Chapter 26
The next morning, I was sitting at my desk with my laptop open, toggling between my close maternal matches on Ancestry and
social media, trying to find family in Clarendon County. I’d done this before when I first received my Ancestry data, but
had decided that if my estranged relatives weren’t good enough for Beck and Aunt Leah, I was good with not making a fool of
myself by contacting them. That was then. Now that I was certain there were secrets and lies, I wasn’t so sure I was ride
or die with my mother. I sent a few friend requests and closed the app just as my phone buzzed. It was Penta Baker’s telephone
number.
Straightening in my chair, I answered it. “Yes, Ms. Baker.”
“I’m sorry it took so long, but things have been hectic.”
“I understand. I appreciate anything you’ve been able to do.” My eyes were locked on my phone, willing something good to come
through the speaker.
“I searched my brother’s garage. I suspected I’d find them. Mother kept everything from her years at the school. There are
three boxes of yearbooks, and they included the late eighties.”
My pulse quickened. “That’s wonderful news.”
“You said your parents’ names were John Miller and Rebecca Chambers, correct?”
There was a pause on the line, the faint sound of pages turning. Then, “That’s the strange part. I’ve already double-checked,
and now I’m looking again. There’s no Rebecca Chambers and no John Miller. Not in any of the books.”
Something in my chest dipped. The phone was heavier in my hand. “None?”
“I looked for the years 1986 through 1989, and there are no listings for your parents. I even checked the student rosters.
Mother kept those too.”
“That’s disappointing.” Disappointing wasn’t even strong enough. I felt like someone had hit me in the back with a truck. How could this be?
“Mother’s memory isn’t what it used to be, but she’s having a good day. I’m going to include her on this call.”
“Thank you” was all I could think of to say. Her mother was having a good day, and they were using her precious moments on
me, a stranger who couldn’t even get my own mother to help me. I was ashamed, but not too ashamed to talk to her. I needed
answers.
I heard a shuffle, then an older woman’s voice, gentle and lilting, came through the line. “Hello, this is Mrs. Baker.”
Her voice was soft like the petal of a flower and as fragile too. “Good day, Mrs. Baker. I’m looking for two former students.
They would’ve attended Manning High in the mid- to late eighties. John Miller and Rebecca Chambers.”
Silence, then a certain response. “We didn’t have students by those names.”
Penta spoke again, explaining quietly what I was doing. When she finished, Mrs. Baker said, “The reason doesn’t change the answer, dear. John Miller is common, but even so, we did not have one during that time, and there was no Rebecca Chambers ever.”
I started to ask her if she was sure, but her daughter had already confirmed her words with the yearbook findings.
“Is it possible that students from Manning attended another high school in the county?”
“Oh no. We didn’t have programs like that back then. You went to the school you were zoned for. There was nothing else.”
That made sense, and as a counselor, she would certainly know.
“But”—Mrs. Baker’s voice came through again—“we did have some Chambers children. They were transfer students. I know, because
we divided the children up alphabetically by last name. They moved late in the school year. They came in from Charleston County
School District. From one of the islands.”
The words fell into me like a stone in deep water. “Was it Edisto Island?”
“Yes. That’s it. They were teased about their language. Back then, people had a lot to say about it—nothing good.” She was
quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “That was definitely in ’89, ’90, or so.”
Gullah Geechee. Tom Jones’s face slipped into my mind. Joy’s mother’s statement about his Patwa spoken in anger was followed
by the story about the fight he’d had when he was called Geechee.
Mrs. Baker continued, “It was a few families that moved. It was unusual to get transfers from that far down the coast. People
didn’t come off the water to the midlands.”
“And you’re certain?” I asked, hoping this wasn’t rude to ask someone with Alzheimer’s.
“I’m sure, dear. When I know, I know.”
