Chapter 14
I lay in bed scrolling social media, perusing all the new book releases. It was publication Tuesday for authors. I read the
summaries for a few and pressed hearts and thumbs-ups for others. This should have inspired me to write, but it didn’t. I
had to check my heart. Was I jealous? I didn’t think so. I just felt small and not a part. It was hard to celebrate someone
else when your own situation was so messed up.
I didn’t have to teach again until Wednesday evening. It seemed just as good a day as any to drive to Clarendon County to
start my “daddy” research. I decided to start with high school yearbooks. They would give me a picture of my dad when he was
a teenager, which wouldn’t be much younger than he was before he died. I was born in 1987. Pregnant with me, Beck dropped
out in late 1986. I called Manning High School to make sure the high school had yearbooks from the mid-eighties and that I
could view them.
I exited I-95 at the Manning exit, and straight ahead was a tremendous truck stop, the one Gabe had mentioned. I passed more gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and hotels before I finally reached the school. It was just as my GPS said, one mile from the interstate.
Security directed me to the office. The woman at the front desk of the school wore her hair in tight gray curls and glasses
that slid down her nose every few seconds. She was older but not old enough to have worked here forty years ago.
“I called about the yearbooks.” I took out my ID. I’d been told on the phone that I would need it.
She glanced from my driver’s license to her computer screen, then back to me.
“You said you need the years 1985 to 1988.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what exactly are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to find a picture of my father. He died when I was young, and every picture my mother had was burned in a fire.
I’ve never seen him. I thought a high school picture would be something.”
Empathy swelled in her instantly. She pushed up her glasses, then nodded and disappeared through a side door. The faint smell
of copier toner hung in the air. The sound of a printer humming came from somewhere behind the counter. Armpit sweat soaked
through my T-shirt. I’d been so focused on the steps—call the school, get in the car, make the drive—that I hadn’t stopped
to think about what was happening. I was going to see a picture of my father. Why I hadn’t thought to do this before, I had
no idea.
Ms. Kate’s words about me being overly focused on my writing crept into my mind.
When the woman returned, she only had one book. She carried it pressed against her chest like something sacred. “Unfortunately,
this is the only one from that time.”
My heart sank. “Just this one?”
“There was a flood, and they lost most of the collection. This one has some water damage too.” She slid the book toward me and offered a polite smile. “You can take a look right here at the counter. We just ask that you don’t bend the spine.”
I hid my disappointment with a firm nod of agreement before taking the book.
Manning Mahicans was embossed on the cover. I had no idea what a Mahican was, but they were the Monarchs now. It was on signs everywhere.
My writer’s brain was curious about when that had changed, but not curious enough to stop what I was doing to ask. My pulse
quickened as I opened the book. The pages smelled faintly of mildew, and many had water damage. I flipped through, scanning
names and faces of teenagers frozen in their eighties glory. The girls wore bright lipstick, their curls teased sky-high.
The boys had box cuts and wide, confident smiles.
There wasn’t a single John Miller.
I checked again. Nothing. I looked a third time. Nothing.
I turned the pages slowly this time, my finger tracing each photograph. No John Miller. Not one. The only male Millers were
White. I was not biracial. Aside from the fact that I didn’t look it, Ancestry would have told me so.
My throat tightened as I flipped back through one more time. I hated this not ending in success. I decided to look at every
Black boy in hopes that I would find something.
I stared harder at the faces in the rows of young men—light skin, dark skin, sharp jawlines, rounder faces—searching for something
familiar. The slope of a nose, the shape of a mouth. Anything that might hint at connection. No one looked remotely like me.
After nearly twenty minutes, I closed the book. My reflection hovered faintly in the glossy cover—my own eyes staring back
at me, the only face I could claim.
“Did you find him?” the secretary asked softly.
I swallowed hurt. “No.”
She pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. I’ve been over here hoping you would. I can’t imagine never having a picture.”
I paused, acknowledging her empathy before asking, “Do you know of anyone who might have old yearbooks?”
“You can try the public library, but I don’t think they have anything that far back.”
“What about an older principal or someone who is a local historian?”
“The principal from then passed on. So did his wife. I don’t know. Maybe his kids might have some of his things. I’ll ask
around. You can leave your contact information.”
“That would be so kind,” I said, reaching into my bag for a business card. I handed it to her and jotted her name down in
my notebook. It was on her name tag: Mrs. Simon.
“Alexandra Chambers, writing as Alex Wesley. Author. Romance.” She smiled. “I’ve read some of your books.” She tapped her
chin, trying to recall a title. I knew that look. “The series about the Georgia ranchers.”
I pasted on a smile I didn’t feel. The disappointment was too great.
“I’m a fan.”
The smile held. “That’s always nice to hear.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you.”
After thanking her, I left the building.
Outside, the afternoon heat pressed down like a weight. I sat in my car for a long time, the faces from the yearbook still
flickering through my mind, one after another. I googled the Manning branch of the public library and discovered they didn’t
have yearbooks. Beck told me she and John Miller went to high school together.
So why wasn’t he there? And then something else occurred to me. I had not seen a single picture of my mother. There was no Rebecca Chambers in that yearbook either.
I started the engine, the hum of the air conditioner filling the silence. For the first time, the truth that had lingered
all my life took shape into something sharper, clearer. Beck was definitely hiding something.
The secretary was right; she couldn’t imagine what it was like to live my entire life without a picture of my father. Not
finding one today added to my disappointment. It made me angry. I had two choices: I could go to my house on James Island
and confront Beck, or I could return to the cabin and cry.
