Chapter 9
My father, or a version of him that had always been with me, came into my dreams during the night. He was tall like Beck told
me. He was faceless, but my soul knew I looked like him, which had to be true because I didn’t look like Beck.
Beck’s heart-shaped face was the opposite of my angular one. She had a softly defined chin, while mine was a little pointy.
Her eyes were round, matching her button nose, while my nose was straight and my eyes almond-shaped. The only features we
shared were our full lips and golden-brown skin, with Beck’s being more photogenic in both soft and dramatic light.
In the dream, my father was holding my hand, not letting it go, showing me love in the only way he could.
I awoke to the sensation of a leaf on my neck, so strong that I touched it to make sure there was nothing there.
The earthy smell, the feel of a hand on mine, and the metal clicking were stronger than they’d ever been, especially the clicking.
The sound was distinct. I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t connect it.
I was certain that this was what I’d always known it to be—a memory.
It was coming to me more frequently, and that had to be because of the paternal ancestry match.
I rolled over and called Beck on video.
She was outside in the yard, wearing a gardening hat. “Late night writing?” she asked.
It was obvious I was still in bed.
“I had a dream about my father.”
Beck didn’t hold back her irritability when she asked, “What kind of dream?”
Describing what I experienced was difficult, but I tried to find words. “It was more like a visitation. I felt him, if that
makes sense.” I wasn’t sure it did.
Beck pursed her lips. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. She continued working, her right shoulder jerking back and forth as she used
a spade to penetrate the soil.
I added, “It was an impression.”
Beck finally stopped to give me her attention. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you want me to say about that, Alex.
I’ve never had a visitation or an impression from someone who wasn’t alive. You know the Bible tells us the dead are conscious
of nothing.”
Holding a sigh of frustration, I moved the conversation along. To be fair, I wasn’t even sure what I expected her to say.
My dream was intangible, not even clear to me, but I did have something solid to add to my query, and since it was the real
reason I’d called her, I asked, “Did he ever mention a relative named Tom Jones?”
Beck’s eyelids fluttered a few times before she responded. “I told you he didn’t have relatives.”
“He would have been older by twenty years.”
“Is this someone Joy told you about?” Beck’s face disappeared. I was looking at the sky, and I could hear her digging into
something.
“Of course it’s Joy,” I replied, annoyed that she wouldn’t look at me while we talked.
“I don’t know a Tom Jones. I’ve never known one. Is that it?”
Disappointed, I relented. “How’s Aunt Leah?”
“She has a follow-up with the ortho doc today.”
“Is she getting the cast off?”
“Honey, the cast is going to be on for at least another four weeks. Her bones are old. If you live long enough, you’ll know
what that means.”
“I’ll call her later.”
“She’ll be glad to hear from you.” Beck’s face appeared again, and I could see that perspiration had popped out on her forehead.
“I need to go. The sun is getting higher by the second, and I want to finish this.”
We ended the call. Frustrated didn’t fully describe my emotions. I know Beck didn’t do it intentionally, but her way of shutting down left me feeling confused
and angry. It was like she didn’t think I had a right to ask questions. The whole thing left me with more longing. My questions
mattered, and she never behaved like they did, even before this recent Ancestry thing. Why couldn’t she understand I needed
support? After all, she was the only one I could talk to about my father.
I threw the comforter back and stood. I wanted to work before it was time to go to the center. I hoped the words would come,
because I needed to be able to disappear in my writing.
The clatter of pencils and the low murmur of teen voices filled the conference room.
I sat at the front, flipping through a pile of student essays, pen in hand—purple instead of red to reduce triggered emotions.
Although there were some decent papers, most were, as expected, sweet but effortless writing that could have been better if the kids had tried.
But then I read a paper from a girl named Regina.
I scanned the first line and readjusted myself in my chair.
I know how to shuck an oyster faster than some grown men and how to tell when the tide’s turning by looking at the way the
fish move.
My eyes flicked up from the paper. Regina sat near the back wall, legs crossed at the ankles, her slim frame nearly swallowed
by the T-shirt she wore that read:
Head, Hands, and Heart. The Gullah Way ~ Ms. Emily.
The tribute to Emily Meggett, one of the most famous Gullah cooks, elicited warm feelings. I’d seen the woman speak once at
a library event, and Beck owned her cookbook.