My head spun. Beck had told me she lived in Manning. Now, here was definitive proof that she had not been a student at the high school when she became pregnant. I was about to ask if she knew why the Chambers children had moved when Penta came back on the line. “Mother has had enough.”
“Thank you,” I said, guilt tamping my voice down to barely a whisper. “This has been so helpful.”
After we hung up, I just sat there staring at the screen. I opened a new tab and pulled up Clarendon County land records in
search of any Chamberses. There were quite a few, including Beau Chambers, my grandfather. The address was for the small brick
house I’d visited during my childhood. It was originally deeded in 1991. The new deed was in Aunt Leah’s name. She managed
it as a rental.
I sat back, stunned. 1991. That was around the time Mrs. Baker said the Chambers family came from Edisto. All those summers
I spent there on the porch with the creaky swing, and in the backyard with the huge vegetable garden, and with the honeysuckles
outside my bedroom window, they’d been lying to me. I was led to believe it had always been their home.
Why were they hiding the truth? What could possibly be the reason?
I remember thinking that my grandparents talked funny, but I assumed that was their version of a Southern accent. Grandpa
barely talked at all, spending his days at work and then evenings and weekends on his farm. He was a man of few words, having
nearly none for Beck. By the time I was a preteen, I understood the issue to be anger. He resented Beck for becoming a teenage
mother. That made me ashamed, so I didn’t talk to him at all, and then Beck and I stopped traveling to their house. I recall
being relieved not to have to be around people who felt that way about me.
This was my understanding. This was what I accepted, but now that I knew the history was a lie, what else of my understanding
was untrue?
For the first time since my research began, the path forward felt clear.
I knew where to go next. If the answers weren’t in Manning, they’d be on Edisto.
I called the school and was given an appointment to meet with the media specialist. Because it was summer, she only worked two days a week.
I could wait, because by the end of this week, I’d have answers.
I was distracted when I met with the students that afternoon. Taylor was there, so I let her take over the lesson on punctuation.
Grammar was her thing. They hated it, but she made it interesting. Regina was absent. I didn’t like not seeing her, but it
was only Monday. She’d likely be at the center on Wednesday. I went to the webpage for the writing contest to make sure I
hadn’t missed details about when the winners would be announced. I hadn’t. The lack of details was a weird way to run a thing,
but who was I to say how they got to do their contest?
The next day, I finally spent time working on my romance proposal. I was trying again with the story I’d given Dana. It could
be more; I just had to rework my outline and do some more work on my main character’s backstory. By the afternoon, I was reopening
the book with a prologue that put the reader right in the middle of the action.
My writing was the only thing that worked for me this week. On Friday morning, I received a phone call from Baptist Hill High
School advising me that the media specialist had taken the day off. Since it was summer, there was no one there who could
help me. I needed to call on Monday to see when we could meet.
I was ten seconds from calling Beck and making her talk, but I didn’t want her side of the story. Not yet. Preferring to confront
her with the facts, I had to give this more time.
I kept writing. By Sunday all I wanted was Gabe.
Time with him, in his arms, a kiss, everything he had to offer, but there was a storm in Manhattan, and all the flights were canceled.
The next day he called from the airport with the bad news that he wasn’t coming home.
His publicist had redirected him to the West Coast.
“How could they just do that?” I asked. I knew I sounded like a child, but he’d been gone for a week. I needed those two days
he was supposed to be here.
“They told me to do laundry at the hotel, and they’ve lined up some stores where I can sign inventory to keep me busy.” He
smiled, and I was grateful for FaceTime. “By the way, I miss you too. This ends in August.”
My heart smiled. “August can’t come soon enough.”
“It will be here before you know it, and you’ll be sick of me.”
He was talking crazy. I couldn’t fathom that I would ever be sick of him. We talked about my progress on the writing. Just
as I was about to ask him what he knew about Regina, he said, “I have to go. My plane is boarding. I’ll call you later.”
“Be safe.” I kissed my fingers and watched the screen go dark.