Chapter 16
The next day, I received a call from Beck. “We want to come see the cabin.”
“Today?” I asked.
“If you’re not too busy.”
I was not interested in seeing them, and it was so strange to feel that way. “I’m teaching this afternoon and preparing right
now. What about tomorrow or over the weekend?”
Beck sighed. “Won’t work. We’re going out of town in the morning.”
My pulse ramped up. “Going where?”
“Leah has cabin fever. She didn’t buy the van to be cooped up, so we’re taking it on the road.”
I knew my mother. She liked the idea of a fancy camper van, but not actually to camp in it. Not where there might be unfamiliar
bugs and wildlife.
“Where are you going?”
“Jacksonville, Cocoa Beach, and Valdosta, Georgia. Leah was planning to visit her friends after she came to visit us.”
“Before I broke my leg!” Aunt Leah yelled from the background. “No point just sitting here. I can prop my leg up at someone else’s house just as well as here.”
And my mother was available to drive. Beck taught art classes at the local county museum program, and they were on an early
summer break for two weeks. I was happy for them—and for me. Beck would be distracted while I waited to hear from Mrs. Simon
at the school. I was two seconds from calling her to make sure she hadn’t forgotten me when I realized it had been less than
two weeks since I’d made the request. I needed to be patient.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” I said.
We talked about a few more things before disconnecting. I opened my laptop and worked until the alarm alerted me that the
students would be arriving. I’d lost track of time. That was a good thing. I hadn’t lost track of time while writing in much
too long.
Within minutes, the room was filling up. They came in smelling like the outside, which made me smile and tickled my nose at
the same time. It was that smell every mama and teacher knew. The scent that says a child has been out in the heat mixing
sweat and dirt—not quite funky but not fresh either. They found their seats around the conference room tables. Backpacks hit
the floor, sneakers squeaked, and a few pencils rolled across the table before I could call things to order.
“Okay,” I said, tapping the whiteboard. “Today we’re trying something new. I want you to pick three nouns. Maybe three things
you’ve seen this week. A crab trap, your grandmother’s corn bread, a basketball hoop. It has to be real.”
A few kids groaned. Someone muttered, “We gettin’ set up, y’all.” There was some laughter before they let me go on.
I said, “Once you have your three words, I want you to describe what each looks like, what your first impression was, or how it made you feel. And when you’re done with that, you’re going to choose the most interesting one and turn it into a two-hundred-word short story.”
“Two hundred words? Like, exactly?” The question came from one of the seniors.
“Exactly,” I said as I moved across the front of the room. “Because limits force us to be creative. Think of it as a challenge.”
“I like challenges,” one of the boys said, already flipping open his notebook.
“Whoever finishes,” I added, pointing to the bright blue bin on the shelf, “can pull a treat from the reward box. The supply
of chips, candy bars, and cookies has been replenished.”
That got them moving.
Regina bent over her notebook, her braid slipping forward as she wrote, completely lost to the page. Watching her always steadied
me. She was proof that stories still mattered to someone.
I wanted to see what she had imagined, so I walked around the table, glancing down at their pages—some already filled with
scrawled words, others still blank.
When I reached the back of the room, Regina looked up when she sensed me and offered a shy half smile.
She slid her notebook toward me. Her three nouns: berries, Grandmama’s hands, oven.
My chest squeezed. She’d chosen great words. I couldn’t wait to see what she did with them, and I told her so. Then I asked,
“How is the oyster piece coming along?”
“I added more.” From her folder, she pulled out three handwritten pages and offered them to me. “I worked on it at home.”
I took the pages, smoothing them carefully before finishing my rounds with the other students and heading back to my desk.
As they did the first time, the words drew me in.
The water knows what it’s taken and what it’s given. My grandmama says if you stand in it long enough, it’ll tell you the difference . . .
My pulse quickened as I read. Her prose reminded me of Ms. Kate’s words—simple, authentic, and honest. The combination was
sacred.
When I looked up, Regina’s gaze was fixed on me. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she smiled, quick and shy, then ducked her head
and continued to work on the paper in front of her.
I’d set a timer on my phone when the kids started. It showed fifteen minutes remaining.
I hadn’t planned to write. But the blank page stared at me. Moved by Regina’s writing, I flipped open my notebook and whispered
to myself, “Sweetgrass, moppin’ sauce, Gullah ancestry.”
The words came easy, but what followed surprised me. My pen moved on its own, sweetgrass pushing its way past the other two
as my choice.
The woman didn’t know she belonged until the sound of her own voice drowned out the sea. There on Edisto Beach, she watched
a basket take shape, its coils smelling of sun and salt. She sat beside the weaver, taking a sheaf of her own, learning by
watching and listening to the strands whisper against each other, the faint rasp like soft music. The woman spoke words she
didn’t fully understand, but her bones did. She had come home.
When the timer buzzed, I jumped, startled back into the room. Around me, the students were trading pages and comparing stories.
“You okay, Miss Alex?” one of the boys asked.
I set my pen down. “Yes. I just got a little lost in the assignment.”
Someone asked, “You did our assignment?”
“Yes. I want a snack too.” I stood. “Who wants to read theirs?” I had no takers until I added, “The first one to go gets the first pick out of the bin.”
Then I had plenty of volunteers.
When the clock chimed, signaling the end of the session, I stood by the door, watching them file out. Regina was last, as
always.
I extended her paper. “Keep going. You’re nearly done.”
Like most writers, preferring privacy for critique, she only glanced at it before sticking it in her notebook.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For a good assignment today. I liked it.”
Her soft words hit harder than they should have. This child offered simple, unpolished gratitude that touched me.
She joined the others in the parking lot, and I watched them disappear in vehicles and on bicycles until they all were gone.
When the room was empty, I sat again, staring at my page.
The woman spoke words she didn’t fully understand, but her bones did. She had come home.
I reread the line three times before whispering, “What is she trying to tell me?”