Chapter 9 #2
want to waste it, so I went into the kitchen and stuck the mug in the microwave.
When I returned, Taylor was sitting and reading Regina’s paper.
“I’d like to see her expand it,” I said.
Taylor nodded and put it down. She didn’t offer any praise, high or otherwise.
Curious, I pressed, “So what do you think?”
Taylor brushed her hair behind her ear but offered nothing.
“I wanted to get your thoughts. I think there’s something really special here.”
Taylor picked it up again and skimmed it for a moment, expression unreadable.
“Hmm,” she said eventually. “I mean, it’s nice. But she seems to be stuck on this topic. She’s been writing about her grandmother
and the oysters since I got here.”
“She’s trying to find the story,” I said.
Taylor nodded. “Maybe you could talk to Regina about focusing on one theme.”
“I sense she wants to focus on her identity and culture. Share where she comes from.”
Taylor shrugged. “She’ll get there. I think I’ll let you manage the storytelling stuff, because that’s your art. If anyone
can pull magic out of them, it’ll be you. I’ll focus on the structure and grammar. A lot of these kids are behind in their
English classes. They need grammar work just as much as they need writing help.”
I swallowed a sigh. “True, but they also need to feel like what they have to say matters. The story has to come before the
mechanics.”
Taylor offered a polite smile. “Of course you’re right. Forgive me. I’m coming off finals. My students did not do well.”
“I remember those days,” I said, and I did not miss them.
She opened her purse and removed a set of keys. “Are we ready to go?”
“I’ll lock up behind you,” I said. I walked her to the door.
My memory flashed to Regina’s T-shirt with Ms. Emily’s words: Head, Hands, and Heart. The Gullah were special people. Their
culture was everything to them, and should be.
I wasn’t wrong. Regina’s story was a gift. My job was going to be to bring it out.
I closed the center and walked back to my cabin. It was less than a half mile walk, but the whole way, I wished I’d driven.
It was hot and humid. Every creepy, crawly thing in the Lo’ came alive after the early afternoon rain shower. By the time
I reached my cabin, I needed a shower.
Joy and I exchanged a few emails until we nailed down a time for our Zoom chat this evening. Once I showered, I was revived and excited to meet with her.
I slipped into the chair behind my desk and logged in for our meeting.
I waited for Joy to turn on her camera. I could hear her telling someone to take the dog out of the room right before her
image popped into view. I gasped. Sucked in air with all the sucking that happens when you see the twin you didn’t know you
had for the first time. I didn’t look like Beck—I knew that—but I didn’t realize how much I must look like my father.
“Hi,” Joy said. Her voice exuded all the wonder I was feeling.
“Hey, cuz,” I replied, feeling odd about it being a real statement. I had cousins, second ones or something on that order,
but I didn’t know them. I hadn’t been to Clarendon County since my grandmother’s funeral, which was twenty years ago.
“I guess we should begin with the fact that my mother doesn’t know a Tom Jones.”
Joy frowned. “That would have made this easier.”
“She’s sure,” I said, although the conversation with Beck on Saturday made me question everything. I couldn’t tell Joy I thought
my mother was keeping something from me. Not yet.
“What’s your father’s name?” Joy asked, picking up a pen.
“John Miller.”
“I haven’t heard that. It’s pretty common too.”
I nodded. “So, I have questions,” I started. “Has your family always been in Dallas?”
Joy shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’m adopted.”
I processed for a few seconds before saying, “Oh.”
“It wasn’t a closed adoption. I was adopted by my mother’s neighbor.”
“Okay.” Before I could formulate a question about that, she added more context.
“My mother was in prison when I was born, and then when she got out, she wasn’t able to take care of me.”
Not knowing what one said to a person who had this experience, I chose an empathetic “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She died last year.”
This was getting worse. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I got to know her a little better when she got sick, but she didn’t have much to say about her family. I didn’t
get the impression that she had many relatives, but she did direct me to a few people in Phoenix. I visited last year at Christmas.”
