably not as long as it seemed. When I finally lifted my head, Pearlie brushed my hair from my eyes.