Outside the cabin, I sat in my car. I sent a text to Joy.
Me: I didn’t find him in the yearbook.
Joy: ??
Me: They only had one of the four years I needed. It was disappointing.
Joy: Sigh. Sorry. If you want to talk, call me. I’ll be reading your book tonight. ??
My heart lifted a little, but then sad emotions flooded back in. I continued to sit there, too traumatized to get out of the
car and already regretting that I didn’t just go home and confront Beck and Aunt Leah for more information. My mind was reeling
with scenarios. Was I a child of incest or rape? Was there something awful that Beck didn’t want me to know?
The sensation came over me. The one I had right before the memory took hold. I fought it. I didn’t want to smell the scent,
feel the hand, hear the click and the sobbing.
An ache crawled up the back of my neck and over the top of my head from the tears . . . the slow weeping I’d done during the two-hour return car ride. Nothing was going to get better sitting here, so I opened the door and stepped out. A minivan pulled in at my right, and I saw it was Ms. Kate.
She stared at me for a few seconds before saying, “Come. I’ll make you something.”
Not hesitating, I walked to her car and climbed inside.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on her sofa under a throw with my feet up, drinking some mint concoction she swore would
take away my headache, listening to her move things around in the kitchen.
Ms. Kate appeared in the space between the kitchen and the living room. “I have fish right out of the water.”
I nodded. “That sounds lovely.”
She disappeared again.
Over the next forty minutes or so, I drank as chopping, sizzling, and various other sounds came from the kitchen. I picked
up my phone several times to text Joy or Trish, but I realized no one was going to be able to help me get over this betrayal
but God, and I had yet to pray about it.
By the time Ms. Kate put a tray in front of me, my head was better.
“I can eat at your table,” I offered.
“Oona rest. I take me meal in here all de time.”
A few minutes later, she joined me.
The fish was so good. As comforting and healing as the tea. “What is this?” I asked.
“Red snapper in a moppin’ sauce. The spice is good for the headache too.”
Using the bread she served with it, I handled the sauce by its name. It was so good, and I told Ms. Kate by wiping the plate so clean it looked washed.
“More?” she asked. “Gabe is gone. I have extra. I always have extra.”
“I’m stuffed. The bread. Homemade is so good.” I sighed. “My mother makes her own too.”
I put my tray on the table and stood.
Folding the throw, I said, “You have to let me wash the dishes.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I already tell oona, I like to cook and clean.”
I couldn’t imagine the latter, but I took her at her word.
Ms. Kate picked up our dishes and carried them into the kitchen. She returned with a scoop of ice cream for me. Hand churned,
I was sure. I asked, and she confirmed it was.
“Is there anything you don’t make yourself?” I asked.
“Lots of tings, but I have time, and so I just do what I enjoy.”
Ms. Kate left the room one more time, returning with a laundry-sized canvas bag full of sweetgrass. She sat, pulled out some
pieces, and piled them on the coffee table in front of her.
“What upset you so?” she asked.
I sighed and put down my empty bowl. “My mother is giving me a hard time about something. I don’t think she’s being honest,
and I don’t like it.”
“Not being honest?” Ms. Kate’s tone hinted at caution. “Why she not tell oona de truth?”
“Because it has to do with my father. I could be wrong, but there’s something she doesn’t want me to know.”
“When we talked before, you said nothing about your fada.”
“He died when I was three. I don’t know much about him.” I told her my mother’s story, which included the little I knew about
my dad.
Ms. Kate didn’t say anything at first. She wove a strand of grass around another before whispering, “That’s too bad.”
I was expecting her to say more, but she was caught up in what she was doing, and so was I.
The grass smelled faintly of lemon balm, which was not only pleasant but calming. Her fingers moved in a rhythm that was more
prayer than motion—deft, sure, unhurried. She twisted one piece over another, her thumbs pressing down just so, then looped
the end back through to make the stem hold. The bouquet wasn’t a typical one. It had no petals, no stiff green leaves. It
was more like a sculpture. When she finished, she stuck a sprig of lavender inside and started another.
I sat across from her, watching intently. The writer in me wanted to describe it, to capture it for the written page.
Ms. Kate glanced up, knowing. “You starin’ like you takin’ notes,” she teased.
“I am,” I said. “But I don’t understand how it holds together. It looks like it should come undone.”
“It don’t. Oona got to let the grass talk to you. It tell you where it want to bend. Where it want to stay.”
She reached for another strand and motioned for me to come closer. “I’ll show you.”
After moving to her side, I had an up-close look at the motions she made with her hands. She pulled a few pieces from her
bundle and handed them to me. The smooth, cool grass had a sheen, and the ends were still fragrant from the marsh.
“Do what I do, but feel yer way,” she said. “You can’t rush. Sweetgrass don’t like no hurry.”
I tried to follow her movements, fingers clumsy compared to hers. My loops were too loose, my grip too tight. The grass cracked,
frustrating me. I’d already failed once today.
“Go slow,” Ms. Kate said gently. “You’ll learn. You got to listen to what you hold.”
Her hands brushed mine, steadying the next weave, showing me the motion again. Together we shaped the bouquet. After a while,
she leaned back, inspecting my work. “My mama say sweetgrass remember everything that touch it. Every hand.”
I looked down at the bouquet in my lap—awkward but still beautiful. “Then I guess this one remembers me.”
She smiled, eyes soft. “It do now.”