“That’s great,” I said.
Joy smiled. “It is. But they didn’t know anything about my father. They didn’t even know my mother was in prison.”
I nodded again.
“Losing my mom made me want to know more about my father. That’s why I did Ancestry. I don’t know anything about him except
that he wasn’t a good man.”
“What do you mean?”
“He pulled my mother into his illegal business. She loved him. She fell right into the trap, and then he abandoned her, letting
her take the fall for everything. That’s why she was locked up. My mother said she thought he was hiding his past. He was
oddly secretive.”
I nodded again and let her talk because it felt like the right thing.
“Like I told you, he was from South Carolina, which fits, right? You’re from South Carolina.”
I sat up straighter. It was time for me to enter this two-person group chat. “Yes, but I grew up in New Jersey. I moved here
for college and stayed.”
Joy looked disappointed, kind of lost, so I clarified. “I meant to say, all my family is from here. But my dad and his mother
moved to South Carolina from New York.”
“Did they move to Edisto?”
“No. My family is from Clarendon County. That’s where my mother went to school. It’s where she met my father . . . in high
school. She dropped out when she got pregnant with me.”
Joy looked disappointed. She was anxious to connect the dots, and they weren’t connecting. She asked, “Is it possible they
lived in Edisto first?”
“No. His mother was in the military. She was stationed at Fort Sumter when she arrived, and she died when he was in high school.”
Joy sat back, releasing a heavy sigh. “Well, there has to be some connection to Edisto.”
“Why do you say that? Maybe your father moved there from New York.”
Joy shook her head. “My mother told me my dad spoke a different language sometimes when he was upset. She said it sounded
like Jamaican Patwa, and that once some man called him an ignorant Geechee and it tripped my father’s temper. My mother said
they got into a horrible fight. It happened a few days before he disappeared.” Joy pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
I could see she was uncomfortable talking about this. “That fits with him being from Edisto.”
Gullah language. All of this was such a mystery.
Joy continued, “I probably listen to too many real crime podcasts, but I wonder if that man knowing where my dad was from
was the reason he took off. My mother said it was sudden. One day they were sitting on the sofa watching television, and then
he said he was going to the store. He didn’t come back. It was the classic ‘father goes out for milk’ scenario.”
I gave her a moment to grieve that. She looked like she needed it.
“So we’re potentially looking at a connection to the Gullah.”
“Are you familiar with Edisto Island?” Joy asked.
“No, but I’m not too far from it right now. I’ve been working with some students from Edisto.”
“Really?”
“It’s a long story, but before this month, I’ve never thought much about Edisto. The Lowcountry is big.” I ran through the
geography in my head, stacking islands and distances, trying to make what I was feeling recede. It didn’t. “This coincidence
is kind of overwhelming.”
“I can imagine.” Joy processed with me for a moment before saying, “If he was from Edisto, the language makes sense, right?”
I nodded.
“You know what that means,” Joy said.
I answered with the thought that came to mind. “You’re Gullah Geechee.”
“Maybe we are.”
I didn’t even know what to do with that knowledge, so I tucked it away to process later.
“I’m pretty good at research. I’m going to do some digging. It’s time,” I said, realizing it really was.
Joy snapped her fingers, and I could see she’d just remembered something. “I have some pictures. I moved two months ago. I
still have stuff in boxes. I packed like I never wanted to find my stuff again, but I’ll locate them.”
I smiled knowingly. “Pictures would be good.” We shared a little about ourselves. She told me about her work as a quality
assurance specialist for a major cruise line, which sounded like the perfect job for a heroine, and I told her I was a writer.
We were impressed with each other’s careers.
We got off the video, and I sat there, still in shock about the Gullah connection to Edisto.
This felt like divine providence. God was drawing me to my ancestor on my father’s side for a reason, and I couldn’t wait to figure out what that was.
If Beck didn’t know anything or didn’t want to share what she knew, I’d find my way home myself.