Regina had not been here on Monday. There were a lot of kids, but I would have remembered her. She was focused, not looking
up or around like some of the students. She wrote quietly, head down, not knowing she’d just cracked something wide open in
me.
Turning back to the page, I kept reading.
My grandma says the women on Edisto been watching the fish since before the White man came back, and I believe her. I come
from people who water-watch and moon-watch and people who hold stories like oyster shells.
I set the pen down and pressed a palm to the page as if it might keep the words from slipping away. How had she created something so beautiful? She was on the roll as a rising ninth grader. She couldn’t be more than fourteen.
The essay wasn’t finished, nor was it perfect. As expected, there were a few grammatical issues and an occasional phrase that
needed some work, but the potential for a publishable piece lay in front of me. I had no idea how something so rich and wonderful
came from such a small, quiet body. This child had a gift.
The last book I’d written was light and sweet, just enough to keep the plot moving and my readers satisfied. I used to write
novels in my sleep: meet-cute with undeniable butterflies, conflict from opposing goals, kisses, and resolution. Depending
on the series, I sprinkled in either some big-city life or small-town culture, which always included a few comfort food dishes,
a sassy bestie like Trish, and—boom—done.
But this? This was writing. This was deep and true. It made me wonder why I refused to go there in my own work. Why had I
never been brave enough to pull out my secret file of historical story ideas and put one in writing?
When the session ended, the kids began packing up, shuffling out to the parking lot where the bus was waiting to take them
home to Edisto Island.
Regina was at the end of the line. I couldn’t resist calling her.
She walked back to where I stood, notebook hugged to her chest, and said, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Your piece about the oyster shucking was very good.”
Her eyes widened just slightly.
“I think you have something special.”
A shy grin peeked out, quick and fleeting. “Thank you.”
“You should work on finishing it,” I said.
“I don’t know if I have a whole story.”
“I’ll help you.”
Her enthusiastic nod set her braids in motion. “Okay.”
She skipped off and boarded the bus. I noticed Malachi holding her book bag, and I wondered if they had a little teen romance going.
I stood there for a long time, watching the dust rise behind the bus’s tires. I’d lived on James Island for years, but I’d
never really seen it—not beyond my house and the familiar stores and restaurants. I’d never asked who lived on the quiet dirt
roads shaded by live oaks or what stories they carried. There were Gullah on James. Lots of them. People who’d shucked oysters
and probably water-watched.
Taylor’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “I don’t know how they’re going to get here after the school year ends.”
Next week was the last week for the buses.
I remembered what Gabe told me about his uncle. “We have someone who is willing to pick up the students from Edisto. He’ll
bring them here, but they have to have their own transportation home.” I walked back to the conference room with Taylor following.
“That’s why I said what I said. This isn’t around the corner.” She went to the whiteboard and wiped off the vocabulary words
we’d worked on today.
I said, “But it’s free, and people care about their children’s education.”
“I heard summer is as empty as a crabbing ship after the port is closed.” Taylor squatted and picked up a pencil from the
floor.
“Who did you hear that from?” I asked.
“Ms. Kate. Who else would use such metaphoric language? Local kids come, but the ones from Edisto have a hard time.”
“I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t happen this year,” I said. Although I wasn’t sure I could. Gabe had been me last summer. If he couldn’t keep them coming, what made me think I could?
Taylor clapped her hands, startling me. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” She disappeared from the room and returned with an item I recognized. A bag of Savannah Rae popcorn. “I brought you a treat.”
“I see.” I smiled. She handed over the oversized bag of popcorn. “How did you know I liked this?”
“I read it in an interview on a blog. It had a personal Q&A section.” She picked up her phone, swiped, and held it in front
of my face. It was an interview from a few years ago. I recognized the older book cover. “Told you I’m a fan.”
My eyes dropped to the bag and then back up to her face. “This is sweet, Taylor. Thank you.”
“Consider it a welcome gift.”
I was reminded of Gabe’s sandwich and smiled inside. I put the bag down and went to the stack of student papers I needed to
look at before the students turned in more.
I picked up the coffee mug, noting that I only half finished it. It was the good stuff Ms. Kate perked for Gabe. I didn’t