Chapter 18
Trish and I spent the next day binge-watching TV shows and eating good food. I received a few pics from Beck, responded appropriately,
and pushed her out of my mind.
Gabe was in Hawaii for a writers’ retreat. The summer program was beginning. He texted and confirmed that his uncle was picking
up the students on Wednesday at the designated locations around the island. I’d sent notes home with the Edisto students last
week about the transportation arrangements. The local students had to find their own way. Some of them might be able to take
advantage of the Tri-County bus that traveled down Highway 17, the road we were located on, but that wouldn’t account for
very many students.
Trish was out of my cabin by 5:00 a.m. on Monday. I got in some early writing, took a long afternoon nap, and wrote all evening
and the next day until it was time to go to work at the center. I was glad I had a few bodies in the chairs. Regina, however,
was not one of them. Disappointment hit me in the gut, but it was the first day. Hopefully she’d come later in the week.
I’d brought in a stack of dictionaries and thesauruses, hoping to inspire the students to reach for stronger words. They were mostly using them to prop up their elbows.
Regina finally came in late. She walked straight to my desk. “I finished it,” she said, a little breathless, as if she’d run
the whole way.
Warmth spread through my chest. “Let’s take a look.”
She slid the pages over, the corners smudged from pencil lead on her fingers. “I tried to make it like you said. Like a full
story, not just a memory.”
I began to read. The heat of her stare never left my face. The story unfolded slowly, every line full of texture.
Grandmama says you have to listen to the water. It whispers first; then it hums. When I go with her to the shore, I hear it
talking about things I don’t understand yet. The water says, “Girl, you from me.”
When I finished, I exhaled softly, my throat thick. “Regina, this . . .” I touched the page, tracing one of her sentences.
“This is real writing. You didn’t just tell me something—you let me experience it. I could smell the salt, hear the tide.”
As always, her smile was huge. “You think I should send this one?”
“I think,” I said, “if you don’t send it, I will.”
She giggled, and the two long braids she wore on either side of her head moved. Beck had plaited my hair the same way when
I was Regina’s age. Trish was right—she reminded me of myself in every way.
“Let’s talk about your ending,” I said. “You fade out a little when the story should crest. Try bringing us back to that first
image of the water; close the loop. It’ll make the story feel complete.”
Regina nodded and jotted notes in the margin. I could see her confidence building with every suggestion. When we were done, she took a seat at the table and, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration, began writing. She didn’t need much from me. Just a nudge, a little faith.
I went back to my own notebook, meaning only to jot a few ideas, but the moment I touched the pen, something cracked open
again.
The woman came looking for proof that she belonged. She found it in a plate of rice, okra, and fish. She heard it in a language
she didn’t understand but somehow remembered. The food welcomed her. The words curled around her like a homecoming.
Once again, I didn’t stop until the timer buzzed.
My heart still racing, I asked, “Who wants to read what they’ve completed?”
When class ended, I gathered the papers, tucking Regina’s essay carefully into a separate folder marked Contest Entries. As
the last student left, she lingered at the door.
“You really think I can win?” she asked, the tension in her little body visible.
I said, “I know you put your best effort forward, and that’s always a winning step.”
She left, and I sat down again, looking at my work. The words were still shimmering on the page, alive in a way nothing I’d
written in months had been.
I leafed through the pages I’d finished. Although I wasn’t sure the story was what Sally was looking for, it was a compromise
between what I wanted to write and what she wanted to sell. I dashed off an email to Dana with the transcribed pages I’d written,
asking for her thoughts.
Before regret set in the way it always did when an author pressed the Send key, my phone vibrated. I flipped it over. I had a text from Joy.
Joy: Did you hear anything?
I’d told her about the secretary’s promise to locate a contact for me, and I’d been waiting with bated breath for a phone
call. It had only been a couple of weeks, and the school year finished last week.
Me: I’m going to follow up tomorrow. I need to make sure she hasn’t forgotten me.
Joy: It hasn’t been that long. ??
Joy was right, it had only been a day over a week, but still, the next morning, I called the school. Fortunately, I heard
Mrs. Simon’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Oh dear, I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I gave your number to Mrs. Eunice Baker, one of the former guidance counselors . . .
Well, I gave it to her daughter, and then she lost it, and I misplaced your card. That’s so not like me. I’ve been meaning
to email you at your website.”
“This is great news,” I said.
“Well, it’s some news. Unfortunately, Mrs. Baker has dementia. Her daughter is her caregiver. She’s not sure how much help
her mother can be. Her disease is progressing.”
“Do you have a number for me?”
“I do. Let me get it.”
She put me on hold, and I waited, my heart beating like I was a teenager in love. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Simon to come
back on the line. “Her daughter is Penta. She says it’s best to try her at 2:00 p.m.” She gave me the telephone number. I
thanked her, and we ended the call.
It was 10:00 a.m. I had four hours before I could call.
At two o’clock, I called Mrs. Baker’s daughter. The phone rang and went to voicemail. I wasn’t sure if it was a cell or landline,
so I left a voice message. I hadn’t done that in a long time. I waited by the phone all afternoon, barely able to work for
the anticipation. She never called. I contacted her again the following Monday. She didn’t answer then. By Tuesday I was nearly
in tears when I got the same, but then at three thirty my phone rang and I recognized her number.
“Miss Chambers, this is Penta Corliss.”
“Yes, Ms. Corliss. Please call me Alex. Thank you so much for calling.”
“I understand you have questions for my mother?”
“I do. I was wondering if she had yearbooks from the years 1985 through 1989.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’m sorry, I assumed Mrs. Simon explained.”
“She did, but she didn’t mention yearbooks. She said you thought my mother might remember your parents.”
“Yes. I thought I might find them in the yearbooks, but if she was a counselor, she might remember them also? I used to be
a teacher. I think our students’ names are etched on our brains forever.”
“I used to teach as well, so I understand.” Penta paused, and I wanted her to go on. “Mother doesn’t have many good days.
Today is certainly not one of them. She’s sleeping now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“My days are pretty busy, but I can go through her things. They’re stored in my brother’s garage.”
I was appreciative of the fact that she was willing to do this for me, but I didn’t want to take her time. “I could speak
with your brother if it would be easier.”
“That’s not possible. He’s in the military. He’s in Anchorage for another year.”
She must have sensed my disappointment, because she was quick to add a hopeful word.
“But his house is next door. I have an aide who comes to relieve me a few times a week. I use that time for a little respite,
usually a manicure or something. I also run errands, but I can look when I get a chance.”
“That would be helpful.” What else could I say or even expect? Caregivers needed to care for themselves. “I appreciate this
so much. You sound like you have your hands full and . . .” My words trailed off. “It would answer many questions for me and
possibly give me a picture of my father.”
“A picture?”
“My father died when I was very young. I don’t have a picture of him. The yearbook photo would give me something.”
“Oh my,” she said. “I understand. I promise to do what I can. What are your parents’ names? I’ll look for them.”
“John Miller and Rebecca Chambers.”
Ms. Corliss repeated my answers in a rhythm as if she were writing down my words. And then after our goodbyes, she was gone.
Suddenly, I didn’t have the patience to wait for success. But waiting was what I was going to have to do.